I know it's been a while since I lasted posted a column on here. Unfortunately, the days of posting my Observer columns on here are over since I moved back home... more on that at some other point.
I just want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. Stay safe. Good luck hunting to those that are going out, and those that are staying in (and avoiding the windy, damp morning, I don't blame you) have fun watching the Packer game.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
An unwelcome cold snap
It first hit me Sunday morning driving to the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Station. Temperatures dropped that morning to the point my Sport Trac was a little frosty. With the windshield defroster turned on, I began to think about the possibility of having to unearth my winter coat.
I didn’t want to do it. Heck, fall just started, didn’t it? I mean, the summer didn’t officially begin until mid-August or something like that and fall wasn’t supposed to be this short. I know I’ve had the heater on in the house a few times and installed a few heat-shrink plastic window kits in the house, but I just kept telling myself I was preparing for the that cold, post-fall season. It couldn’t be here already, could it?
When I went to grab the morning paper off the porch Monday morning and felt a cold chill rush down my spine, that’s when I knew it was inevitable. Fall seems to be coming to an end and the winter jacket was going to make it’s return.
Now I’m not the type of guy that will defy logic and wear shorts as long as I can like some people, or swear they will not wear a jacket to protest the cooling temperatures. I’ve seen people do that before, and it just seems to end them getting knocked out by a nasty cold. Nah, I’ll swallow my pride and reach for the Carhartts instead.
The weather forecast for the end of the week is calling for nighttime lows to drop below freezing and daytime highs edging close to 50 if not eclipsing it by a degree or two. Toss in those cold fall rains like we had on Tuesday and it’s that time of year where a good Saturday afternoon involves a seat on the couch, a blanket and a full day of college football or Season 4 of “How I Met Your Mother” (I’m hooked, what can I say?).
The thing is — and I hate to say this — but it could be worse. Family and friends back home in Wisconsin have reported traces of that dreaded white, fluffy stuff already. Nothing is sticking yet, I’m told, but that’s not that far away anymore either.
Oh wait, trees in Greenville have already been covered in snow and there were reports Tuesday of it falling with the rain in the Penquis region.
I guess the winter jacket is here to stay. Now, what did I do with my gloves?
I didn’t want to do it. Heck, fall just started, didn’t it? I mean, the summer didn’t officially begin until mid-August or something like that and fall wasn’t supposed to be this short. I know I’ve had the heater on in the house a few times and installed a few heat-shrink plastic window kits in the house, but I just kept telling myself I was preparing for the that cold, post-fall season. It couldn’t be here already, could it?
When I went to grab the morning paper off the porch Monday morning and felt a cold chill rush down my spine, that’s when I knew it was inevitable. Fall seems to be coming to an end and the winter jacket was going to make it’s return.
Now I’m not the type of guy that will defy logic and wear shorts as long as I can like some people, or swear they will not wear a jacket to protest the cooling temperatures. I’ve seen people do that before, and it just seems to end them getting knocked out by a nasty cold. Nah, I’ll swallow my pride and reach for the Carhartts instead.
The weather forecast for the end of the week is calling for nighttime lows to drop below freezing and daytime highs edging close to 50 if not eclipsing it by a degree or two. Toss in those cold fall rains like we had on Tuesday and it’s that time of year where a good Saturday afternoon involves a seat on the couch, a blanket and a full day of college football or Season 4 of “How I Met Your Mother” (I’m hooked, what can I say?).
The thing is — and I hate to say this — but it could be worse. Family and friends back home in Wisconsin have reported traces of that dreaded white, fluffy stuff already. Nothing is sticking yet, I’m told, but that’s not that far away anymore either.
Oh wait, trees in Greenville have already been covered in snow and there were reports Tuesday of it falling with the rain in the Penquis region.
I guess the winter jacket is here to stay. Now, what did I do with my gloves?
Monday, October 12, 2009
Texting ban to save us from ourselves
There are laws on the books for a wide variety of things. While many are much-needed and well-enforced, there are some that just make you go, “Wait, they had to make that a law?”
Case in point, President Barack Obama created a mandate that federal employees cannot write text messages while driving a vehicle. That’s on top of the bill considered by the Senate to ban texting while driving nationwide.
Every society has to create “common sense laws,” laws that everyone should know is wrong to do but have to be on the books anyway for the few that need to be protected from themselves. The text message ban falls into this category.
Driving isn’t the most difficult of tasks to complete, but most people nowadays are multi-taskers — me included. The idea of just chilling out in a driver’s seat and watching the open road come and go isn’t as mentally challenging as, say, writing a column while watching Sunday NFL pregame shows and reading stories on the Internet about Saturday’s college football games, but that doesn’t mean drivers should be playing with the radio while eating and texting family and friends about their every move. It’s not only foolish; it’s dangerous.
According to a national survey conducted by Ford Motor Co. and presented to the Senate in September, 86 percent of licensed U.S. drivers called handheld texting while driving as “very dangerous,” with 93 percent supporting a nationwide ban on texting. Also in the study, which was published in the U.S. News and World Report, research showed distractions that take drivers’ eyes away from the road for an extended period of time were a factor in nearly 80 percent of accidents.
I’d like to think we’d all say “Well, duh!” and stop text messaging people when we get into the driver’s seat of a car. There’s enough on the road to keep your eyes on, like other cars, deer, moose, and with winter coming, slick roads and snowbanks. If you want to text a friend, here’s three novel concepts: call them, pull over and text them or just put the phone down and wait.
It seems foolish at this time that the Senate needs to spend time creating a nationwide texting ban when there’s bigger issues, like health care reform, taxes, war, climate change and reduced government spending, that our elected federal officials should be focusing on instead. That said, sometimes we just have to be saved from ourselves.
Case in point, President Barack Obama created a mandate that federal employees cannot write text messages while driving a vehicle. That’s on top of the bill considered by the Senate to ban texting while driving nationwide.
Every society has to create “common sense laws,” laws that everyone should know is wrong to do but have to be on the books anyway for the few that need to be protected from themselves. The text message ban falls into this category.
Driving isn’t the most difficult of tasks to complete, but most people nowadays are multi-taskers — me included. The idea of just chilling out in a driver’s seat and watching the open road come and go isn’t as mentally challenging as, say, writing a column while watching Sunday NFL pregame shows and reading stories on the Internet about Saturday’s college football games, but that doesn’t mean drivers should be playing with the radio while eating and texting family and friends about their every move. It’s not only foolish; it’s dangerous.
According to a national survey conducted by Ford Motor Co. and presented to the Senate in September, 86 percent of licensed U.S. drivers called handheld texting while driving as “very dangerous,” with 93 percent supporting a nationwide ban on texting. Also in the study, which was published in the U.S. News and World Report, research showed distractions that take drivers’ eyes away from the road for an extended period of time were a factor in nearly 80 percent of accidents.
I’d like to think we’d all say “Well, duh!” and stop text messaging people when we get into the driver’s seat of a car. There’s enough on the road to keep your eyes on, like other cars, deer, moose, and with winter coming, slick roads and snowbanks. If you want to text a friend, here’s three novel concepts: call them, pull over and text them or just put the phone down and wait.
It seems foolish at this time that the Senate needs to spend time creating a nationwide texting ban when there’s bigger issues, like health care reform, taxes, war, climate change and reduced government spending, that our elected federal officials should be focusing on instead. That said, sometimes we just have to be saved from ourselves.
Elections, holidays loom large on the horizon
Yet another month on the 2009 calendar is coming to a close. October is here, bringing with it pumpkins and Halloween, some of the most magnificent reds, oranges and yellows as the Piscataquis woods change colors, and the two things no one wants to truly think about quite yet.
Elections and Christmas.
Yep, that’s right. I just linked the birth of Christ with something most Americans tend to avoid more often than bill collectors and root canals. That is, unless it’s a presidential or gubernatorial election, and luckily 2009 is not one of those years.
I may have just managed to get my name inked on two lists you don’t want to be on.
It’s true though. Election Day 2009 is coming up, and with it is a whole host of decisions that need to be made on a local and statewide level. Locally, residents in SAD 4 need to determine whether to close their final two elementary schools and consolidate resources into just Piscataquis Community Middle and High schools.
Come to think about it, the way the state’s running out of money and the way small, rural districts are getting hammered in this economic storm, how long will it be before one-room school houses become chic again?
Statewide, there’s a whole host of issues that are already polluting the airwaves. There are seven ballot measures for voters to choose from this year, from the repeal of gay marriage to the legalization of marijuana, from repealing the school consolidation law and to the reduction of automotive excise taxes, and there’s also the promotion of tax relief. All five of these topics The Piscataquis Observer will tackle in the coming weeks.
There are also two questions seeking approval for $71 million in bonds and for more time in seeking signatures on direct initiative petitions. Again, more to come in the coming weeks.
No matter how November 3 turns out, there will still be the two camps in our state that will have widely different takes on the outcome. The backlash and back and forth will carry us straight to Thanksgiving, and from there it’s a snowball’s throw to Christmas.
Speaking of November 3, that is Election Day. Even with this non-gubernatorial or -presidential election, go out and exercise your right to vote. It’s not just here to pick governors and presidents that we’ll all debate and scream about for the four years that follow. It’s about selecting town council members and selectmen, about deciding local issues and doing your part in this republic. OK, I’ll step off the ledge I call my soapbox now.
Now after the winds of school consolidation, gay marriage and taxes blow through and get people all wound up like that first cold October breeze, we can all get ready for Christmas, with all the stress and headaches that go along with it. Christmas is supposed to be about family, being together and enjoying each other’s company.
Oh yeah, and our Lord Baby Jesus being born. I can’t forget that or I will definitely be left off that list.
So here’s hoping for the best from now until New Year’s. We all deserve a peaceful and productive final quarter of 2009.
That way we can get ready for the gubernatorial race in 2010. There are 21 people currently listed as candidates vying for our state’s top spot, according to WMTW-TV 8 in Portland. That’ll surely be coupled with a half-dozen citizen initiatives on who knows what else.
Somehow I get the sense that Santa just put my name in permanent marker on his list for saying that. Well, at least the coal’ll be good for heating the home this winter.
Elections and Christmas.
Yep, that’s right. I just linked the birth of Christ with something most Americans tend to avoid more often than bill collectors and root canals. That is, unless it’s a presidential or gubernatorial election, and luckily 2009 is not one of those years.
I may have just managed to get my name inked on two lists you don’t want to be on.
It’s true though. Election Day 2009 is coming up, and with it is a whole host of decisions that need to be made on a local and statewide level. Locally, residents in SAD 4 need to determine whether to close their final two elementary schools and consolidate resources into just Piscataquis Community Middle and High schools.
Come to think about it, the way the state’s running out of money and the way small, rural districts are getting hammered in this economic storm, how long will it be before one-room school houses become chic again?
Statewide, there’s a whole host of issues that are already polluting the airwaves. There are seven ballot measures for voters to choose from this year, from the repeal of gay marriage to the legalization of marijuana, from repealing the school consolidation law and to the reduction of automotive excise taxes, and there’s also the promotion of tax relief. All five of these topics The Piscataquis Observer will tackle in the coming weeks.
There are also two questions seeking approval for $71 million in bonds and for more time in seeking signatures on direct initiative petitions. Again, more to come in the coming weeks.
No matter how November 3 turns out, there will still be the two camps in our state that will have widely different takes on the outcome. The backlash and back and forth will carry us straight to Thanksgiving, and from there it’s a snowball’s throw to Christmas.
Speaking of November 3, that is Election Day. Even with this non-gubernatorial or -presidential election, go out and exercise your right to vote. It’s not just here to pick governors and presidents that we’ll all debate and scream about for the four years that follow. It’s about selecting town council members and selectmen, about deciding local issues and doing your part in this republic. OK, I’ll step off the ledge I call my soapbox now.
Now after the winds of school consolidation, gay marriage and taxes blow through and get people all wound up like that first cold October breeze, we can all get ready for Christmas, with all the stress and headaches that go along with it. Christmas is supposed to be about family, being together and enjoying each other’s company.
Oh yeah, and our Lord Baby Jesus being born. I can’t forget that or I will definitely be left off that list.
So here’s hoping for the best from now until New Year’s. We all deserve a peaceful and productive final quarter of 2009.
That way we can get ready for the gubernatorial race in 2010. There are 21 people currently listed as candidates vying for our state’s top spot, according to WMTW-TV 8 in Portland. That’ll surely be coupled with a half-dozen citizen initiatives on who knows what else.
Somehow I get the sense that Santa just put my name in permanent marker on his list for saying that. Well, at least the coal’ll be good for heating the home this winter.
First blaze hits home for rookie firefighter
DOVER-FOXCROFT — When I was told a few months back that the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Department could use some help, I balked at the idea that I could make it on the department. For one, I live an hour away in Old Town. Two, I know nothing about fighting fires except what I saw in the TV show Rescue Me and the movie Backdraft.
The fact that I worked in Dover-Foxcroft meant I was eligible to join, and the department was looking for daytime help so my lack of skills would be offset by some training in the near future. All that the department was looking for was those who were willing and able to give it a try.
So most of my fire training was basically tied to my TV habits and a few parties in my high school years that included some pretty sizable wood piles.
Neither of those two really helped out much Friday when the pager went off at 9:45 a.m., the first time I was on hand to be called out for a fire in Dover-Foxcroft. All those thoughts of those high school burns and TV shows went right out the window as I raced to the fire station, hopped into my turn-out gear and jumped into the first truck headed to the Dyer residence on the Dexter Road.
I wasn’t naïve to think I would jump right in on my first fire call with little training and be on the front lines to save a home like that. There are plenty of firefighters from other stations in neighboring towns on scene to help fight that fire. In the end, my first fire call pretty much involved me spending more time watching those trained to fight fires do their job until the fire was put out. I got to help later on work through the home and make sure it wouldn’t flare up again, but the immediate action of fighting the fire was left to the seasoned volunteers from Dover-Foxcroft, Dexter, Sangerville and Guilford.
The thing I got from Friday’s incident was the impact such a disaster can have on the family. I saw the raw emotion that was visible on the faces of those who called it home once. It was heart-wrenching to see that, because you never want to see a family have to go through something like that.
Backdraft didn’t teach me about the emotional side of a fire call, but it’s one that has become a huge motivating factor for me. It drives me now more than ever to get my act together, get trained and become a valued member of the fire department.
Well, there’s that and the fact that Rescue Me does make it seem pretty cool to be a firefighter, and you can’t go wrong with that either.
The fact that I worked in Dover-Foxcroft meant I was eligible to join, and the department was looking for daytime help so my lack of skills would be offset by some training in the near future. All that the department was looking for was those who were willing and able to give it a try.
So most of my fire training was basically tied to my TV habits and a few parties in my high school years that included some pretty sizable wood piles.
Neither of those two really helped out much Friday when the pager went off at 9:45 a.m., the first time I was on hand to be called out for a fire in Dover-Foxcroft. All those thoughts of those high school burns and TV shows went right out the window as I raced to the fire station, hopped into my turn-out gear and jumped into the first truck headed to the Dyer residence on the Dexter Road.
I wasn’t naïve to think I would jump right in on my first fire call with little training and be on the front lines to save a home like that. There are plenty of firefighters from other stations in neighboring towns on scene to help fight that fire. In the end, my first fire call pretty much involved me spending more time watching those trained to fight fires do their job until the fire was put out. I got to help later on work through the home and make sure it wouldn’t flare up again, but the immediate action of fighting the fire was left to the seasoned volunteers from Dover-Foxcroft, Dexter, Sangerville and Guilford.
The thing I got from Friday’s incident was the impact such a disaster can have on the family. I saw the raw emotion that was visible on the faces of those who called it home once. It was heart-wrenching to see that, because you never want to see a family have to go through something like that.
Backdraft didn’t teach me about the emotional side of a fire call, but it’s one that has become a huge motivating factor for me. It drives me now more than ever to get my act together, get trained and become a valued member of the fire department.
Well, there’s that and the fact that Rescue Me does make it seem pretty cool to be a firefighter, and you can’t go wrong with that either.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Mil, one year later; 9/11, eight years later
MILO — This past week was one filled with anniversaries of the sentimental sort.
The eight-year mark of September 11 came Friday without the similar fanfare that had come to mark the day in the past. There were the standard memorials that took place and there were the TV specials, but the day since dubbed as Patriots Day seemed much more subdued than it has in years past.
To a certain extent, that’s a good thing. Now before people start shouting at me that I’m not patriotic or sensitive to the nature of one of our nation’s gravest days in its 250-plus year history, I by no means am saying we should forget what happened all those years ago. Instead, our relaxed nature about the day means we may have found it in ourselves to move on to a little bit — much in the way our nation remembers Pearl Harbor.
That being said, the documentaries that were aired on the History Channel last Friday night of that fateful day — with the sights and sounds of the Twin Towers in New York City — still are hard to watch. The whole event still brought deep chills to my spine and tears to my eyes, even eight years later. I doubt that will ever really change.
Another anniversary was marked, one that hit closer to home on Monday. The Piscataquis County Economic Development Council hosted its annual fall quarterly meeting on Monday, Sept. 14 at the new Hobknobbers Pub in Milo — a year to the day that the old pub was the sight of an arson fire that spread from the tavern on Main Street to the adjoining buildings, taking out five buildings in total and displacing five businesses and two apartments, one that included a family.
Monday was the first day that Hobknobbers reopened, and it opened with a packed house as numerous county leaders came to listen to the state legislative delegation from Piscataquis County and talk about the council’s goals for the future. The sight of a former hospital, the new bar looked great from the inside and added a number of features that tied the tavern to the old hospital, including using the old light above the surgery table to illuminate the bar.
While the meeting was going on, dozens of people gathered on the gravel patch that used to house the Milo True Value, flower shop, game stop, theatre and pub for a commemoration. A band played as the sidewalk filled — in some spots as much as three to four people deep — just to remember what happened one year ago.
Plans are in place, thanks in large part to the PCEDC, to replace what was lost in the fire with a new block of downtown businesses that is sure to attract people to the heart of this eastern Piscataquis County town. Who knows, in another year’s time, maybe that block will be rebuilt and a larger festival held in the nearby parks to celebrate what had risen from such a terrible loss.
There is some good that can come from both these anniversaries, some lessons to learn and things to remember. It’s just good to see, in both instances, that we as a region are moving forward to make our lives better while never forgetting those key events in our past.
The eight-year mark of September 11 came Friday without the similar fanfare that had come to mark the day in the past. There were the standard memorials that took place and there were the TV specials, but the day since dubbed as Patriots Day seemed much more subdued than it has in years past.
To a certain extent, that’s a good thing. Now before people start shouting at me that I’m not patriotic or sensitive to the nature of one of our nation’s gravest days in its 250-plus year history, I by no means am saying we should forget what happened all those years ago. Instead, our relaxed nature about the day means we may have found it in ourselves to move on to a little bit — much in the way our nation remembers Pearl Harbor.
That being said, the documentaries that were aired on the History Channel last Friday night of that fateful day — with the sights and sounds of the Twin Towers in New York City — still are hard to watch. The whole event still brought deep chills to my spine and tears to my eyes, even eight years later. I doubt that will ever really change.
Another anniversary was marked, one that hit closer to home on Monday. The Piscataquis County Economic Development Council hosted its annual fall quarterly meeting on Monday, Sept. 14 at the new Hobknobbers Pub in Milo — a year to the day that the old pub was the sight of an arson fire that spread from the tavern on Main Street to the adjoining buildings, taking out five buildings in total and displacing five businesses and two apartments, one that included a family.
Monday was the first day that Hobknobbers reopened, and it opened with a packed house as numerous county leaders came to listen to the state legislative delegation from Piscataquis County and talk about the council’s goals for the future. The sight of a former hospital, the new bar looked great from the inside and added a number of features that tied the tavern to the old hospital, including using the old light above the surgery table to illuminate the bar.
While the meeting was going on, dozens of people gathered on the gravel patch that used to house the Milo True Value, flower shop, game stop, theatre and pub for a commemoration. A band played as the sidewalk filled — in some spots as much as three to four people deep — just to remember what happened one year ago.
Plans are in place, thanks in large part to the PCEDC, to replace what was lost in the fire with a new block of downtown businesses that is sure to attract people to the heart of this eastern Piscataquis County town. Who knows, in another year’s time, maybe that block will be rebuilt and a larger festival held in the nearby parks to celebrate what had risen from such a terrible loss.
There is some good that can come from both these anniversaries, some lessons to learn and things to remember. It’s just good to see, in both instances, that we as a region are moving forward to make our lives better while never forgetting those key events in our past.
Time for neighbors to stand up for each other
DOVER-FOXCROFT — The stories have run rampant through town. Vandals have slashed tires, spray painted construction equipment and been an overall nuisance for the past couple of weeks.
While most of what had happened previous to this weekend was small potatoes, these vandals have upped the ante this past Labor Day weekend with a series of mind-numbing and careless acts. While I won’t get into the full details here (the main story is on the front cover), the gist of what happened is this: vandals overflowed an oil tank with a water hose, causing a great deal of damage to a business and home on Monument Square. Vandals also broke into the former Moosehead Manufacturing building on three separate instances this past weekend to break windows, spill stored water for emergencies and start a number of small fires in the upstairs of the offices along Main Street. Moreover, these troublemakers threw furniture tacks onto Main Street from the offices, creating headaches for drivers.
These are the actions of a stupid few, we all know this. For the most part, Dover-Foxcroft is a safe, quiet community that is filled with people who help each other out, whether it’s something small like shovel out a sidewalk to bigger things like being their during disasters and in times of need.
It’s hard to say that all these instances of vandalism are by anyway connected, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility.
While the Dover-Foxcroft Police Department is working on finding these vandals and charging them with the crimes they have committed, it is up to us, the public, to do something too — look out for each other. Like I said before, this is a community that responds in times of need and unfortunately this is one of them.
What happened at the residence of John and Lisa Clark on Monument Square Tuesday morning means the minor annoyance these vandals had been for the past few weeks is minor no more. The Clarks are now left to contend with the days of work that will go into restoring the basement after oil seeped everywhere. The old oil tank that was ruined with the water hose will have to be replaced with a new tank. The basement will have to be scrubbed and cleaned to make sure the fumes don’t linger in the house anymore.
All of this costs money — big money. The Maine Department of Environmental Protection, as well as a contractor from Portland, were on hand to clean up the spill. Members from the Dover-Foxcroft fire and police departments responded to the initial 9-1-1 call, so there’s a cost there as well. All these folks just don’t show up to an emergency for free. Someone’s got to pay for this.
Until the police find and apprehend those responsible for this weekend’s activities, neighbors throughout Dover-Foxcroft help each other out and keep an eye out for these vandals before they strike again.
As Lisa Clark said, “I just don’t want anyone else to go through this.”
While most of what had happened previous to this weekend was small potatoes, these vandals have upped the ante this past Labor Day weekend with a series of mind-numbing and careless acts. While I won’t get into the full details here (the main story is on the front cover), the gist of what happened is this: vandals overflowed an oil tank with a water hose, causing a great deal of damage to a business and home on Monument Square. Vandals also broke into the former Moosehead Manufacturing building on three separate instances this past weekend to break windows, spill stored water for emergencies and start a number of small fires in the upstairs of the offices along Main Street. Moreover, these troublemakers threw furniture tacks onto Main Street from the offices, creating headaches for drivers.
These are the actions of a stupid few, we all know this. For the most part, Dover-Foxcroft is a safe, quiet community that is filled with people who help each other out, whether it’s something small like shovel out a sidewalk to bigger things like being their during disasters and in times of need.
It’s hard to say that all these instances of vandalism are by anyway connected, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility.
While the Dover-Foxcroft Police Department is working on finding these vandals and charging them with the crimes they have committed, it is up to us, the public, to do something too — look out for each other. Like I said before, this is a community that responds in times of need and unfortunately this is one of them.
What happened at the residence of John and Lisa Clark on Monument Square Tuesday morning means the minor annoyance these vandals had been for the past few weeks is minor no more. The Clarks are now left to contend with the days of work that will go into restoring the basement after oil seeped everywhere. The old oil tank that was ruined with the water hose will have to be replaced with a new tank. The basement will have to be scrubbed and cleaned to make sure the fumes don’t linger in the house anymore.
All of this costs money — big money. The Maine Department of Environmental Protection, as well as a contractor from Portland, were on hand to clean up the spill. Members from the Dover-Foxcroft fire and police departments responded to the initial 9-1-1 call, so there’s a cost there as well. All these folks just don’t show up to an emergency for free. Someone’s got to pay for this.
Until the police find and apprehend those responsible for this weekend’s activities, neighbors throughout Dover-Foxcroft help each other out and keep an eye out for these vandals before they strike again.
As Lisa Clark said, “I just don’t want anyone else to go through this.”
Rain couldn't wash fun away from Wiffle ball tourney
BANGOR — When I explained that I never played wiffle ball before as I was signing up for a fund-raising tournament for the Make a Wish Foundation, the event organizer asked me flat-out, “What kind of sheltered childhood did you lead?”
It’s not that I have never swung those skinny, yellow plastic bats or thrown that trademark plastic ball with holes in one-half of it. It’s just, I never played an official wiffle ball game, by the rules, at any time in my life.
So on Saturday, in the early morning hours while Tropical Storm Danny was just getting started dumping over two inches of rain on the region, I stood there with about 50 other men listening to the rules of wiffle ball and wondering aloud to myself, “What did I get myself into?”
What I got myself into was a lot of fun — even in spite of the pouring rain, soaked tennis shoes and bruise on my right arm (more on that later). The Wiffle for a Wish fund-raiser was set up by WABI-TV morning anchorman Wayne Harvey as a way to raise money to grant children who are suffering from life-threatening medical conditions. The tournament consisted of 16 teams paying $100 per team to compete in a round-robin qualifier with playoffs to follow.
For those who haven’t played before, wiffle ball is played with five people in a field that barely resembles a baseball diamond. There are lines painted in the grass that signifies an out, a single and a double with a fence in the back. There’s no base running in wiffle ball. Instead, hitters need to hit the plastic ball past one of those lines to be considered a hit. If it falls short of the first line, it’s considered an out. You can also strike out and pop up to the other team. Everything depends on where the ball lands.
At this tournament, I ended up playing for the Longhorn Steakhouse team, which consisted Paul, an Old Town man, along with his 12-year-old son Jonathan, and myself. All three of us were fill-ins playing against some serious competition. Some men were throwing those wiffle balls as hard as some high-level college pitchers throw a fastball, and the curve a wiffle ball can make is ridiculous.
Needless to say, in all four games we played in we got hammered. It may be no coincidence that I pitched all four games and had never pitched a wiffle ball game before in my life. In the first inning of my first game I gave up a grand slam — a GRAND SLAM in wiffle ball — en route to a 10-0 drubbing. The other two round-robin games and playoff game went pretty much in the same fashion.
As for that bruise I got on my right forearm, I never expected to have my life put in danger by a wiffle ball come-backer. I’m fairly certain if that hit would have found my face I’d have one of those unique wiffle ball dimples imprinted onto my skin.
In spite of all the losing, the Wiffle for a Wish tournament was a lot of fun and something I hope to do again next year. Then again, losing four straight games pretty quickly did have a silver lining to it — it did allow for the three of us to finally get out of the pouring rains of Tropical Storm Danny, but not before we were soaked to the bone.
It’s not that I have never swung those skinny, yellow plastic bats or thrown that trademark plastic ball with holes in one-half of it. It’s just, I never played an official wiffle ball game, by the rules, at any time in my life.
So on Saturday, in the early morning hours while Tropical Storm Danny was just getting started dumping over two inches of rain on the region, I stood there with about 50 other men listening to the rules of wiffle ball and wondering aloud to myself, “What did I get myself into?”
What I got myself into was a lot of fun — even in spite of the pouring rain, soaked tennis shoes and bruise on my right arm (more on that later). The Wiffle for a Wish fund-raiser was set up by WABI-TV morning anchorman Wayne Harvey as a way to raise money to grant children who are suffering from life-threatening medical conditions. The tournament consisted of 16 teams paying $100 per team to compete in a round-robin qualifier with playoffs to follow.
For those who haven’t played before, wiffle ball is played with five people in a field that barely resembles a baseball diamond. There are lines painted in the grass that signifies an out, a single and a double with a fence in the back. There’s no base running in wiffle ball. Instead, hitters need to hit the plastic ball past one of those lines to be considered a hit. If it falls short of the first line, it’s considered an out. You can also strike out and pop up to the other team. Everything depends on where the ball lands.
At this tournament, I ended up playing for the Longhorn Steakhouse team, which consisted Paul, an Old Town man, along with his 12-year-old son Jonathan, and myself. All three of us were fill-ins playing against some serious competition. Some men were throwing those wiffle balls as hard as some high-level college pitchers throw a fastball, and the curve a wiffle ball can make is ridiculous.
Needless to say, in all four games we played in we got hammered. It may be no coincidence that I pitched all four games and had never pitched a wiffle ball game before in my life. In the first inning of my first game I gave up a grand slam — a GRAND SLAM in wiffle ball — en route to a 10-0 drubbing. The other two round-robin games and playoff game went pretty much in the same fashion.
As for that bruise I got on my right forearm, I never expected to have my life put in danger by a wiffle ball come-backer. I’m fairly certain if that hit would have found my face I’d have one of those unique wiffle ball dimples imprinted onto my skin.
In spite of all the losing, the Wiffle for a Wish tournament was a lot of fun and something I hope to do again next year. Then again, losing four straight games pretty quickly did have a silver lining to it — it did allow for the three of us to finally get out of the pouring rains of Tropical Storm Danny, but not before we were soaked to the bone.
Hurricane scare all for naught
OLD TOWN — “Hurricane Bill could hit anywhere from Massachusetts to Nova Scotia …”
My eyes picked up from the card game I was playing on my laptop to the TV screen, finally listening intently to what was just background noise moments ago.
“A hurricane could hit where?” I thought to myself.
The storm tracked showed it moving well east of Maine, but the report was there. A hurricane could possibly, maybe, sort of glance the Pine Tree State.
It doesn’t take much for my imagination to go into overdrive. Images of Florida after Hurricane Andrew, and New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina popped into my head as I started to surf the Internet for a more detailed forecast of this new megastorm, Hurricane Bill.
Growing up in the Midwest, hurricanes are those storms you hear about on TV that sometimes survive long enough to drop rain on you a few days after landfall, but that’s about it. More often than not they were just the big storms that made the news back home. Tornadoes, on the other hand, you could expect a few to drop in the region every summer.
Now it finally hit me, two years into living on the East Coast, that a hurricane could strike Maine. Everyone I talked to, however, laughed off my irrational fears and told me everything would be fine. For one, Bill (somehow this storm and I got on a first name basis pretty quick) was to go well east of Maine so we had nothing to worry about. Secondly, we lived far enough inland that nothing would really happen except a bunch of rain would fall on us — and after the summer we had, how would that be any different than what happened in June?
This weekend came and went with little in the way of rain from the storm that churned in the Atlantic. No homes were destroyed and no low-lying lands were flooded. Heck I don’t even think Bill was able to keep the dust down in these parts of the state.
Bill did not pass by without causing some harm, however. There were reports of people being swept to sea at Thunder Hole in Acadia National Park, with the sad news that a 7-year-old girl from New York City passed away in the incident. But in Piscataquis County, Hurricane Bill was nothing more than a report on the news — and that’s not such a bad thing after all.
My eyes picked up from the card game I was playing on my laptop to the TV screen, finally listening intently to what was just background noise moments ago.
“A hurricane could hit where?” I thought to myself.
The storm tracked showed it moving well east of Maine, but the report was there. A hurricane could possibly, maybe, sort of glance the Pine Tree State.
It doesn’t take much for my imagination to go into overdrive. Images of Florida after Hurricane Andrew, and New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina popped into my head as I started to surf the Internet for a more detailed forecast of this new megastorm, Hurricane Bill.
Growing up in the Midwest, hurricanes are those storms you hear about on TV that sometimes survive long enough to drop rain on you a few days after landfall, but that’s about it. More often than not they were just the big storms that made the news back home. Tornadoes, on the other hand, you could expect a few to drop in the region every summer.
Now it finally hit me, two years into living on the East Coast, that a hurricane could strike Maine. Everyone I talked to, however, laughed off my irrational fears and told me everything would be fine. For one, Bill (somehow this storm and I got on a first name basis pretty quick) was to go well east of Maine so we had nothing to worry about. Secondly, we lived far enough inland that nothing would really happen except a bunch of rain would fall on us — and after the summer we had, how would that be any different than what happened in June?
This weekend came and went with little in the way of rain from the storm that churned in the Atlantic. No homes were destroyed and no low-lying lands were flooded. Heck I don’t even think Bill was able to keep the dust down in these parts of the state.
Bill did not pass by without causing some harm, however. There were reports of people being swept to sea at Thunder Hole in Acadia National Park, with the sad news that a 7-year-old girl from New York City passed away in the incident. But in Piscataquis County, Hurricane Bill was nothing more than a report on the news — and that’s not such a bad thing after all.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
How Brett Favre helped the Green Bay Packers out in the long run
The epic drama that is Brett Favre's long and illustrious NFL career was given another chapter Tuesday when the gunslinger from Mississippi stepped off the chartered jet in Minneapolis-St. Paul, was followed like the Beatles in their hay-day on a freeway on the way from the airport to the Winter Park training facility and signed his name to the bottom of reportedly a two-year, $10-12 million contract with the hated Minnesota Vikings.
Here's the thing: his actions today helped the Green Bay Packers out in the long run.
No really. Here me out.
As I'm typing this, I'm pretty much certain he'll find a way to convey that same message to Ed Werder, Rachel Nichols or friend/reporter Al Jones.
Here's why Favre's unretirement (Did he actually retire this last time? And how will anyone believe this King of Wafflers when he finally does hang up the cleats again for the third time?) actually helped Green Bay in the long run. In years past, no one wanted to be that guy -- the guy that follows the legend. Look at Brian Griese in Denver after John Elway left, or Elvis Grbac after the era of Steve Young and Joe Montata ended in San Francisco, or even Mr. What's His Face after Troy Aikman was concussed for the last time in Dallas. That guy usually gets its butt kicked, leaving everyone wishing for the Legend to return.
Look in Green Bay. No one's looking for Favre to come back. The town, the team and Packer Nation has galvanized behind Aaron Rodgers, a quarterback that did alright in his first year but only lead Green Bay to a 6-10 record after the team made the NFC title game the year before. Part of that had to do with Ryan Grant running on a bad leg, part a piss-poor defense. But going into Year 2 of the Rodgers Era in Green Bay, no one's looking for Favre to ride in on his tractor from Mississippi to save the day.
Instead we as Packer Fans are looking forward to Week 4 of the NFL season, when Rodgers and Co. travel to the Humpty Dump to take on Minnesota and Favre. How sweet would it be to see Rodgers lead the Pack to a big win over Minnesota and lead the Pack to a 4-0 record going into the bye week?
Brett Favre, through all his crying, whining and diva B.S., has made Green Bay a stronger team in the long run.
Thanks again Brett.
Here's the thing: his actions today helped the Green Bay Packers out in the long run.
No really. Here me out.
As I'm typing this, I'm pretty much certain he'll find a way to convey that same message to Ed Werder, Rachel Nichols or friend/reporter Al Jones.
Here's why Favre's unretirement (Did he actually retire this last time? And how will anyone believe this King of Wafflers when he finally does hang up the cleats again for the third time?) actually helped Green Bay in the long run. In years past, no one wanted to be that guy -- the guy that follows the legend. Look at Brian Griese in Denver after John Elway left, or Elvis Grbac after the era of Steve Young and Joe Montata ended in San Francisco, or even Mr. What's His Face after Troy Aikman was concussed for the last time in Dallas. That guy usually gets its butt kicked, leaving everyone wishing for the Legend to return.
Look in Green Bay. No one's looking for Favre to come back. The town, the team and Packer Nation has galvanized behind Aaron Rodgers, a quarterback that did alright in his first year but only lead Green Bay to a 6-10 record after the team made the NFC title game the year before. Part of that had to do with Ryan Grant running on a bad leg, part a piss-poor defense. But going into Year 2 of the Rodgers Era in Green Bay, no one's looking for Favre to ride in on his tractor from Mississippi to save the day.
Instead we as Packer Fans are looking forward to Week 4 of the NFL season, when Rodgers and Co. travel to the Humpty Dump to take on Minnesota and Favre. How sweet would it be to see Rodgers lead the Pack to a big win over Minnesota and lead the Pack to a 4-0 record going into the bye week?
Brett Favre, through all his crying, whining and diva B.S., has made Green Bay a stronger team in the long run.
Thanks again Brett.
Please take (plenty of) time to give blood
DOVER-FOXCROFT — The first time I gave blood was in college, weeks after 9/11 when the American Red Cross held a blood drive on campus.
Not knowing what I was getting myself into — or how much time it would take me to answer all 50 questions and fill out the paperwork, let alone fill the plastic bag and head out — I popped in at the blood drive before class on a whim and donated. It felt good to help out, but having to rush off to lecture and climb up the University of Wisconsin’s picturesque Bascom Hill a unit of blood short left me a little woozy after the hike and wishing I had taken the Red Cross up on that free pizza and juice they were offering up to students.
Eight years later, a sign on the corner of North and Summer streets on Wednesday afternoon had me thinking again about donating to the Red Cross. It’s been long overdue and something I’ve wanted to do on a regular basis ever since I moved to Maine.
Again, I did this on a whim, with no regard to how long the process takes. I only had an hour before I had to be somewhere, but figured it would only take 10 minutes for me to give a unit of blood for a good cause and get out the door.
Fat chance.
While I am all for donating blood because our hospitals throughout the nation need it to help patients, the 50 questions about a person’s overseas travels and — um … “extracurricular activities” — was just a little unnerving to answer to, at least to a complete stranger. However, I had nothing to hide with these questions and it’s for a good cause so I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing at some of the inquiries and answered everything truthfully.
After all the paperwork was filled out, questions answered and blood tested for iron levels, I was finally led to a table in the Morton Ave. Municipal Gymnasium to give blood. The clock at my feet said 1:25 p.m., just 35 minutes before I was expected in Guilford. If everything worked out right, I could easily make it there in time.
The Red Cross staff did a great job that afternoon helping out those that walked through the door, but I realized pretty fast this would not be a quick process. I, like most people, looked away when they shoved the needle into the vein protruding from the inside of my right elbow. Just six minutes later, time spent staring either at the ceiling and the clock at my feet, the bag was full.
1:45 p.m. was when I finally made the “recovery table” in the gym, stacked with Red Cross T-shirts, cookies, chips, juice and water. I considered grabbing a bottle of water and making my way out the door, but then I remembered that walk up Bascom Hill all those years ago and decided it would be best to listen to the medical professionals and take a seat — at least for a minute or two.
I’m now counting down the 56 days until I can donate again. Maybe next time I’ll block off more than 45 minutes for the donation — and bring a book to read too.
Not knowing what I was getting myself into — or how much time it would take me to answer all 50 questions and fill out the paperwork, let alone fill the plastic bag and head out — I popped in at the blood drive before class on a whim and donated. It felt good to help out, but having to rush off to lecture and climb up the University of Wisconsin’s picturesque Bascom Hill a unit of blood short left me a little woozy after the hike and wishing I had taken the Red Cross up on that free pizza and juice they were offering up to students.
Eight years later, a sign on the corner of North and Summer streets on Wednesday afternoon had me thinking again about donating to the Red Cross. It’s been long overdue and something I’ve wanted to do on a regular basis ever since I moved to Maine.
Again, I did this on a whim, with no regard to how long the process takes. I only had an hour before I had to be somewhere, but figured it would only take 10 minutes for me to give a unit of blood for a good cause and get out the door.
Fat chance.
While I am all for donating blood because our hospitals throughout the nation need it to help patients, the 50 questions about a person’s overseas travels and — um … “extracurricular activities” — was just a little unnerving to answer to, at least to a complete stranger. However, I had nothing to hide with these questions and it’s for a good cause so I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing at some of the inquiries and answered everything truthfully.
After all the paperwork was filled out, questions answered and blood tested for iron levels, I was finally led to a table in the Morton Ave. Municipal Gymnasium to give blood. The clock at my feet said 1:25 p.m., just 35 minutes before I was expected in Guilford. If everything worked out right, I could easily make it there in time.
The Red Cross staff did a great job that afternoon helping out those that walked through the door, but I realized pretty fast this would not be a quick process. I, like most people, looked away when they shoved the needle into the vein protruding from the inside of my right elbow. Just six minutes later, time spent staring either at the ceiling and the clock at my feet, the bag was full.
1:45 p.m. was when I finally made the “recovery table” in the gym, stacked with Red Cross T-shirts, cookies, chips, juice and water. I considered grabbing a bottle of water and making my way out the door, but then I remembered that walk up Bascom Hill all those years ago and decided it would be best to listen to the medical professionals and take a seat — at least for a minute or two.
I’m now counting down the 56 days until I can donate again. Maybe next time I’ll block off more than 45 minutes for the donation — and bring a book to read too.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Weather, construction takes toll on this writer
DOVER-FOXCROFT — It’s hard to get away from complaining — er, I mean conversing — about construction nowadays. Or the weather for that matter. Some sort of goofy weather system coming through the area is almost as much of a given as a 10 minute traffic delay due to road construction in these parts.
That being said, there are four things I noticed this weekend that have left me scratching my head, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The first happened Friday, when a freak cold front pushed through the Penquis region. It brought with it a quick, nasty rain storm that seemingly dropped trees on power lines throughout the entire region. I rushed over to the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Station when the call came out for help clearing trees out of the road and off the lines when I heard the same call go out to the Brownville, Milo, Charleston, Bradford and Dexter areas. The storm came through quickly, dropped a little bit of rain and seemed to have a little wind to it, but it didn’t seem like it would bring the whole forest down as well. Luckily no one seemed to be hurt in all that.
Shortly there after, I get a call from my dad back in Wisconsin to break the good news to me: they finally got some rain. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? After the summer we’ve been having, it’s strange to hear someone nowadays happy to see rain falling from the sky.
In that part of eastern Wisconsin, it’s not uncommon for the region to go through a few weeks of drought-like conditions before it rains again. This year seemed worse than most and Dad is counting on his corn crop a little more this year than in the past so he needed rain in a hurry.
Well, he got it from the sounds of it — in the way of 2.75 inches of rain. However, it’s actually dried out to the point where Dad’s already looking for another inch of rain if he could get it. I’m still telling Dad he can have all the rain he wants from here.
After all that, I just walked out the door of the Observer office Friday evening for my softball game at the fairgrounds when I was greeted with a cold breeze that sent me running back inside for a jacket, sweatshirt — something more than the T-shirt and athletic shorts I was wearing at the moment. That storm front that moved through dropped temperatures from the 70s to the 50s in a hurry and I was stranded in Dover-Foxcroft with nothing but a thin track jacket to fend off the cool night.
It was August 8, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t think I needed to start leaving a sweatshirt in the car for cold Maine nights, especially seeing that the sun hadn’t set yet. Those nights were supposed to be reserved for late September.
Monday I made my way back to Dover, back to work, softball and rain. Packed next to me in the car was a sweatshirt next to my camera and notepad. I learned my lesson from last week.
Of course, as I turned onto Route 43 outside of Hudson, I was met with a Maine Department of Transportation road crew tearing up the road installing a new culvert to alleviate flooding along the low-lying roadway. Instead of actual human flaggers, however, this crew was using a remote-controlled flagger trailer that had traffic stopped — for no reason it seemed — for over 10 minutes. I could see traffic held up on the other side of the construction zone, waiting for the armbar to rise and light to turn from red to blinking yellow signifying “You may finally move forward now.”
That’s when it occurred to me how much I missed human flaggers instead of these obnoxious robots. At least with people standing there they can react to a situation and move traffic more efficiently. And at least with people there you can see that something is being accomplished, at least some of the time. That, and it’s hard for me to get that upset at a person doing their job.
Then again, if I start getting frustrated about robot flaggers, or the weather for that matter, this late in the season, I’m going to have a meltdown by November —just in time for snow, ice and potholes to kick in.
That being said, there are four things I noticed this weekend that have left me scratching my head, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The first happened Friday, when a freak cold front pushed through the Penquis region. It brought with it a quick, nasty rain storm that seemingly dropped trees on power lines throughout the entire region. I rushed over to the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Station when the call came out for help clearing trees out of the road and off the lines when I heard the same call go out to the Brownville, Milo, Charleston, Bradford and Dexter areas. The storm came through quickly, dropped a little bit of rain and seemed to have a little wind to it, but it didn’t seem like it would bring the whole forest down as well. Luckily no one seemed to be hurt in all that.
Shortly there after, I get a call from my dad back in Wisconsin to break the good news to me: they finally got some rain. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? After the summer we’ve been having, it’s strange to hear someone nowadays happy to see rain falling from the sky.
In that part of eastern Wisconsin, it’s not uncommon for the region to go through a few weeks of drought-like conditions before it rains again. This year seemed worse than most and Dad is counting on his corn crop a little more this year than in the past so he needed rain in a hurry.
Well, he got it from the sounds of it — in the way of 2.75 inches of rain. However, it’s actually dried out to the point where Dad’s already looking for another inch of rain if he could get it. I’m still telling Dad he can have all the rain he wants from here.
After all that, I just walked out the door of the Observer office Friday evening for my softball game at the fairgrounds when I was greeted with a cold breeze that sent me running back inside for a jacket, sweatshirt — something more than the T-shirt and athletic shorts I was wearing at the moment. That storm front that moved through dropped temperatures from the 70s to the 50s in a hurry and I was stranded in Dover-Foxcroft with nothing but a thin track jacket to fend off the cool night.
It was August 8, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t think I needed to start leaving a sweatshirt in the car for cold Maine nights, especially seeing that the sun hadn’t set yet. Those nights were supposed to be reserved for late September.
Monday I made my way back to Dover, back to work, softball and rain. Packed next to me in the car was a sweatshirt next to my camera and notepad. I learned my lesson from last week.
Of course, as I turned onto Route 43 outside of Hudson, I was met with a Maine Department of Transportation road crew tearing up the road installing a new culvert to alleviate flooding along the low-lying roadway. Instead of actual human flaggers, however, this crew was using a remote-controlled flagger trailer that had traffic stopped — for no reason it seemed — for over 10 minutes. I could see traffic held up on the other side of the construction zone, waiting for the armbar to rise and light to turn from red to blinking yellow signifying “You may finally move forward now.”
That’s when it occurred to me how much I missed human flaggers instead of these obnoxious robots. At least with people standing there they can react to a situation and move traffic more efficiently. And at least with people there you can see that something is being accomplished, at least some of the time. That, and it’s hard for me to get that upset at a person doing their job.
Then again, if I start getting frustrated about robot flaggers, or the weather for that matter, this late in the season, I’m going to have a meltdown by November —just in time for snow, ice and potholes to kick in.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
My call for an interstate in northern Maine
“… despite notable successes in the past few years, Maine has suffered from an increasing tax burden, endemic loss of jobs and opportunities throughout many parts of the state ,and the persistent and growing perception that Maine policymakers are hostile to business and the economy of Maine … “
This is a quote from “Where We Stand 2003” a publication put out by the Maine State Chamber of Commerce six years ago. It’s one of the numerous old texts that I sift through on a daily basis in the Observer office. On a whim when my eyes needed a break from the hundreds of Shiretown Homecoming photos our staff took Friday and Saturday, I picked up the booklet on a walk through the back of the office and started to skim through it.
The MSCC stated in its introduction there are six areas that lawmakers needed to focus on to put Maine in a better place: reducing the cost of health care, improving the economic development prospects, reducing the state’s tax burden, reigning in government spending, reforming the worker’s compensation system and keeping education at the forefront of future growth.
All those points are easily talking points of any political session, even in the six years since this publication was printed. That being said, there was one thing that strikes me as something that is truly needed in the Penquis region and moreover for northern Maine: “the creation of a high-speed four lane divided east/west highway, as well as the four-lane extension of I-95 to Madawaska.”
An interstate highway makes a large difference in the marketplace, especially in rural Maine where that is the only source of transportation of goods given that rail has fallen to the wayside and air transportation is not logical.
Growing up next to I-43 in eastern Wisconsin, I noticed just how much of a difference an interstate roadway makes in an urban area. Dotted along the roadway in Sheboygan is a series of large factories, box stores, restaurants, industrial parks and housing subdivisions that give the town of 50,000 a large tax base to work off of. It brings in people, and most importantly brings in work. There too, rail is not what it once was and air transportation makes little sense.
If you go west from the interstate, jobs become more sparse because the factory work is located closer to the main artery. It quickly becomes a land where farming is king — well, at least the land is there for farming, and it’s prosperous for a few.
At any rate, an east/west interstate that connected Quebec to Nova Scotia through Maine would likely have to go through southern Piscataquis County to be effective and cost-efficient. It would make Piscataquis County a much more desirable location to start a business and for tourists— especially if this new east/west highway had a I-95 spur shoot off from the Pittsfield area and connect west to Greenville or Guilford.
As the MSCC said in 2003, “transportation infrastructure investments are critical to Maine’s economic future in several ways. First, they generate substantial numbers of jobs during construction. Even more importantly, once completed, major transportation arterials serve as a foundation for economic growth and development.”
Granted, the interstate is not the be-all, end-all for economic growth. If it is not supported correctly, jobs leave just as quickly as they come in. In Sheboygan, numerous factories have closed or downsized due to the economic recession. The kicker is, however, that more jobs are slowly trickling in again — in large part because of its access to the outside world.
I’d hate to see the authors of “Where We Stand 2023” have to recite that same passage that was written six years ago. It’s time the Penquis region get that same kind of access.
This is a quote from “Where We Stand 2003” a publication put out by the Maine State Chamber of Commerce six years ago. It’s one of the numerous old texts that I sift through on a daily basis in the Observer office. On a whim when my eyes needed a break from the hundreds of Shiretown Homecoming photos our staff took Friday and Saturday, I picked up the booklet on a walk through the back of the office and started to skim through it.
The MSCC stated in its introduction there are six areas that lawmakers needed to focus on to put Maine in a better place: reducing the cost of health care, improving the economic development prospects, reducing the state’s tax burden, reigning in government spending, reforming the worker’s compensation system and keeping education at the forefront of future growth.
All those points are easily talking points of any political session, even in the six years since this publication was printed. That being said, there was one thing that strikes me as something that is truly needed in the Penquis region and moreover for northern Maine: “the creation of a high-speed four lane divided east/west highway, as well as the four-lane extension of I-95 to Madawaska.”
An interstate highway makes a large difference in the marketplace, especially in rural Maine where that is the only source of transportation of goods given that rail has fallen to the wayside and air transportation is not logical.
Growing up next to I-43 in eastern Wisconsin, I noticed just how much of a difference an interstate roadway makes in an urban area. Dotted along the roadway in Sheboygan is a series of large factories, box stores, restaurants, industrial parks and housing subdivisions that give the town of 50,000 a large tax base to work off of. It brings in people, and most importantly brings in work. There too, rail is not what it once was and air transportation makes little sense.
If you go west from the interstate, jobs become more sparse because the factory work is located closer to the main artery. It quickly becomes a land where farming is king — well, at least the land is there for farming, and it’s prosperous for a few.
At any rate, an east/west interstate that connected Quebec to Nova Scotia through Maine would likely have to go through southern Piscataquis County to be effective and cost-efficient. It would make Piscataquis County a much more desirable location to start a business and for tourists— especially if this new east/west highway had a I-95 spur shoot off from the Pittsfield area and connect west to Greenville or Guilford.
As the MSCC said in 2003, “transportation infrastructure investments are critical to Maine’s economic future in several ways. First, they generate substantial numbers of jobs during construction. Even more importantly, once completed, major transportation arterials serve as a foundation for economic growth and development.”
Granted, the interstate is not the be-all, end-all for economic growth. If it is not supported correctly, jobs leave just as quickly as they come in. In Sheboygan, numerous factories have closed or downsized due to the economic recession. The kicker is, however, that more jobs are slowly trickling in again — in large part because of its access to the outside world.
I’d hate to see the authors of “Where We Stand 2023” have to recite that same passage that was written six years ago. It’s time the Penquis region get that same kind of access.
The Catch-22 of Rec Sports
ORONO — As the opposing shortstop caught the infield pop-up for the third out, our 2009 rec-league softball season was over. Our team, the Dead Animals, capped a solid season off with a disappointing first-round exit in the playoffs. We all lined up and shook hands, wishing the Hollywood Slots team the best of luck in their next game and commending them on a good game.
The drive home from Orono High School was short, but there was plenty of time to sit there in the car wondering how I could have done more to help. There was the 0-for-3 performance from the plate that didn’t help, or the pop fly to left center that I should have caught instead of getting called off my the left fielder.
Rec-league softball is a strange Catch-22 for me. On one hand, it’s supposed to be fun and laid back. It’s more important to hang out with friends and have a laugh than anything else — at least that’s what my wife tells me every week. She’s a bit more of an optimist than I am.
I try to have a good time each week, and winning goes a long way toward that goal. The kicker is, I have such a competitive streak in me that I can’t brush the losses off that easily. It stings every time, some games worse than others. Monday night was no exception, as we yet again failed to build off a solid regular season with a strong run in the playoffs.
This may sound like Bill Belichick talking to reporters after a post-season loss, but it’s the truth. At some point a little post-season glory would be nice.
I know I’m not alone in this. No matter if it is in Orono or Dover-Foxcroft, people take their rec sports seriously. You can’t fault a person for that. No one wants to go out each week and get their butt kicked on the diamond, even if it is just for fun and laughs.
Part of it has to do with the fact that rec-league sports is in many ways the only competitive release people have anymore. How these recreational leagues are treated by many adults remind me of the way kids treat high school sports — with the same intensity, the same passion and sometimes the same frustration at each loss.
I know Monday night I felt that frustration. An 0-for-3 night at the plate will gnaw away at me for a few days, at least until I step up to the plate Friday night at the Fairgrounds for the YMCA league game. I’ll be looking for a little redemption that night, something to let me know that Monday’s loss was a fluke and that I’m a better player than that.
Otherwise it’s going to be a long winter of waiting for softball to start up again.
The drive home from Orono High School was short, but there was plenty of time to sit there in the car wondering how I could have done more to help. There was the 0-for-3 performance from the plate that didn’t help, or the pop fly to left center that I should have caught instead of getting called off my the left fielder.
Rec-league softball is a strange Catch-22 for me. On one hand, it’s supposed to be fun and laid back. It’s more important to hang out with friends and have a laugh than anything else — at least that’s what my wife tells me every week. She’s a bit more of an optimist than I am.
I try to have a good time each week, and winning goes a long way toward that goal. The kicker is, I have such a competitive streak in me that I can’t brush the losses off that easily. It stings every time, some games worse than others. Monday night was no exception, as we yet again failed to build off a solid regular season with a strong run in the playoffs.
This may sound like Bill Belichick talking to reporters after a post-season loss, but it’s the truth. At some point a little post-season glory would be nice.
I know I’m not alone in this. No matter if it is in Orono or Dover-Foxcroft, people take their rec sports seriously. You can’t fault a person for that. No one wants to go out each week and get their butt kicked on the diamond, even if it is just for fun and laughs.
Part of it has to do with the fact that rec-league sports is in many ways the only competitive release people have anymore. How these recreational leagues are treated by many adults remind me of the way kids treat high school sports — with the same intensity, the same passion and sometimes the same frustration at each loss.
I know Monday night I felt that frustration. An 0-for-3 night at the plate will gnaw away at me for a few days, at least until I step up to the plate Friday night at the Fairgrounds for the YMCA league game. I’ll be looking for a little redemption that night, something to let me know that Monday’s loss was a fluke and that I’m a better player than that.
Otherwise it’s going to be a long winter of waiting for softball to start up again.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Empathy for the umpire
DOVER-FOXCROFT — I stood there, looking at the orange mat behind home plate, wondering to myself, “Where did that pitch just land?”
I was looking right at the pitch the whole way through, but I didn’t quite see where it landed. With a 2-2 count, the pitcher and batter were both staring right at me waiting for me to call the pitch a ball or a strike.
There, on the orange mat, was the imprint. Strike 3. It was clear to see now that I looked closer, but that moment of indecision had daggers cast at me from the batter’s eyes. She was not a fan, and I don’t blame her.
As the next batter walked up to the plate, I began to ask myself, “Why did I volunteer to ump this game?”
Umpires are hated people, some more than others. It depends on just how bad the ump does his or her job that night, and even that’s a subjective thing considering one play can make the difference in a game.
It’s a thought that hit home the other night when I was playing league ball in Veazie. Standing in center field, I watched as the shortstop rifled a throw to first base, causing the first baseman to make a reaching stab at the ball, falling to the ground. She never took her foot off the bag and had full control of the ball the whole time. This was obvious to see, even from 80 yards away.
However, the ump called the base runner safe, causing all of us to suggest to the umpire in a kind way that we are looking out for his well-being and that maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call his eye care specialist and have his eyeglass prescription updated.
As I made the walk back to the dugout, I realized I probably would have made the same call during the Friday night softball league in Dover had I been the umpire.
The thing is, I’m not decisive enough on calls. When I am decisive, I usually end up botching something — like that time I called the guy out but swung my arms in a “he’s safe” motion. It leads to confusion, to tempers flaring and to me seeking that elusive Southwest Airlines plane from the TV commercials when they ask “Do you want to get away?”
While all the players in the Dover league are good sports and sportsmanship is something that seems to run high at the Fairgrounds, I hope I get my act together one of these weeks and call a clean game. Otherwise I’m fairly certain the proverbial daggers that were cast at me last Friday night could turn in to actual softball bats hurled at me in the near future.
I was looking right at the pitch the whole way through, but I didn’t quite see where it landed. With a 2-2 count, the pitcher and batter were both staring right at me waiting for me to call the pitch a ball or a strike.
There, on the orange mat, was the imprint. Strike 3. It was clear to see now that I looked closer, but that moment of indecision had daggers cast at me from the batter’s eyes. She was not a fan, and I don’t blame her.
As the next batter walked up to the plate, I began to ask myself, “Why did I volunteer to ump this game?”
Umpires are hated people, some more than others. It depends on just how bad the ump does his or her job that night, and even that’s a subjective thing considering one play can make the difference in a game.
It’s a thought that hit home the other night when I was playing league ball in Veazie. Standing in center field, I watched as the shortstop rifled a throw to first base, causing the first baseman to make a reaching stab at the ball, falling to the ground. She never took her foot off the bag and had full control of the ball the whole time. This was obvious to see, even from 80 yards away.
However, the ump called the base runner safe, causing all of us to suggest to the umpire in a kind way that we are looking out for his well-being and that maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call his eye care specialist and have his eyeglass prescription updated.
As I made the walk back to the dugout, I realized I probably would have made the same call during the Friday night softball league in Dover had I been the umpire.
The thing is, I’m not decisive enough on calls. When I am decisive, I usually end up botching something — like that time I called the guy out but swung my arms in a “he’s safe” motion. It leads to confusion, to tempers flaring and to me seeking that elusive Southwest Airlines plane from the TV commercials when they ask “Do you want to get away?”
While all the players in the Dover league are good sports and sportsmanship is something that seems to run high at the Fairgrounds, I hope I get my act together one of these weeks and call a clean game. Otherwise I’m fairly certain the proverbial daggers that were cast at me last Friday night could turn in to actual softball bats hurled at me in the near future.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The great debate: to shave or not to shave
DOVER-FOXCROFT — “If you want to play, you’ve got to shave.”
That’s the line running through my head as I looked in the mirror at a fellow firefighter’s apartment, shaving cream smeared over my goatee and razor in my hand. If I wanted to join the LP training session at the former Moosehead Manufacturing campus on Monday night, I had to be clean-shaven so my air mask would create a seal around my face.
I hadn’t shaved off my goatee on purpose since my wedding day in 2005 — there was that time in 2006 it came off, but that’s because the neighbor decided it would be a great idea to light off M-80 firecrackers in a sofa near my apartment just at the moment I was pulling a razor near my chin. I remember that morning all too well.
BOOM!
It was in that instant that half my chin became painfully exposed. Thankfully it was only hair that was removed and not half my face. I tell you, I was sure glad when the city finally disposed of that sofa. I could at least shave knowing that travesty would not happen again.
I’m not the type that has some kind of emotional connection to facial hair. I just started sporting a goatee back in college to make me look older so I could get into the bars easier. It was a necessity then that just stayed with me all these years.
Anyway, back to Monday. If I wanted to train, I had to shave.
I couldn’t believe that my arm started to move on its own, taking off the fuzz above my lip. Five minutes later, I cleaned up the last remnants of my goatee, washed the remaining shaving cream off my face and looked back in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. I stood in the back listening to the pre-drill instructions, rubbing my face as if that would help speed up the hair-growing process. After the instructions were done, we split up in four-person attack teams and I began to get ready for my first major firefighter training exercise.
Maybe shaving would be worth it after all.
That’s when our fire chief remembered I’m not air-pack certified, therefore making me ineligible to participate.
So while 38 other firefighters from Dover-Foxcroft, Milo, Charleston and Brownville took turns attacking a LP training exercise, I stood off to the side, wearing my turn-out gear, with my camera and notebook taking notes for a newspaper story.
All I could think of the whole time was, 1.) I need to get that air-pack training ASAP; and 2.) if all I was going to do was be a reporter, I would have left the goatee on.
That’s the line running through my head as I looked in the mirror at a fellow firefighter’s apartment, shaving cream smeared over my goatee and razor in my hand. If I wanted to join the LP training session at the former Moosehead Manufacturing campus on Monday night, I had to be clean-shaven so my air mask would create a seal around my face.
I hadn’t shaved off my goatee on purpose since my wedding day in 2005 — there was that time in 2006 it came off, but that’s because the neighbor decided it would be a great idea to light off M-80 firecrackers in a sofa near my apartment just at the moment I was pulling a razor near my chin. I remember that morning all too well.
BOOM!
It was in that instant that half my chin became painfully exposed. Thankfully it was only hair that was removed and not half my face. I tell you, I was sure glad when the city finally disposed of that sofa. I could at least shave knowing that travesty would not happen again.
I’m not the type that has some kind of emotional connection to facial hair. I just started sporting a goatee back in college to make me look older so I could get into the bars easier. It was a necessity then that just stayed with me all these years.
Anyway, back to Monday. If I wanted to train, I had to shave.
I couldn’t believe that my arm started to move on its own, taking off the fuzz above my lip. Five minutes later, I cleaned up the last remnants of my goatee, washed the remaining shaving cream off my face and looked back in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. I stood in the back listening to the pre-drill instructions, rubbing my face as if that would help speed up the hair-growing process. After the instructions were done, we split up in four-person attack teams and I began to get ready for my first major firefighter training exercise.
Maybe shaving would be worth it after all.
That’s when our fire chief remembered I’m not air-pack certified, therefore making me ineligible to participate.
So while 38 other firefighters from Dover-Foxcroft, Milo, Charleston and Brownville took turns attacking a LP training exercise, I stood off to the side, wearing my turn-out gear, with my camera and notebook taking notes for a newspaper story.
All I could think of the whole time was, 1.) I need to get that air-pack training ASAP; and 2.) if all I was going to do was be a reporter, I would have left the goatee on.
Friday, July 10, 2009
MY BCS plan
The sun is shining outside, the temperatures are in the 80s .... and I'm stuck inside on the computer listening to ESPN radio. One of the items mentioned is Congress looking into possible antitrust issues with the BCS Championship system, due in large part to the University of Utah getting hosed and Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) having a little bit of clout.
Anyway, here's my plan to fix college football. Take it for what it's worth.
College football needs an 8-team playoff to determine a national champion. Selection for the field would be the conference champion from each of the Big Six Conference (Big Ten, Big XII, Big East, ACC, SEC, Pac-10) and then two at-large berths from outside conference champions only (such as Mountain West, MAC, WAC) based on the AP and coaches poll. No computer BS needed.
That's right; Conference champions only -- no Big XII North Champ Nebraska if they lose the Big XII title game to Texas. Just Texas and that's it. That takes care of the possibility of two or three teams from one conference in the playoff. Just give us the best from your area and we'll go from there.
The four games of the first round would begin on New Year's Day with sites in Florida (preferred bowl game - Orange Bowl), Texas (Cotton), California (site like the LA Coliseum) and then a fourth site like Nashville. No team from that region (i.e. Florida) cannot play in that game -- travel for everyone to make it fairer. No reason USC plays at the Coliseum in the playoffs, or the Gators play in Orlando.
The remaining Big Three bowl games, Rose, Sugar and Fiesta, are revolving semi-final and championship sites. Second-round games are on the next Saturday, with the title game likely nine days later on that Monday night (the NCAA likes to put title games on Mondays. Bastards.)
Teams not eligible for the NCAA playoff gets to compete in the traditional bowl games that all conclude on New Years Eve.
This plan takes care of two things: 1.) true declaration of a national champion; 2.) need for the piece of crap BCS system to select teams. There's still plenty of money thrown around and everyone still gets a chance to play ball.
The only loser in all this I think would be the Rose Bowl, losing the tradition that is the New Years Day game. But you know what, deal with it - and that's coming from a Big Ten guy. If the only sacrifice made in all this is having the Granddaddy of Them All lose a little bit of its luster, then so be it. You don't think the bowl's history remained pristine with the introduction of the BCS, did you?
There's my plan. Whatcha think?
Anyway, here's my plan to fix college football. Take it for what it's worth.
College football needs an 8-team playoff to determine a national champion. Selection for the field would be the conference champion from each of the Big Six Conference (Big Ten, Big XII, Big East, ACC, SEC, Pac-10) and then two at-large berths from outside conference champions only (such as Mountain West, MAC, WAC) based on the AP and coaches poll. No computer BS needed.
That's right; Conference champions only -- no Big XII North Champ Nebraska if they lose the Big XII title game to Texas. Just Texas and that's it. That takes care of the possibility of two or three teams from one conference in the playoff. Just give us the best from your area and we'll go from there.
The four games of the first round would begin on New Year's Day with sites in Florida (preferred bowl game - Orange Bowl), Texas (Cotton), California (site like the LA Coliseum) and then a fourth site like Nashville. No team from that region (i.e. Florida) cannot play in that game -- travel for everyone to make it fairer. No reason USC plays at the Coliseum in the playoffs, or the Gators play in Orlando.
The remaining Big Three bowl games, Rose, Sugar and Fiesta, are revolving semi-final and championship sites. Second-round games are on the next Saturday, with the title game likely nine days later on that Monday night (the NCAA likes to put title games on Mondays. Bastards.)
Teams not eligible for the NCAA playoff gets to compete in the traditional bowl games that all conclude on New Years Eve.
This plan takes care of two things: 1.) true declaration of a national champion; 2.) need for the piece of crap BCS system to select teams. There's still plenty of money thrown around and everyone still gets a chance to play ball.
The only loser in all this I think would be the Rose Bowl, losing the tradition that is the New Years Day game. But you know what, deal with it - and that's coming from a Big Ten guy. If the only sacrifice made in all this is having the Granddaddy of Them All lose a little bit of its luster, then so be it. You don't think the bowl's history remained pristine with the introduction of the BCS, did you?
There's my plan. Whatcha think?
Staving off the late June summer doldrums
The past three weeks seems like a take from the Bill Murray movie, “Groundhog Day.” Each day it seems the skies have been overcast, the temperature fairly mild and rain threatened to fall from the clouds. It all seemed like a never-ending pattern of gloominess.
Independence Day was no exception. That being said, the five of us at camp had enough waiting for Mother Nature to relent and allow the warm weather and sunshine break through. We all decided on the Fourth of July to make a go of it on the lake and have fun in spite of the weather.
I thought that meant we were going fishing. The other four took that as time to go tubing on the lake.
“They’re insane,” is all I muttered to myself as we piled into the boat and pulled away from the dock. Standing tall on the dock feeding rope out was Darren, anxiously awaiting to hop on to the Big Bertha inner tube and get towed around the lake. The other three in the boat had their swimsuits on. I was fully decked out in a sweatshirt, jeans and bad attitude.
Why waste our time freezing our butt off in the middle of this extended Maine spring when we could do some fishing? Granted the fishing the day before led to me catching a small white perch and everyone else casting for nothing, but still, it had to be better than tubing around on a cold summer day.
As Eric threw the throttle forward and doing his best to throw his own brother Darren off the tube, I began to realize maybe this wasn’t so bad. Darren was laughing hysterically — when he had a chance to breathe at least — and the two women in the back of the boat were both screaming for Eric to head to the big waves and wondered what their own turn had to offer.
For weeks I’ve heard TV and radio reports about seasonal depressions and disorders, when people get anything from a bad case of the blues to legitimate depression. It’s something I end up going through every year by February and March, where I just end up becoming irritable and down in the dumps about everyday life. I question why I do things, if it’s worth it and even why I get up some days. This spring was especially rough, but like every other year the blues went away when the sun came out.
I noticed Saturday those low feelings were coming back. I sat in the forward chair of the ski boat while my other friends were having fun and couldn’t bring myself to have a good time. I do my best to put on a smile and make it look like I’m alright, but it takes a lot out of me to do that. On top of it all, tubing was never my thing — seeing that I swim as well as a rock — so the idea of hoping on Big Bertha on a cold, overcast summer day was about the worst thing I could think of.
Something must have clicked on that last tour of the lake, because out of nowhere I told Eric to head for the dock so I could change and give it a go on the tube. The look on my face must have been something strange to see because even I couldn’t believe I said that.
It was the perfect medicine to the awful weather we’ve been having. It was sprinkling by the time I jumped on the raft, the air temperature was cold enough to give you a chill and the water spray made things worse. That being said, it was a blast. I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time.
Of course, my whole upper body was sore for two days after I held on to that raft with everything I had, but in the end it was worth it because for once I could laugh — and do so without forcing myself to have a good time.
I wasn’t the only one to shake the late June doldrums. Cities decided to host fireworks, people took to Fourth of July celebrations and others hosted barbecues in spite of the heavy rains and overcast skies, and it turned out great.
Maybe Mother Nature got the hint we’re all sick of what she’s been brewing for the past few weeks, because Sunday was a beautiful day outside. Granted the gray skies and rain returned, but there’s finally sunshine in the forecast for later in the week.
That’s good, because our summer is long overdue to begin.
Independence Day was no exception. That being said, the five of us at camp had enough waiting for Mother Nature to relent and allow the warm weather and sunshine break through. We all decided on the Fourth of July to make a go of it on the lake and have fun in spite of the weather.
I thought that meant we were going fishing. The other four took that as time to go tubing on the lake.
“They’re insane,” is all I muttered to myself as we piled into the boat and pulled away from the dock. Standing tall on the dock feeding rope out was Darren, anxiously awaiting to hop on to the Big Bertha inner tube and get towed around the lake. The other three in the boat had their swimsuits on. I was fully decked out in a sweatshirt, jeans and bad attitude.
Why waste our time freezing our butt off in the middle of this extended Maine spring when we could do some fishing? Granted the fishing the day before led to me catching a small white perch and everyone else casting for nothing, but still, it had to be better than tubing around on a cold summer day.
As Eric threw the throttle forward and doing his best to throw his own brother Darren off the tube, I began to realize maybe this wasn’t so bad. Darren was laughing hysterically — when he had a chance to breathe at least — and the two women in the back of the boat were both screaming for Eric to head to the big waves and wondered what their own turn had to offer.
For weeks I’ve heard TV and radio reports about seasonal depressions and disorders, when people get anything from a bad case of the blues to legitimate depression. It’s something I end up going through every year by February and March, where I just end up becoming irritable and down in the dumps about everyday life. I question why I do things, if it’s worth it and even why I get up some days. This spring was especially rough, but like every other year the blues went away when the sun came out.
I noticed Saturday those low feelings were coming back. I sat in the forward chair of the ski boat while my other friends were having fun and couldn’t bring myself to have a good time. I do my best to put on a smile and make it look like I’m alright, but it takes a lot out of me to do that. On top of it all, tubing was never my thing — seeing that I swim as well as a rock — so the idea of hoping on Big Bertha on a cold, overcast summer day was about the worst thing I could think of.
Something must have clicked on that last tour of the lake, because out of nowhere I told Eric to head for the dock so I could change and give it a go on the tube. The look on my face must have been something strange to see because even I couldn’t believe I said that.
It was the perfect medicine to the awful weather we’ve been having. It was sprinkling by the time I jumped on the raft, the air temperature was cold enough to give you a chill and the water spray made things worse. That being said, it was a blast. I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time.
Of course, my whole upper body was sore for two days after I held on to that raft with everything I had, but in the end it was worth it because for once I could laugh — and do so without forcing myself to have a good time.
I wasn’t the only one to shake the late June doldrums. Cities decided to host fireworks, people took to Fourth of July celebrations and others hosted barbecues in spite of the heavy rains and overcast skies, and it turned out great.
Maybe Mother Nature got the hint we’re all sick of what she’s been brewing for the past few weeks, because Sunday was a beautiful day outside. Granted the gray skies and rain returned, but there’s finally sunshine in the forecast for later in the week.
That’s good, because our summer is long overdue to begin.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A belated Father’s Day to remember
NEWTON, Wis. — The needle on the Jeep Grand Cherokee was pushing 75 as I rushed up I-43 in Eastern Wisconsin to get to the Newton Firefighters Park for the Lakeshore Two-Cylinder Antique Tractor Pull.
It had been quite a few years since I raced up that section of interstate, dating back to when I was working as a roofer during my summers off from college. I was home last weekend for my brother-in-law’s wedding — which was a good time and great to see the family once again.
Sunday, however, I relived part of my teenage years by flying up the interstate once again because I wanted to get to the pull as soon as I could. It was my only chance that weekend to see my folks and I had to shoot the breeze with Dad seeing Father’s Day was the weekend before.
As soon as I pulled in to the yard, I walked over to the scale where my father was weighing in tractors for the 5,700-pound stock class and measuring hitch heights to make sure they were between 18 and 20 inches. Before I could say hi, Dad hollered at me, “Get on your tractor. You’re up soon.”
Sure enough, the John Deere 60 — that tractor my late grandfather gave my dad and I all back at Christmas before he passed away — was standing in line ready to pull. I found out later on that Dad had planned on me pulling ever since I was going to be there that Sunday morning.
I jumped up on the steel seat of the Deere and waited my turn to hook up to the Eliminator, every once in a while turning around to listen to instructions from Dad about staying in first gear, stay in the middle of the track and how to slide up in the seat if the front end started lifting off the ground.
All I could think of was, “If I would have known I was pulling, I wouldn’t have worn my Badger red ‘Sconnie’ shirt to the pull. I would’ve worn my green Packer shirt instead; it matches the tractor better.” Trust me, I wasn’t the only person who thought that. I was wearing the wrong colors, but that was forgiven soon after.
My turn finally came up. I backed the tractor up to the Eliminator sled, had old man Harold hook the sled up to the clevis on the hitch of the tractor and walk away. I put the Deere in first gear, throttled down and pulled the chain tight, then threw the throttle all the way forward.
Now antique tractor pulls are not fast-moving affairs. In all honesty, it moves pretty slow — especially in first gear. Nonetheless, I was moving quick to do everything I could to help the tractor down the track. I pushed the throttle forward a few more times to make sure it was at the stops, turned the front wheels to keep myself out of the soft spot on the side of the dusty track and waited patiently for the front end to start lifting off the ground so I could slide forward in my seat and hope my 160-pound frame could help keep the 5,700-pound machine closer to the ground.
Finally the red flag flew in front of me, signaling my pull was over. It was pretty early in the class, but I thought the 60 had a good pull. Dad was all smiles after I pulled off the track and shut the tractor down.
His smiles only got bigger after it was announced that the 60 won the class, the first time in four years we won. It was the first time I won a tractor pull and holding up that trophy I guess was just what Dad wanted for Father’s Day. What made the day even better was when he got a trophy of his own — a second-place trophy — pulling the 720 a few classes later. Both trophies stand on top of the beer fridge in the garage back home, along with the other first-place trophy Dad won with the 60 in 2005.
Months after Dad lost his father and I lost my grandfather, this seemed like a fitting way to celebrate Father’s Day. It was one I will never forget.
It had been quite a few years since I raced up that section of interstate, dating back to when I was working as a roofer during my summers off from college. I was home last weekend for my brother-in-law’s wedding — which was a good time and great to see the family once again.
Sunday, however, I relived part of my teenage years by flying up the interstate once again because I wanted to get to the pull as soon as I could. It was my only chance that weekend to see my folks and I had to shoot the breeze with Dad seeing Father’s Day was the weekend before.
As soon as I pulled in to the yard, I walked over to the scale where my father was weighing in tractors for the 5,700-pound stock class and measuring hitch heights to make sure they were between 18 and 20 inches. Before I could say hi, Dad hollered at me, “Get on your tractor. You’re up soon.”
Sure enough, the John Deere 60 — that tractor my late grandfather gave my dad and I all back at Christmas before he passed away — was standing in line ready to pull. I found out later on that Dad had planned on me pulling ever since I was going to be there that Sunday morning.
I jumped up on the steel seat of the Deere and waited my turn to hook up to the Eliminator, every once in a while turning around to listen to instructions from Dad about staying in first gear, stay in the middle of the track and how to slide up in the seat if the front end started lifting off the ground.
All I could think of was, “If I would have known I was pulling, I wouldn’t have worn my Badger red ‘Sconnie’ shirt to the pull. I would’ve worn my green Packer shirt instead; it matches the tractor better.” Trust me, I wasn’t the only person who thought that. I was wearing the wrong colors, but that was forgiven soon after.
My turn finally came up. I backed the tractor up to the Eliminator sled, had old man Harold hook the sled up to the clevis on the hitch of the tractor and walk away. I put the Deere in first gear, throttled down and pulled the chain tight, then threw the throttle all the way forward.
Now antique tractor pulls are not fast-moving affairs. In all honesty, it moves pretty slow — especially in first gear. Nonetheless, I was moving quick to do everything I could to help the tractor down the track. I pushed the throttle forward a few more times to make sure it was at the stops, turned the front wheels to keep myself out of the soft spot on the side of the dusty track and waited patiently for the front end to start lifting off the ground so I could slide forward in my seat and hope my 160-pound frame could help keep the 5,700-pound machine closer to the ground.
Finally the red flag flew in front of me, signaling my pull was over. It was pretty early in the class, but I thought the 60 had a good pull. Dad was all smiles after I pulled off the track and shut the tractor down.
His smiles only got bigger after it was announced that the 60 won the class, the first time in four years we won. It was the first time I won a tractor pull and holding up that trophy I guess was just what Dad wanted for Father’s Day. What made the day even better was when he got a trophy of his own — a second-place trophy — pulling the 720 a few classes later. Both trophies stand on top of the beer fridge in the garage back home, along with the other first-place trophy Dad won with the 60 in 2005.
Months after Dad lost his father and I lost my grandfather, this seemed like a fitting way to celebrate Father’s Day. It was one I will never forget.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Luck of the draw
OLD TOWN — As I sat down in a booth at the local Dairy Queen last Thursday night, I thought about just how poorly I’ve been hitting to start our softball season and how much I would enjoy the two chili dogs and Reese’s Piece Blizzard that was coming soon after.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
Flashback to a twisted childhood
Ed. note: This did not run this week. Instead of losing it, however, I figured I'd post it online.
OLD TOWN — This column is brought to you today by the letter E and the number 9.
Childhood memories can be fickle things sometimes. Little things, like trips to the zoo or little league baseball, are remembered as being a lot more important than they were. Cartoons and children shows, meanwhile, are somehow remembered as being so much better than you originally thought too.
It was a notion that hit me like Stretch Armstrong slapping me across the face the other day as I watched episodes from the first season of Fraggle Rock on DVD. I remembered that show being one of my favorites growing up, and I thought watching them again I’d get a good laugh out of it.
Instead, I wondered how my generation made it to adulthood without any semblance of sanity remaining after watching these shows— and how I never noticed until now how the Fraggles must have been located in Minnesota given their thick Fargo-styled accent.
I was seriously concerned. I kept asking myself, “What did I learn watching my childhood TV shows?” This thought flooded my mind as I kept watched those goofy looking puppets bounce along the screen during the pilot episode of Fraggle Rock. It was supposed to be a show about world peace. That’s what the DVD box stated, at least. I’m not sure if that was what anyone got from it though.
It appeared that the show taught me only to eat construction pilings and to swing from vines from one cave to the next with no consequences whatsoever when you crashed against the far wall of the cave other than a nasty case of being cross-eyed.
Oh, that, and to always take advice from a singing trash heap.
Add to that, I grew up on cartoons like G.I. Joe, Voltron, Thundercats, He-Man and that strange show Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers (I always was the red one when my friends and I played Power Rangers on the playground) — shows that basically coupled fantasy-like battles with teamwork (and sadly, overly-tight clothing). At least there were those public service announcements at the end of G.I. Joe episodes telling kids not to play next to downed power lines and don’t drink poison that taught me something useful or those hours in front of the TV as a child may have been a complete waste.
Granted not all the cartoons growing up were as strange as this. There were truly educational shows like Sesame Street that went a long way to teaching us about our ABCs, numbers and crabby people only live in garbage cans.
The cartoons helped keep us innocent as children as well. They shielded us from the troubles our parents were going through, like Cold War fears, tough economic times and those 1980 trends that would have seriously stunted our mental growth.
However, I always thought I got more from all those hours of TV cartoons than just a good laugh and getting the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head. After watching the show again 20 years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I’m wrong.
Then again, I did make it out of the 1980s with only good memories and few mental scars. So maybe the shows did their job after all.
Now if I could only get the Fraggle Rock theme song from getting stuck in my head again.
“Dance your cares away/Worries for another day/Let the music play/Down on Fraggle Rock.”
OLD TOWN — This column is brought to you today by the letter E and the number 9.
Childhood memories can be fickle things sometimes. Little things, like trips to the zoo or little league baseball, are remembered as being a lot more important than they were. Cartoons and children shows, meanwhile, are somehow remembered as being so much better than you originally thought too.
It was a notion that hit me like Stretch Armstrong slapping me across the face the other day as I watched episodes from the first season of Fraggle Rock on DVD. I remembered that show being one of my favorites growing up, and I thought watching them again I’d get a good laugh out of it.
Instead, I wondered how my generation made it to adulthood without any semblance of sanity remaining after watching these shows— and how I never noticed until now how the Fraggles must have been located in Minnesota given their thick Fargo-styled accent.
I was seriously concerned. I kept asking myself, “What did I learn watching my childhood TV shows?” This thought flooded my mind as I kept watched those goofy looking puppets bounce along the screen during the pilot episode of Fraggle Rock. It was supposed to be a show about world peace. That’s what the DVD box stated, at least. I’m not sure if that was what anyone got from it though.
It appeared that the show taught me only to eat construction pilings and to swing from vines from one cave to the next with no consequences whatsoever when you crashed against the far wall of the cave other than a nasty case of being cross-eyed.
Oh, that, and to always take advice from a singing trash heap.
Add to that, I grew up on cartoons like G.I. Joe, Voltron, Thundercats, He-Man and that strange show Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers (I always was the red one when my friends and I played Power Rangers on the playground) — shows that basically coupled fantasy-like battles with teamwork (and sadly, overly-tight clothing). At least there were those public service announcements at the end of G.I. Joe episodes telling kids not to play next to downed power lines and don’t drink poison that taught me something useful or those hours in front of the TV as a child may have been a complete waste.
Granted not all the cartoons growing up were as strange as this. There were truly educational shows like Sesame Street that went a long way to teaching us about our ABCs, numbers and crabby people only live in garbage cans.
The cartoons helped keep us innocent as children as well. They shielded us from the troubles our parents were going through, like Cold War fears, tough economic times and those 1980 trends that would have seriously stunted our mental growth.
However, I always thought I got more from all those hours of TV cartoons than just a good laugh and getting the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head. After watching the show again 20 years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I’m wrong.
Then again, I did make it out of the 1980s with only good memories and few mental scars. So maybe the shows did their job after all.
Now if I could only get the Fraggle Rock theme song from getting stuck in my head again.
“Dance your cares away/Worries for another day/Let the music play/Down on Fraggle Rock.”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Hurry up and wait
DOVER-FOXCROFT — Maine, like any northern state, can tell the change of the seasons by two things: the leaves begin to bloom on the trees, and the bright orange construction barrels return to the streets.
Nowhere has this been more evident in Piscataquis County than on the .75-mile stretch of West Main Street in Dover-Foxcroft, where construction crews are working to replace the water main, the services to the houses and businesses, as well as replace the crumbling street with a new road bed.
When this project finishes in October, it will be a welcome sight for motorists in the area (that being said, motorists will be left to contend with the other side of Route 15 — from Foxbrook Variety to the Charlotte White Center — being torn up as well).
However, until West Main Street is finally repaved, people will have to deal with long waiting lines on either end of the construction as flaggers dictate who is going through the obstacle course. Does anyone else find it odd that flaggers have become the most powerful people in Dover-Foxcroft in a matter of mere months?
On any given day, it is these flaggers that can have logging trucks, cars, buses and semis backed up from the Foxcroft Academy tennis courts all the way to McDonalds and beyond. That alone is the same length of the construction zone, if not longer.
Yet, I’ve noticed during my multiple trips through there that everyone seems to be taking the construction in stride. No one is ever yelling at the flaggers, honking their horns or being downright irritable and making an unpleasant time even more unbearable.
Last Friday on my way back into Dover-Foxcroft, I got stuck in the backed-up line at 3:25 p.m. at the east entrance of McDonalds and was forced to wait my turn to meander my way past the yellow and gray Volvo front-end loaders and excavators. Here were the rest of my thoughts as I waited.
3:28 p.m.: West Main Street turned into a three-lane road as a car decided the right shoulder would now become the second eastbound lane. Where it ended up is beyond me. I was hoping to see it slid into the ditch and stuck.
3:31 p.m.: A white Chevrolet pick-up truck is turning the old video game Frogger into a real-life event, as he hops from the McDonalds driveway to Brothers Chevy, and from there to A.E. Robinson’s gas station in between on-coming traffic. Out of nowhere, another truck pulled out of A.E. Robinson shortly before the white Chevy got there. No collision, but the second driver looks none too pleased at the ignorance of the driver in the white Chevrolet.
3:32 p.m.: Line moved for the first time. I made it up to the eastern entrance at the A.E. Robinson gas station. The truck is now back in park.
3:34 p.m.: I don’t know how an emergency vehicle would make it through the construction, even with the lights and sirens. And what about the volunteer firefighters in the surrounding towns that might be stuck in that mess? If a call goes out that they are needed at the station, how do they get through that mess?
3:36 p.m.: The white Chevrolet makes another move, this time from A.E. Robinson all the way to Foxcroft Academy. It’s people like that, the impatient ones, that make me the most irate. Just wait in line people and take your time.
3:37 p.m.: Movement yet again.
3:39 p.m.: I was four cars away from making it through the construction. Instead, the flaggers stopped the line just short at the FA tennis courts. The truck is yet again back in park.
3:45 p.m.: I take that back. There’s three signs to summer. Blooming trees, construction cones and the sound of a Harley Davidson roaring down the street.
3:47 p.m.: More movement!
3:49 p.m.: I made it to the three-way intersection of Main Street and North Avenue. Total time in the construction was 24 minutes.
4:13 p.m.: In the same amount of time it took me to go 1.5 miles from McDonalds to the Main Street/North Avenue intersection, I traveled 23 miles to the intersection of Routes 221 and 43 just north of Hudson. Hopefully I remember not to take Route 15 home this fall when construction starts up on the east side of town.
Nowhere has this been more evident in Piscataquis County than on the .75-mile stretch of West Main Street in Dover-Foxcroft, where construction crews are working to replace the water main, the services to the houses and businesses, as well as replace the crumbling street with a new road bed.
When this project finishes in October, it will be a welcome sight for motorists in the area (that being said, motorists will be left to contend with the other side of Route 15 — from Foxbrook Variety to the Charlotte White Center — being torn up as well).
However, until West Main Street is finally repaved, people will have to deal with long waiting lines on either end of the construction as flaggers dictate who is going through the obstacle course. Does anyone else find it odd that flaggers have become the most powerful people in Dover-Foxcroft in a matter of mere months?
On any given day, it is these flaggers that can have logging trucks, cars, buses and semis backed up from the Foxcroft Academy tennis courts all the way to McDonalds and beyond. That alone is the same length of the construction zone, if not longer.
Yet, I’ve noticed during my multiple trips through there that everyone seems to be taking the construction in stride. No one is ever yelling at the flaggers, honking their horns or being downright irritable and making an unpleasant time even more unbearable.
Last Friday on my way back into Dover-Foxcroft, I got stuck in the backed-up line at 3:25 p.m. at the east entrance of McDonalds and was forced to wait my turn to meander my way past the yellow and gray Volvo front-end loaders and excavators. Here were the rest of my thoughts as I waited.
3:28 p.m.: West Main Street turned into a three-lane road as a car decided the right shoulder would now become the second eastbound lane. Where it ended up is beyond me. I was hoping to see it slid into the ditch and stuck.
3:31 p.m.: A white Chevrolet pick-up truck is turning the old video game Frogger into a real-life event, as he hops from the McDonalds driveway to Brothers Chevy, and from there to A.E. Robinson’s gas station in between on-coming traffic. Out of nowhere, another truck pulled out of A.E. Robinson shortly before the white Chevy got there. No collision, but the second driver looks none too pleased at the ignorance of the driver in the white Chevrolet.
3:32 p.m.: Line moved for the first time. I made it up to the eastern entrance at the A.E. Robinson gas station. The truck is now back in park.
3:34 p.m.: I don’t know how an emergency vehicle would make it through the construction, even with the lights and sirens. And what about the volunteer firefighters in the surrounding towns that might be stuck in that mess? If a call goes out that they are needed at the station, how do they get through that mess?
3:36 p.m.: The white Chevrolet makes another move, this time from A.E. Robinson all the way to Foxcroft Academy. It’s people like that, the impatient ones, that make me the most irate. Just wait in line people and take your time.
3:37 p.m.: Movement yet again.
3:39 p.m.: I was four cars away from making it through the construction. Instead, the flaggers stopped the line just short at the FA tennis courts. The truck is yet again back in park.
3:45 p.m.: I take that back. There’s three signs to summer. Blooming trees, construction cones and the sound of a Harley Davidson roaring down the street.
3:47 p.m.: More movement!
3:49 p.m.: I made it to the three-way intersection of Main Street and North Avenue. Total time in the construction was 24 minutes.
4:13 p.m.: In the same amount of time it took me to go 1.5 miles from McDonalds to the Main Street/North Avenue intersection, I traveled 23 miles to the intersection of Routes 221 and 43 just north of Hudson. Hopefully I remember not to take Route 15 home this fall when construction starts up on the east side of town.
The dusty guitar in the corner
At one time in my life I told myself I was going to learn how to play the guitar. I was all fired up about the idea after I got an acoustic Alvarez guitar — with that classic light-colored wood look on the outside — for Christmas three years ago.
For about a month, I would pick up the guitar pick when I had some free time and strum whatever came to mind. I taught myself how to play the Star Spangled Banner, the beginning to the song “Unforgiven” by Metallica and the intros to a few AC/DC songs.
Since then, the Alvarez has stood in the corner of my living room, collecting more dust than the book shelf does on which the guitar rests upon.
Picking up the guitar isn’t my only failed attempt at expanding my horizons. There’s also that set of roller skates in the back shed that I wore once, the countless non-fiction books I swore I’d read to enlighten myself — only to put them on the shelf and never touch again, and the tennis racquet on the porch that I only recently picked up again. And that’s only naming the things I can think of. Who knows what other projects I tried taking on and have forgotten about.
The kicker with all these bright ideas of mine is, well, they’re not easy things to do. Every time I try to read those non-fiction books on anything from pre-Soviet Russian history to the current Iraq war, I fall asleep within 20 pages. The roller skates force me to use muscles I haven’t used in a long time, plus the roads are so rough around my apartment that I would be better off just running anyway.
Tennis — don’t get me started on that sport. Why is it, if I try to rocket a tennis ball across the net that I end up smacking the tennis ball into the net, but if I lob it over gently just to get the ball over, I get the ball rocketed back at my feet. There’s no in between!
It’s easy in life to fall into a rut and become complacent with how things are. With the long drives to work, long hours at work or everything else, the last thing many of us want to do is pick up a new hobby or learn a new trait.
The thing is, it’s good for us to challenge ourselves every once in a while. Our minds are always looking for something new to dig into, whether it’s a new sport, new book or new hobby.
At least that’s what I told myself when I picked up the guitar the other day and tried to re-tune the guitar and start again with my lessons. Halfway into tuning the B string, however, I turned the tuning key too far and broke the string. Now the guitar is back in its customary place along the wall, this time with a string dangling down from its neck on to the floor.
Maybe it’s a sign the guitar isn’t for me. I wonder what’ll happen when I pick up that Russian history book.
For about a month, I would pick up the guitar pick when I had some free time and strum whatever came to mind. I taught myself how to play the Star Spangled Banner, the beginning to the song “Unforgiven” by Metallica and the intros to a few AC/DC songs.
Since then, the Alvarez has stood in the corner of my living room, collecting more dust than the book shelf does on which the guitar rests upon.
Picking up the guitar isn’t my only failed attempt at expanding my horizons. There’s also that set of roller skates in the back shed that I wore once, the countless non-fiction books I swore I’d read to enlighten myself — only to put them on the shelf and never touch again, and the tennis racquet on the porch that I only recently picked up again. And that’s only naming the things I can think of. Who knows what other projects I tried taking on and have forgotten about.
The kicker with all these bright ideas of mine is, well, they’re not easy things to do. Every time I try to read those non-fiction books on anything from pre-Soviet Russian history to the current Iraq war, I fall asleep within 20 pages. The roller skates force me to use muscles I haven’t used in a long time, plus the roads are so rough around my apartment that I would be better off just running anyway.
Tennis — don’t get me started on that sport. Why is it, if I try to rocket a tennis ball across the net that I end up smacking the tennis ball into the net, but if I lob it over gently just to get the ball over, I get the ball rocketed back at my feet. There’s no in between!
It’s easy in life to fall into a rut and become complacent with how things are. With the long drives to work, long hours at work or everything else, the last thing many of us want to do is pick up a new hobby or learn a new trait.
The thing is, it’s good for us to challenge ourselves every once in a while. Our minds are always looking for something new to dig into, whether it’s a new sport, new book or new hobby.
At least that’s what I told myself when I picked up the guitar the other day and tried to re-tune the guitar and start again with my lessons. Halfway into tuning the B string, however, I turned the tuning key too far and broke the string. Now the guitar is back in its customary place along the wall, this time with a string dangling down from its neck on to the floor.
Maybe it’s a sign the guitar isn’t for me. I wonder what’ll happen when I pick up that Russian history book.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
There's more to Memorial Day than the start of summer
VANCEBORO — For many people, the spaces on the calendar dedicated to Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays from May to September is already half-filled in ink for everything from family reunions to trips to camp and time set aside for home repairs and housework. Summer just seems to never start early enough and never go long enough to get everything in you want to do.
All this, of course, begins with Memorial Weekend. Dubbed the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Weekend has turned into a time for families and friends to go to camp with filled coolers, the boat and the grill, because it just doesn’t feel like summer until you fire the grill up.
My friends and I kicked off summer this past weekend at a family camp in Vanceboro. The camp overlooks Spendik Lake, and from across the lake you see the tall timbers of New Brunswick. We all enjoyed steaks and corn on the cob straight off the grill, a campfire on the beach and a five-mile canoe trip down the St. Croix River — my first-ever canoe trip, and one that I am glad to report did not end up with me spilling out of the canoe.
While it was all a lot of fun, the weekend is supposed to be our time as a nation to remember those who have fallen in battle to serve and protect this country. That’s what this past Monday is supposed to be all about.
It was a point lost on me until we made the two-hour drive home on Monday morning. The Jeep radio was set to a country radio station playing a tribute to our fallen soldiers. Radio host Kix Brooks from the country band Brooks and Dunn talked to other country stars about their music, to different military personnel about losses they have faced and played a wide variety of patriotic-themed country songs.
As a rendition of “God Bless America” sung by country star LeAnn Rimes came in over the radio, I stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the numerous American flags that hung from telephone poles along Route 6 and thought to myself, “Oops.”
Summers are so busy the way it is, especially since we are a nation of workers that takes very little time off. So when our businesses observe the Monday of Memorial Day as a national holiday and close up shop, we all take advantage of it and try to get as much done as possible. That means camping, housework or just relaxing at the house.
That being said, Memorial Day is still a time when we need to honor those that have died in battle while serving this country. They have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect this nation. Without those men and women, our nation wouldn’t be where it is today — like giving us a three-day weekend at the end of May as a way to kick off summer.
All this, of course, begins with Memorial Weekend. Dubbed the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Weekend has turned into a time for families and friends to go to camp with filled coolers, the boat and the grill, because it just doesn’t feel like summer until you fire the grill up.
My friends and I kicked off summer this past weekend at a family camp in Vanceboro. The camp overlooks Spendik Lake, and from across the lake you see the tall timbers of New Brunswick. We all enjoyed steaks and corn on the cob straight off the grill, a campfire on the beach and a five-mile canoe trip down the St. Croix River — my first-ever canoe trip, and one that I am glad to report did not end up with me spilling out of the canoe.
While it was all a lot of fun, the weekend is supposed to be our time as a nation to remember those who have fallen in battle to serve and protect this country. That’s what this past Monday is supposed to be all about.
It was a point lost on me until we made the two-hour drive home on Monday morning. The Jeep radio was set to a country radio station playing a tribute to our fallen soldiers. Radio host Kix Brooks from the country band Brooks and Dunn talked to other country stars about their music, to different military personnel about losses they have faced and played a wide variety of patriotic-themed country songs.
As a rendition of “God Bless America” sung by country star LeAnn Rimes came in over the radio, I stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the numerous American flags that hung from telephone poles along Route 6 and thought to myself, “Oops.”
Summers are so busy the way it is, especially since we are a nation of workers that takes very little time off. So when our businesses observe the Monday of Memorial Day as a national holiday and close up shop, we all take advantage of it and try to get as much done as possible. That means camping, housework or just relaxing at the house.
That being said, Memorial Day is still a time when we need to honor those that have died in battle while serving this country. They have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect this nation. Without those men and women, our nation wouldn’t be where it is today — like giving us a three-day weekend at the end of May as a way to kick off summer.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Home for Grandpa one last time
SHEBOYGAN FALLS, Wis. — They say the last thing to go for a person when they are dying is their hearing. I always thought it was a bit of a fluke until I walked in to his hospice room on Wednesday night.
There he was, quietly laying in bed sleeping while Grandma, Mom, aunts and uncle sat there by his side. I didn’t expect him to acknowledge I was in the room. From the sounds of it he had been pretty much out of it for the better part of the day. He’d been that way really since Sunday.
Grandma wanted to tell him anyway.
“Harold, Josh and Courtney are here to see you.”
His head picked up. His eyes almost opened and he looked like he wanted to say something.
He knew I was there.
It stopped me right in my tracks that night and just thinking about it stops me cold now too. It was pretty much the last time Grandpa was awake.
For three full days I joined my family in Suite 3 of the Sharon S. Richardson Community Hospice to be there for my grandfather. We watched movies, turned on the news and even the show “The Haunting” for Mom and Grandpa to watch. It was their show.
It was then when we all began the process of grieving.
Mom and I would got caught up on what I was up to in Maine and when I was coming home next month for my brother-in-laws wedding. It was good to get caught up for once without having to use the cell phone.
It was hard to sit there at the foot of his bed, look at Grandpa and think that the man who helped me through my geometry homework in middle school, who helped me build my two Pine Wood Derby cars for Cub Scouts and who would chase my cousins and I around the house as children by becoming a Frankenstein-like, playful “Monster” was now the man who could do little more than sleep.
He defied every nurse’s guess as to how long he’d make it. Many figured Thursday would be his last day, but that was three days short of the two weeks he told the staff he’d “be cured” and be able to go home. He was a fighter. His mind just didn’t know when to stop.
For three days we sat there in the hospice room, comforting each other and patiently awaiting for the time when Grandpa had decided to move on. There were moments filled with tears, others with joy. It was good to laugh, especially at Brian’s jokes during the late nights hours on Friday. It was also good to cry.
On Saturday my family made the trip from Sheboygan to Madison so we could attend my sister’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin. For months I felt awful that I would not make it home for that special occasion, but luckily we all had the time to spend cheering on my sister as she walked across the stage at the Kohl Center to shake hands with school officials she’s never met and grab her diploma cover.
We all felt guilty about making the trip knowing Grandpa was in such poor shape, but he would have been upset with us all if we had sat there in his apartment and watched him lie there while Natalie graduated. We had to go; it’s what he would have wanted.
When I last saw Grandpa later that night, I held his thin hand, told him how much he meant to me and hoped for my family’s sake — especially my grandmother — that his time would come soon. He wouldn’t have wanted to hold on forever, subjected solely to sleeping. Grandma was tired from the late nights and long hours of holding on to Grandpa and waiting.
When my flight back home reached its layover in Baltimore on Sunday morning, I turned on my phone to hear a message from my dad. Grandpa had passed shortly after 7 a.m., shortly after the wheels when up on my flight to Baltimore.
Actually, Grandpa passed away at 7:15 a.m. on May 17. For the man who loved a good puzzle it was an almost fitting time for the old engineer to go to a better place.
The waiting could finally end. It was a relief for all of us. I could hear that in Mom’s voice later that afternoon when I called to see how she was doing.
I was just happy that Grandpa knew I made it home to see him one last time.
There he was, quietly laying in bed sleeping while Grandma, Mom, aunts and uncle sat there by his side. I didn’t expect him to acknowledge I was in the room. From the sounds of it he had been pretty much out of it for the better part of the day. He’d been that way really since Sunday.
Grandma wanted to tell him anyway.
“Harold, Josh and Courtney are here to see you.”
His head picked up. His eyes almost opened and he looked like he wanted to say something.
He knew I was there.
It stopped me right in my tracks that night and just thinking about it stops me cold now too. It was pretty much the last time Grandpa was awake.
For three full days I joined my family in Suite 3 of the Sharon S. Richardson Community Hospice to be there for my grandfather. We watched movies, turned on the news and even the show “The Haunting” for Mom and Grandpa to watch. It was their show.
It was then when we all began the process of grieving.
Mom and I would got caught up on what I was up to in Maine and when I was coming home next month for my brother-in-laws wedding. It was good to get caught up for once without having to use the cell phone.
It was hard to sit there at the foot of his bed, look at Grandpa and think that the man who helped me through my geometry homework in middle school, who helped me build my two Pine Wood Derby cars for Cub Scouts and who would chase my cousins and I around the house as children by becoming a Frankenstein-like, playful “Monster” was now the man who could do little more than sleep.
He defied every nurse’s guess as to how long he’d make it. Many figured Thursday would be his last day, but that was three days short of the two weeks he told the staff he’d “be cured” and be able to go home. He was a fighter. His mind just didn’t know when to stop.
For three days we sat there in the hospice room, comforting each other and patiently awaiting for the time when Grandpa had decided to move on. There were moments filled with tears, others with joy. It was good to laugh, especially at Brian’s jokes during the late nights hours on Friday. It was also good to cry.
On Saturday my family made the trip from Sheboygan to Madison so we could attend my sister’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin. For months I felt awful that I would not make it home for that special occasion, but luckily we all had the time to spend cheering on my sister as she walked across the stage at the Kohl Center to shake hands with school officials she’s never met and grab her diploma cover.
We all felt guilty about making the trip knowing Grandpa was in such poor shape, but he would have been upset with us all if we had sat there in his apartment and watched him lie there while Natalie graduated. We had to go; it’s what he would have wanted.
When I last saw Grandpa later that night, I held his thin hand, told him how much he meant to me and hoped for my family’s sake — especially my grandmother — that his time would come soon. He wouldn’t have wanted to hold on forever, subjected solely to sleeping. Grandma was tired from the late nights and long hours of holding on to Grandpa and waiting.
When my flight back home reached its layover in Baltimore on Sunday morning, I turned on my phone to hear a message from my dad. Grandpa had passed shortly after 7 a.m., shortly after the wheels when up on my flight to Baltimore.
Actually, Grandpa passed away at 7:15 a.m. on May 17. For the man who loved a good puzzle it was an almost fitting time for the old engineer to go to a better place.
The waiting could finally end. It was a relief for all of us. I could hear that in Mom’s voice later that afternoon when I called to see how she was doing.
I was just happy that Grandpa knew I made it home to see him one last time.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A strange sort of Mother's Day
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
When you live 1,400 miles away from home, celebrating Mother’s Day amounts to sending flowers and making phone calls home.
This past Sunday was no different. While my wife was out with her friends having a “girls-only” brunch on Mother’s Day, I spent the morning with a cup of coffee and a cell phone, calling my mother and grandmother back home.
What should have been a morning full of smiles was replaced with a bittersweet feeling. My mother, Grandmother Green and myself could not talk really about how they were doing on the one day a year we devote to the maternal aspect of our families. Instead, we talked about how my grandfather was doing.
It was only a week ago when Grandpa moved into hospice care. He’s been suffering from cancer for quite some time, and it’s gotten to the point where he needs a little more help than any of us in the family can give him.
He’s cool with the move so far, which was a surprise to all of us. He’s been calling his new digs “my bachelor pad,” and in classic Grandpa form he’s been giving the nurses at this hospice center a little bit of grief. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.
But while this day was supposed to be about the women in our lives that mean so much, the three of us couldn’t think of anything else but Grandpa. Friday was a good day for him; Saturday not so much. Sunday he slept for the better part of the day I was told.
We’re all beginning to cope with the idea that the cancer is starting to take hold again, even with the recent round of radiation and treatment he received. The inevitability of what’s going on is taking its toll on everyone in the family.
Grandma seems to be doing all right. On Sunday when I talked to her she said she was going to the store to pick up two roses — one for her and one for Grandpa. Apparently I missed the fact it was her wedding anniversary that day as well. But you could hear in her voice that this is a trying time for her. She was tired.
So was Mom. Besides being there for Grandma right now, she’s in the middle of completing her bachelor’s degree online and she’s stuck in a humanities class right now that even I am looking at as if it was written in Greek. It’s the last thing she wants to look at after a long day in town and at the hospice center, but there are assignments due each week.
Somehow I don’t think the sunflowers my sister and I sent home were enough to show how much we care for her right now, but it put a smile on her face and that’s what matters.
At a time like this, if we were able to give Mom a brief moment of happiness for Mother’s Day, then maybe we did all right.
When you live 1,400 miles away from home, celebrating Mother’s Day amounts to sending flowers and making phone calls home.
This past Sunday was no different. While my wife was out with her friends having a “girls-only” brunch on Mother’s Day, I spent the morning with a cup of coffee and a cell phone, calling my mother and grandmother back home.
What should have been a morning full of smiles was replaced with a bittersweet feeling. My mother, Grandmother Green and myself could not talk really about how they were doing on the one day a year we devote to the maternal aspect of our families. Instead, we talked about how my grandfather was doing.
It was only a week ago when Grandpa moved into hospice care. He’s been suffering from cancer for quite some time, and it’s gotten to the point where he needs a little more help than any of us in the family can give him.
He’s cool with the move so far, which was a surprise to all of us. He’s been calling his new digs “my bachelor pad,” and in classic Grandpa form he’s been giving the nurses at this hospice center a little bit of grief. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.
But while this day was supposed to be about the women in our lives that mean so much, the three of us couldn’t think of anything else but Grandpa. Friday was a good day for him; Saturday not so much. Sunday he slept for the better part of the day I was told.
We’re all beginning to cope with the idea that the cancer is starting to take hold again, even with the recent round of radiation and treatment he received. The inevitability of what’s going on is taking its toll on everyone in the family.
Grandma seems to be doing all right. On Sunday when I talked to her she said she was going to the store to pick up two roses — one for her and one for Grandpa. Apparently I missed the fact it was her wedding anniversary that day as well. But you could hear in her voice that this is a trying time for her. She was tired.
So was Mom. Besides being there for Grandma right now, she’s in the middle of completing her bachelor’s degree online and she’s stuck in a humanities class right now that even I am looking at as if it was written in Greek. It’s the last thing she wants to look at after a long day in town and at the hospice center, but there are assignments due each week.
Somehow I don’t think the sunflowers my sister and I sent home were enough to show how much we care for her right now, but it put a smile on her face and that’s what matters.
At a time like this, if we were able to give Mom a brief moment of happiness for Mother’s Day, then maybe we did all right.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The layman's take on the swine flu
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
Probable versus confirmed; outbreak versus epidemic versus pandemic.
All the talk about today’s swine flu epidemic has been a cause for concern and angst for people worldwide. It’s being compared to the deadly Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, the one that killed more people than World War I did, which was going on at that same time.
Readers are left wondering, “What’s the difference between a confirmed case and a suspected case? Who can say what’s confirmed? And what the heck is H1N1?”
Here’s the thing folks. This strain of the flu, known as H1N1 or the swine flu, has killed 26 people worldwide according to U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano and has infected just over 1,000 others, but the fact remains this is not that bad thus far.
This flu killed 26. The regular, ho-hum seasonal flu kills 36,000 annually.
And this isn’t the first time that we’ve gotten the swine flu.
While bouncing around on ProFootballTalk.com (to see if Brett Favre is yet again going to unretire and join the hated Minnesota Vikings), there was a video clip from 1976 with two Green Bay Packer football players talking about going to get their flu vaccine to stave off the swine flu.
That being said, there’s no vaccine for this flu yet so don’t go running to the doctor’s office demanding one because you read the word vaccine in this column and thought, “You know what, those old football players are right. I need to get vaccinated.”
What we all need to do in Piscataquis County is three basic things: wash your hands, cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze and stay home if you’re sick. It’s what health officials in the county have been saying since Day 1, and it’s the same message coming down from the federal government.
These solutions may sound like simple common decency. That’s because it is. Regular use of soap and hot water does wonders to fend off the flu, as does that antibacterial hand wash stuff. If you’re sneezing and coughing, don’t do it on the person next to you. For one, you don’t want to spread whatever you got to the whole community. Secondly, it’s disgusting. By the way, don’t pick your nose either (that’s right, you reading this while your forefinger is tickling your brain — stop it). Also, only use a tissue once and throw it away. The paper company in this state could use a little extra business if people would quit saving tissues to reuse 10-20 times.
If you’re sick, stay home. That goes for kids in school and working adults. Just stay home, get some rest, eat well and get better. Now, this doesn’t mean that if your significant other is sick, that doesn’t mean you have to quarantine yourself as well. If you don’t have the symptoms of the regular flu, go to work. If you have flu-like symptoms, stay home.
And if you have flu-like symptoms, don’t go to the doctor unless those symptoms get serious. There’s nothing a doctor can do about the regular, ho-hum flu other than look at you and send you home. Do everyone a favor and avoid the hospital if you’ve got the standard flu so you don’t spread it to everyone else in there. If it gets bad where you have shortness of breath, dizziness or chest pain, then go talk to a doctor. Otherwise, stay home.
Lastly, here’s three things I would like everyone to do to help mitigate this issue right now: be aware of others around you and who’s sick and who’s not; educate yourself about the flu by going to the federal Center for Disease Control and Prevention Web site (www.cdc.gov) or the Maine CDC site (http://www.maine.gov/dhhs/boh/swine-flu-2009.shtml), and lastly, use some common sense.
TO ALL CAMP OWNERS, FISHERMEN AND NATURE BUFFS: The introduction of Atlantic salmon into the Penobscot River will affect us here in Piscataquis County, even if the Penobscot doesn’t venture into the county. It’s not just salmon going in to the river, but also alewives and other “feeder fish” going into area waters as well.
Whether you know a little or a lot on the issue of the introduction of diadromous fish (fish that swim in both freshwater and marine waters) into the Penobscot River, Piscataquis County Manager Marilyn Tourtelotte set up a public information meeting at the Piscataquis County Superior Court on Thursday, May 14 from 6-8 p.m. to ask question to the State of Maine’s Atlantic Salmon Commission, the Department of Marine Resources and Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife about the proposed plan.
If you do nothing else, go and learn about how this plan could affect fishing in area lakes and rivers. This plan affects you just as much as it affects someone in Bangor.
Probable versus confirmed; outbreak versus epidemic versus pandemic.
All the talk about today’s swine flu epidemic has been a cause for concern and angst for people worldwide. It’s being compared to the deadly Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, the one that killed more people than World War I did, which was going on at that same time.
Readers are left wondering, “What’s the difference between a confirmed case and a suspected case? Who can say what’s confirmed? And what the heck is H1N1?”
Here’s the thing folks. This strain of the flu, known as H1N1 or the swine flu, has killed 26 people worldwide according to U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano and has infected just over 1,000 others, but the fact remains this is not that bad thus far.
This flu killed 26. The regular, ho-hum seasonal flu kills 36,000 annually.
And this isn’t the first time that we’ve gotten the swine flu.
While bouncing around on ProFootballTalk.com (to see if Brett Favre is yet again going to unretire and join the hated Minnesota Vikings), there was a video clip from 1976 with two Green Bay Packer football players talking about going to get their flu vaccine to stave off the swine flu.
That being said, there’s no vaccine for this flu yet so don’t go running to the doctor’s office demanding one because you read the word vaccine in this column and thought, “You know what, those old football players are right. I need to get vaccinated.”
What we all need to do in Piscataquis County is three basic things: wash your hands, cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze and stay home if you’re sick. It’s what health officials in the county have been saying since Day 1, and it’s the same message coming down from the federal government.
These solutions may sound like simple common decency. That’s because it is. Regular use of soap and hot water does wonders to fend off the flu, as does that antibacterial hand wash stuff. If you’re sneezing and coughing, don’t do it on the person next to you. For one, you don’t want to spread whatever you got to the whole community. Secondly, it’s disgusting. By the way, don’t pick your nose either (that’s right, you reading this while your forefinger is tickling your brain — stop it). Also, only use a tissue once and throw it away. The paper company in this state could use a little extra business if people would quit saving tissues to reuse 10-20 times.
If you’re sick, stay home. That goes for kids in school and working adults. Just stay home, get some rest, eat well and get better. Now, this doesn’t mean that if your significant other is sick, that doesn’t mean you have to quarantine yourself as well. If you don’t have the symptoms of the regular flu, go to work. If you have flu-like symptoms, stay home.
And if you have flu-like symptoms, don’t go to the doctor unless those symptoms get serious. There’s nothing a doctor can do about the regular, ho-hum flu other than look at you and send you home. Do everyone a favor and avoid the hospital if you’ve got the standard flu so you don’t spread it to everyone else in there. If it gets bad where you have shortness of breath, dizziness or chest pain, then go talk to a doctor. Otherwise, stay home.
Lastly, here’s three things I would like everyone to do to help mitigate this issue right now: be aware of others around you and who’s sick and who’s not; educate yourself about the flu by going to the federal Center for Disease Control and Prevention Web site (www.cdc.gov) or the Maine CDC site (http://www.maine.gov/dhhs/boh/swine-flu-2009.shtml), and lastly, use some common sense.
TO ALL CAMP OWNERS, FISHERMEN AND NATURE BUFFS: The introduction of Atlantic salmon into the Penobscot River will affect us here in Piscataquis County, even if the Penobscot doesn’t venture into the county. It’s not just salmon going in to the river, but also alewives and other “feeder fish” going into area waters as well.
Whether you know a little or a lot on the issue of the introduction of diadromous fish (fish that swim in both freshwater and marine waters) into the Penobscot River, Piscataquis County Manager Marilyn Tourtelotte set up a public information meeting at the Piscataquis County Superior Court on Thursday, May 14 from 6-8 p.m. to ask question to the State of Maine’s Atlantic Salmon Commission, the Department of Marine Resources and Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife about the proposed plan.
If you do nothing else, go and learn about how this plan could affect fishing in area lakes and rivers. This plan affects you just as much as it affects someone in Bangor.
Battling technology just isn't worth it
By Josh Salm/Piscataquis Observer
Hi. My name is Josh Salm, and I’m an technology and information junkie.
There. I admitted it. It’s not something new that I just found out recently. I’ve known about this quirk of mine for years. It’s a product of the 24/7 news cycle, Internet news sites and working in the newspaper business.
I also love playing with computers and game systems. I know nothing really about how they work, but I know enough to turn them on, get online and that’s about it. It’s enough for me to get in trouble.
My problem is fed in large part by the wireless Internet connection at my apartment and my laptop. I am online constantly to read sports stories, check the latest AP stories and playing Texas Hold’Em poker.
This all came to a head Sunday morning, when I sank into the recliner on a beautiful, sunny day with my coffee cup and laptop to take in the second round of the NFL draft on ESPN and follow my Green Bay Packers online.
That’s when the Internet connection went out.
Now most people would just close the computer and go do something else, like I don’t know, enjoy the summer-like weekend we had. I would have loved that. Instead, for some reason that boggles my mind even now, I fought with the Internet for an hour or so. I tried to fix the connection through the computer, then rebuilt the connection in the wireless modem and lastly reset the cable company’s modem before realizing there was no information going in or out. So I called the cable company to get a new modem, because I was sure I fried mine.
The 20 minutes I sat on the phone, listening to a lovely recorded female voice tell me over and over again that I could probably fix the Internet connection by resetting the modem. I’m glad that recording had a pleasant voice, or I would have been screaming at the poor guy who finally spoke to me — only to tell me the whole state was out of service and it would likely not be up and running for some time.
Again, it was a beautiful, sunny day outside and I cooped myself up inside, having resigned myself to my Wii game console to play golf — you know, instead of actually going outside to play golf, because who does that on a sunny Sunday morning? Well, guess what, my Wii wouldn’t turn on.
Another 20 minutes later on a customer service line taught me I can fix it myself. I guess those new-fangled game consoles have sensitive surge protectors in them, so they will lock down if the power fluctuates in the house. Too bad that wasn’t around 15 years ago when I had my Sega Genesis.
After thanking the nice woman on the phone for fixing my Wii instead of making me pay $250 to replace my Christmas present, I decided I had enough. Off went the TV — the draft won’t change at all if I watch it or not — The laptop was closed and the Wii stood silent. I went out to my porch to enjoy the sun for a while.
I mean, how many times does the mercury reach 80 on an April weekend anyway? At least I could cope without technology for a while.
That didn’t last long after the Internet came back, but it’s a start.
Hi. My name is Josh Salm, and I’m an technology and information junkie.
There. I admitted it. It’s not something new that I just found out recently. I’ve known about this quirk of mine for years. It’s a product of the 24/7 news cycle, Internet news sites and working in the newspaper business.
I also love playing with computers and game systems. I know nothing really about how they work, but I know enough to turn them on, get online and that’s about it. It’s enough for me to get in trouble.
My problem is fed in large part by the wireless Internet connection at my apartment and my laptop. I am online constantly to read sports stories, check the latest AP stories and playing Texas Hold’Em poker.
This all came to a head Sunday morning, when I sank into the recliner on a beautiful, sunny day with my coffee cup and laptop to take in the second round of the NFL draft on ESPN and follow my Green Bay Packers online.
That’s when the Internet connection went out.
Now most people would just close the computer and go do something else, like I don’t know, enjoy the summer-like weekend we had. I would have loved that. Instead, for some reason that boggles my mind even now, I fought with the Internet for an hour or so. I tried to fix the connection through the computer, then rebuilt the connection in the wireless modem and lastly reset the cable company’s modem before realizing there was no information going in or out. So I called the cable company to get a new modem, because I was sure I fried mine.
The 20 minutes I sat on the phone, listening to a lovely recorded female voice tell me over and over again that I could probably fix the Internet connection by resetting the modem. I’m glad that recording had a pleasant voice, or I would have been screaming at the poor guy who finally spoke to me — only to tell me the whole state was out of service and it would likely not be up and running for some time.
Again, it was a beautiful, sunny day outside and I cooped myself up inside, having resigned myself to my Wii game console to play golf — you know, instead of actually going outside to play golf, because who does that on a sunny Sunday morning? Well, guess what, my Wii wouldn’t turn on.
Another 20 minutes later on a customer service line taught me I can fix it myself. I guess those new-fangled game consoles have sensitive surge protectors in them, so they will lock down if the power fluctuates in the house. Too bad that wasn’t around 15 years ago when I had my Sega Genesis.
After thanking the nice woman on the phone for fixing my Wii instead of making me pay $250 to replace my Christmas present, I decided I had enough. Off went the TV — the draft won’t change at all if I watch it or not — The laptop was closed and the Wii stood silent. I went out to my porch to enjoy the sun for a while.
I mean, how many times does the mercury reach 80 on an April weekend anyway? At least I could cope without technology for a while.
That didn’t last long after the Internet came back, but it’s a start.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The age of Facebook
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
OLD TOWN — For a long time, the Internet has been a confusing maze of Web sites, urls and dot-coms that has fed the public’s desire for 24/7 news organizations, sports pages like ProFootballTalk.com and ESPN and social networking sites so we don’t actually have to leave our house to be social and informed — just as long as the internet connection holds up.
One of those social networking sites that has led to the demise of social contact for countless Americans is Facebook. It was created back when I was in college, and at that time the only people that could join were students from certain colleges. It was there to basically for kids to message each other to get together for a bite to eat, a study session (or video game session) or a place to party.
Since then, the site has been opened up to the public and it has now exploded in size and scope. Apparently I’m friends with over 250 people through Facebook, many of whom I know well and are family and friends from home, college or people I know outside of work.
However, with the doors opening for the public to access this popular Web site, public groups and businesses are creating their own site profiles as well. For instance, take the Greenville Police Department, who started a page as part of a community outreach program. It has since taken off, with the department having 161 friends as of Thursday. The department has used the site for everything from keeping up with people in the community to informing people about how much snow fell this past winter.
And by no means is the Greenville PD alone in this. The Auburn Police Department, the Maine Emergency Management Agency, the IFW and so many other organizations have a site on their too. It’s a free and easy way to get the word out on what they are doing, and with the update feature in Facebook, any news these groups post goes directly to each user. It’s easier than e-mail and faster than snail mail.
Heck, it’s becoming so widespread that you can even become a fan of Moosehead Furniture in Monson through Facebook. I only know that because a friend on the site suggested I do so.
It’s likely only a matter of time before groups such as local businessmen, nature-based places such as Gulf Hagas and Borestone Mountain and even towns like Dover-Foxcroft and Dexter tap into this resource to get the word about weekly events, upcoming meetings and even one-time specials.
The further technology seeps into our lives, the more confusing the line between professional and personal lives become. I just have to wonder, though, would it be strange to become friends with Gulf Hagas, and what exactly is the appropriate way to throw a sheep at Dover-Foxcroft through the site’s SuperPoke application? Apparently it’s what the cool kids do.
OLD TOWN — For a long time, the Internet has been a confusing maze of Web sites, urls and dot-coms that has fed the public’s desire for 24/7 news organizations, sports pages like ProFootballTalk.com and ESPN and social networking sites so we don’t actually have to leave our house to be social and informed — just as long as the internet connection holds up.
One of those social networking sites that has led to the demise of social contact for countless Americans is Facebook. It was created back when I was in college, and at that time the only people that could join were students from certain colleges. It was there to basically for kids to message each other to get together for a bite to eat, a study session (or video game session) or a place to party.
Since then, the site has been opened up to the public and it has now exploded in size and scope. Apparently I’m friends with over 250 people through Facebook, many of whom I know well and are family and friends from home, college or people I know outside of work.
However, with the doors opening for the public to access this popular Web site, public groups and businesses are creating their own site profiles as well. For instance, take the Greenville Police Department, who started a page as part of a community outreach program. It has since taken off, with the department having 161 friends as of Thursday. The department has used the site for everything from keeping up with people in the community to informing people about how much snow fell this past winter.
And by no means is the Greenville PD alone in this. The Auburn Police Department, the Maine Emergency Management Agency, the IFW and so many other organizations have a site on their too. It’s a free and easy way to get the word out on what they are doing, and with the update feature in Facebook, any news these groups post goes directly to each user. It’s easier than e-mail and faster than snail mail.
Heck, it’s becoming so widespread that you can even become a fan of Moosehead Furniture in Monson through Facebook. I only know that because a friend on the site suggested I do so.
It’s likely only a matter of time before groups such as local businessmen, nature-based places such as Gulf Hagas and Borestone Mountain and even towns like Dover-Foxcroft and Dexter tap into this resource to get the word about weekly events, upcoming meetings and even one-time specials.
The further technology seeps into our lives, the more confusing the line between professional and personal lives become. I just have to wonder, though, would it be strange to become friends with Gulf Hagas, and what exactly is the appropriate way to throw a sheep at Dover-Foxcroft through the site’s SuperPoke application? Apparently it’s what the cool kids do.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Another voir dire at the courthouse
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
BANGOR — You learn something new every day, I’m told. About a week ago I learned that the French term “voir dire” means painfully long day. At least that’s what I got from my day of jury selection on April 9 in the Superior Courtroom at the Penobscot County Courthouse.
Actually, voir dire is the term that was used for jury selection, the process in which a prosecution and defense goes about selecting a jury for the upcoming trial. That’s what the early 1990s gentlemen on the TV screen was telling the assembly of 200 people in the courtroom in his obnoxious tone of voice where you could tell he was hiding a Downeast accent and failing miserably. It was hard not to laugh when he tried too hard to sound all proper, then he blurts out “Jur-AH.” Ha! I love it.
Anyway, jury duty — it is the common person’s civic obligation to rule on a court case. Our forefathers decided that court cases in this nation would be ruled on by a group of people in the community who don’t have ties to the case. They are the nameless people who fill the juror’s box in the courtroom that are the target of the prosecution and defense. You know, like in Law and Order.
For a day, I was one of those nameless people. When I reached the third-floor courtroom that morning, I traded my name in for a number — 122, to be exact. As in high school, I headed for the back of the room in hopes to stay as far away from the lawyers as possible in the hopes that the farther I was away from them the less likely it was that I would get chosen by the teacher, or in this case the lawyers.
The Superior Courtroom was packed from end to end with other people that wanted to be there in varying degrees. Next to me sat a retired lawyer who found the whole process interesting, at least from that side of the chair. Not far from us sat Juror No. 204, our comic relief for the day.
For those of who haven’t served, jury selection consists of the jury pool being asked a whole slew of somewhat random questions that somehow pertain to the court case. If you feel that question pertains to you, you stand up, state your number when called upon and sit back down. That’s it.
So, the judge would ask, “Do you know John Doe, a witness to this alleged crime?” Let’s say I did, I’d stand up and state “122” when asked who I was. Then I would be asked if I knew Mr. Doe personally or professionally and if my knowing him would hurt the way I judge the case in some way. After that I sat down.
Given that I have only lived in the area for two years, I knew no one — for better or for worse.
However, the fun questions came later, such as “Are you of the group that believes marijuana should be legalized?” Of course, out of the 200 people in the courtroom, a few stood up. That included Juror 204, who also stood up for every question that could possibly get him from being selected for jury duty. He was the class clown of the jury pool.
So when he called out his number to the judge, everyone chuckled. The judge seemed to roll his eyes and kept moving to the next question. The minute the judge announced it, 199 heads turned straight to 204 to see exactly what he was going to do. We all kind of expected it, but still couldn’t avoid watching and waiting.
“Are you of the group that believes cocaine should be legalized?” the judge asked.
Up stood Juror 204, with a grin stretching from his face from one ear to the next.
“I half expected you to stand up for that,” the judge responded. Everyone else began to burst out in laughter. It was a welcome break from the doldrums of the long day.
Two juries were selected that day. To select a jury, the court clerks would “randomly” select us by putting our numbers in a roller and spinning it like a bingo ball.
Now, I’m not saying the state of Maine is not being random in their methods of choosing me for jury duty, then again to sit on the jury, mainly because I don’t want to go to jail. However, it does seem odd that I have been preliminarily selected to sit on two juries in two months.
The second I heard the clerk announce my number, my heart raced. Upon announcing my number, I was to stand up and be stared at by the lawyers to decide in those split seconds if I was worthy enough to make the final cut and serve.
Both times, I didn’t make the cut. I don’t know what the lawyers saw in me that they didn’t like, but it works for me. If I was chosen, I would serve because it is my civic duty and part of me has this patriotic sense of doing whatever my country asks of me.
That being said, if I could get out of another voir dire by not being chosen to serve, that’s fine by me.
BANGOR — You learn something new every day, I’m told. About a week ago I learned that the French term “voir dire” means painfully long day. At least that’s what I got from my day of jury selection on April 9 in the Superior Courtroom at the Penobscot County Courthouse.
Actually, voir dire is the term that was used for jury selection, the process in which a prosecution and defense goes about selecting a jury for the upcoming trial. That’s what the early 1990s gentlemen on the TV screen was telling the assembly of 200 people in the courtroom in his obnoxious tone of voice where you could tell he was hiding a Downeast accent and failing miserably. It was hard not to laugh when he tried too hard to sound all proper, then he blurts out “Jur-AH.” Ha! I love it.
Anyway, jury duty — it is the common person’s civic obligation to rule on a court case. Our forefathers decided that court cases in this nation would be ruled on by a group of people in the community who don’t have ties to the case. They are the nameless people who fill the juror’s box in the courtroom that are the target of the prosecution and defense. You know, like in Law and Order.
For a day, I was one of those nameless people. When I reached the third-floor courtroom that morning, I traded my name in for a number — 122, to be exact. As in high school, I headed for the back of the room in hopes to stay as far away from the lawyers as possible in the hopes that the farther I was away from them the less likely it was that I would get chosen by the teacher, or in this case the lawyers.
The Superior Courtroom was packed from end to end with other people that wanted to be there in varying degrees. Next to me sat a retired lawyer who found the whole process interesting, at least from that side of the chair. Not far from us sat Juror No. 204, our comic relief for the day.
For those of who haven’t served, jury selection consists of the jury pool being asked a whole slew of somewhat random questions that somehow pertain to the court case. If you feel that question pertains to you, you stand up, state your number when called upon and sit back down. That’s it.
So, the judge would ask, “Do you know John Doe, a witness to this alleged crime?” Let’s say I did, I’d stand up and state “122” when asked who I was. Then I would be asked if I knew Mr. Doe personally or professionally and if my knowing him would hurt the way I judge the case in some way. After that I sat down.
Given that I have only lived in the area for two years, I knew no one — for better or for worse.
However, the fun questions came later, such as “Are you of the group that believes marijuana should be legalized?” Of course, out of the 200 people in the courtroom, a few stood up. That included Juror 204, who also stood up for every question that could possibly get him from being selected for jury duty. He was the class clown of the jury pool.
So when he called out his number to the judge, everyone chuckled. The judge seemed to roll his eyes and kept moving to the next question. The minute the judge announced it, 199 heads turned straight to 204 to see exactly what he was going to do. We all kind of expected it, but still couldn’t avoid watching and waiting.
“Are you of the group that believes cocaine should be legalized?” the judge asked.
Up stood Juror 204, with a grin stretching from his face from one ear to the next.
“I half expected you to stand up for that,” the judge responded. Everyone else began to burst out in laughter. It was a welcome break from the doldrums of the long day.
Two juries were selected that day. To select a jury, the court clerks would “randomly” select us by putting our numbers in a roller and spinning it like a bingo ball.
Now, I’m not saying the state of Maine is not being random in their methods of choosing me for jury duty, then again to sit on the jury, mainly because I don’t want to go to jail. However, it does seem odd that I have been preliminarily selected to sit on two juries in two months.
The second I heard the clerk announce my number, my heart raced. Upon announcing my number, I was to stand up and be stared at by the lawyers to decide in those split seconds if I was worthy enough to make the final cut and serve.
Both times, I didn’t make the cut. I don’t know what the lawyers saw in me that they didn’t like, but it works for me. If I was chosen, I would serve because it is my civic duty and part of me has this patriotic sense of doing whatever my country asks of me.
That being said, if I could get out of another voir dire by not being chosen to serve, that’s fine by me.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Maine's road culprits
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
SOMEWHERE ON RT. 94 — As I listened to the Boston Celtics struggle to beat the Charlotte Bobcats the other night, the voice of my driving instructor echoed in my head on that long, dark drive as I made my way east from Dexter to Corinth following a school board meeting.
“Now remember, look down the left side of the roadway, then the right side, then look ahead, and repeat. Left, right, middle… left, right, middle. Hey put two hands on the car. Oh look, a gas station, turn in here. I need more food,” said the man our class all knew simply as Brian, the grossly overweight, sketchy Driver’s Ed instructor.
So, while I made my way home that night along the winding state road, my eyes automatically began to scan the road like I was taught to do nearly 10 years ago. One reason for this was to look out deer, those pesky animals that somehow are no where to be found when I’m out hunting but I can see them just fine out the windshield of my truck all the time.
Now that the snow is nearly gone and the grasses are turning green again, deer are out in full force again. There were three deer along the roads that night, though all of them were far enough off the road that they did not cause too much concern.
See, it was not the deer I was afraid of in the roadway. It’s not that I’m looking to hit a deer, because I know they can cause a good bit of damage. It’s just that, at least with deer they have eyes that shine back when the headlights hit them, giving me some warning.
No, it’s something more sinister I was on the lookout for that night, something that can create a lot of damage and causes me to tense up every time I take to the roadway.
The culprits: potholes and frost heaves, the inevitable destroyer of Maine roadways.
They sneak up out of nowhere, picking up a normally flat roadbed or dropping it down a foot from the original position in some spots, pulling in a tire and jerking you and your car all over the roadway. Suspensions creak and moan, wanting no more of the pain. Drivers cringe, weave and maneuver around these obstacles as if they were making their way through a wreck on a NASCAR track.
With the snow and ice cleared off the roadways and the frost heaves starting to settle, it is becoming painfully obvious just how bad the roadways in the region are getting — and the sad part is many of the worst roads are state routes. A large section of Route 7 between Dover-Foxcroft and Dexter is getting so bad that I will go out of my way to Route 23 to avoid having my teeth chatter all the way to the Shiretown’s neighbor to the south.
There are countless other roads that are getting bad too, like most of route 6/15 between Guilford and Greenville and Route 6/16 between Dover-Foxcroft and Milo. Heck, Route 6/16 from Orneville and Milo looks like it was just repaved a few years back and it is already littered with frost heaves and potholes.
In all honesty, every path from I-95 to Piscataquis County is a ride that will test a car’s suspension, a person’s driving skills, as well as their aversion to pain and suffering. At least when the DOT fixes Route 15 south of Dover-Foxcroft between Charlotte White and Foxbrook, that there will be one smooth(er) ride into one city in the county. Now what about the other 16 cities, two plantations and part of the UTs?
And what about Dexter? Route 7 in downtown Dexter is just awful as well, and that shocks me because it’s in middle of town. That’s a road that needs to be fixed just to help the town maintain some kind of business flow through the city without diverting traffic to all of its side streets.
I’ve bounced along miles of these roads over the past few months with my new pick-up truck, going to one meeting or the next. Each day I take to the roads, I tense up because I know I’ll inevitably hit some kind of road hazard and I shutter at the thought of damaging my new wheels this early into my ownership of it (wait, the bank’s ownership of the truck that I get to drive and pay for).
To put it in perspective, I just sent in my third truck payment and I already have an appointment to take it to the auto shop to have the front struts replaced. Three months, 6,000 miles and now two new struts. And I’m fairly certain that I hit a substantial pothole that fateful night from Dexter that has knocked my alignment all out of whack as well.
I guess all I can say is “Thanks, Maine DOT.” Thanks for the roller coaster ride along your roadways you put all of us through every day and for putting that obnoxious voice of Brian’s back into my head. At least I won’t fall asleep any time soon.
SOMEWHERE ON RT. 94 — As I listened to the Boston Celtics struggle to beat the Charlotte Bobcats the other night, the voice of my driving instructor echoed in my head on that long, dark drive as I made my way east from Dexter to Corinth following a school board meeting.
“Now remember, look down the left side of the roadway, then the right side, then look ahead, and repeat. Left, right, middle… left, right, middle. Hey put two hands on the car. Oh look, a gas station, turn in here. I need more food,” said the man our class all knew simply as Brian, the grossly overweight, sketchy Driver’s Ed instructor.
So, while I made my way home that night along the winding state road, my eyes automatically began to scan the road like I was taught to do nearly 10 years ago. One reason for this was to look out deer, those pesky animals that somehow are no where to be found when I’m out hunting but I can see them just fine out the windshield of my truck all the time.
Now that the snow is nearly gone and the grasses are turning green again, deer are out in full force again. There were three deer along the roads that night, though all of them were far enough off the road that they did not cause too much concern.
See, it was not the deer I was afraid of in the roadway. It’s not that I’m looking to hit a deer, because I know they can cause a good bit of damage. It’s just that, at least with deer they have eyes that shine back when the headlights hit them, giving me some warning.
No, it’s something more sinister I was on the lookout for that night, something that can create a lot of damage and causes me to tense up every time I take to the roadway.
The culprits: potholes and frost heaves, the inevitable destroyer of Maine roadways.
They sneak up out of nowhere, picking up a normally flat roadbed or dropping it down a foot from the original position in some spots, pulling in a tire and jerking you and your car all over the roadway. Suspensions creak and moan, wanting no more of the pain. Drivers cringe, weave and maneuver around these obstacles as if they were making their way through a wreck on a NASCAR track.
With the snow and ice cleared off the roadways and the frost heaves starting to settle, it is becoming painfully obvious just how bad the roadways in the region are getting — and the sad part is many of the worst roads are state routes. A large section of Route 7 between Dover-Foxcroft and Dexter is getting so bad that I will go out of my way to Route 23 to avoid having my teeth chatter all the way to the Shiretown’s neighbor to the south.
There are countless other roads that are getting bad too, like most of route 6/15 between Guilford and Greenville and Route 6/16 between Dover-Foxcroft and Milo. Heck, Route 6/16 from Orneville and Milo looks like it was just repaved a few years back and it is already littered with frost heaves and potholes.
In all honesty, every path from I-95 to Piscataquis County is a ride that will test a car’s suspension, a person’s driving skills, as well as their aversion to pain and suffering. At least when the DOT fixes Route 15 south of Dover-Foxcroft between Charlotte White and Foxbrook, that there will be one smooth(er) ride into one city in the county. Now what about the other 16 cities, two plantations and part of the UTs?
And what about Dexter? Route 7 in downtown Dexter is just awful as well, and that shocks me because it’s in middle of town. That’s a road that needs to be fixed just to help the town maintain some kind of business flow through the city without diverting traffic to all of its side streets.
I’ve bounced along miles of these roads over the past few months with my new pick-up truck, going to one meeting or the next. Each day I take to the roads, I tense up because I know I’ll inevitably hit some kind of road hazard and I shutter at the thought of damaging my new wheels this early into my ownership of it (wait, the bank’s ownership of the truck that I get to drive and pay for).
To put it in perspective, I just sent in my third truck payment and I already have an appointment to take it to the auto shop to have the front struts replaced. Three months, 6,000 miles and now two new struts. And I’m fairly certain that I hit a substantial pothole that fateful night from Dexter that has knocked my alignment all out of whack as well.
I guess all I can say is “Thanks, Maine DOT.” Thanks for the roller coaster ride along your roadways you put all of us through every day and for putting that obnoxious voice of Brian’s back into my head. At least I won’t fall asleep any time soon.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Extreme Makeover: Dover Edition
By Josh Salm/Staff writer
Every once in a while a story or an idea will cross my desk that I don’t really digest until hours later, whether I am at home or on the road when I have a moment to really think it through.
The occurrence happened again on Wednesday, when I got an e-mail from Jim Macomber about Extreme Home Makeover looking to come back to Maine to give another family in this state the gift of a brand new sprawling home and a vacation to Disney Land.
At first, I thought nothing of it. There are countless homes in Piscataquis County that could use a helping hand from Ty Pennington and his overly-positive crew of designers and builders, and there are numerous well-deserving families in this county that would benefit from by hearing their stories of giving and sacrifice.
Plus, the vacation to Disney Land would be nice bonus.
This is what Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is all about. Tell the story about the family and what troubles they are going through, tear down the home with a lot of flair, march in with the volunteers and build a new home – rain or shine – in seven days and give it back to the family in a big ceremony.
Extreme Home Makeover is about doing everything in a big way. It brings in the ratings. It allows the drama to ooze from the TV set and makes a deep connection with the audience.
The thing is, the crew has done so many home rebuilds over the years that it must be getting old. I can just imagine one of the crew saying, “Been there, done that; bring on next site.”
So here’s my idea: let’s give the crew of Extreme Home Makeover another option, something they haven’t done before – rebuild Moosehead Manufacturing. It would be like Extreme Town Makeover.
Right now the whole site belongs to the town of Dover-Foxcroft as a tax-acquired property. Moosehead Manufacturing is no longer the problem for the old owners, but for the town and for the Piscataquis County Economic Development Council. The options for the building seem limited right now, but that could all change with a little help by a massive volunteer construction crew and a few TV cameras.
This is what I came up with for the new Moosehead Neighborhood Block (it’s an early concept title).
Instead of tearing down the building and constructing a new home in seven days, the crew could come in with a mission to rebuild Moosehead Manufacturing into a multi-use facility and restore its exterior to its historic façade.
Inside Moosehead, the front part would be a all-in-one neighborhood section. There would be a whole series of first-floor businesses such as a sports bar, flower shop, thrift store and a sporting goods store, the second floor would be low-income apartments.
In the back, there could be a community center, bowling alley and an indoor sports field/skate park built for the kids. It would be utilized by kids and adults alike all year long, especially high school students wanting to train in sports like tennis, baseball and softball. Plus it would help keep skateboarders off the narrow sidewalks in town.
The rooftop would be a closed-in, greenhouse-style community garden, with water drainage set up to run into a storm drain. A dock could be built in back to allow canoes, kayaks and small boats access the river.
The kicker, power for the whole structure could come from, or at least be supplemented, with solar and hydro-electric power, lowering the overall cost of the structure for the town.
All this would do a number of things: build a target for the center of Dover-Foxcroft to bring in tourists and residents alike, to give the town a tax income and save a historic structure in the county. Heck, a renovated Moosehead may bring in a developer who would run the facility.
It’s a win-win for all involved.
Now how do we convince Extreme Home Makeover of this?
Here’s how. Go online to http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/index?pn=apply and nominate Moosehead Manufacturing. It’s worth a shot. What’s the worst thing that happens? Moosehead stands vacant?
Even if you don’t want to nominate Moosehead Manufacturing for renovations, tell the Extreme Home Makeover team about a neighbor that could use a hand or even yourself and try to bring that group to Piscataquis County. Remember, anything to help one part of the county helps the whole county.
Every once in a while a story or an idea will cross my desk that I don’t really digest until hours later, whether I am at home or on the road when I have a moment to really think it through.
The occurrence happened again on Wednesday, when I got an e-mail from Jim Macomber about Extreme Home Makeover looking to come back to Maine to give another family in this state the gift of a brand new sprawling home and a vacation to Disney Land.
At first, I thought nothing of it. There are countless homes in Piscataquis County that could use a helping hand from Ty Pennington and his overly-positive crew of designers and builders, and there are numerous well-deserving families in this county that would benefit from by hearing their stories of giving and sacrifice.
Plus, the vacation to Disney Land would be nice bonus.
This is what Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is all about. Tell the story about the family and what troubles they are going through, tear down the home with a lot of flair, march in with the volunteers and build a new home – rain or shine – in seven days and give it back to the family in a big ceremony.
Extreme Home Makeover is about doing everything in a big way. It brings in the ratings. It allows the drama to ooze from the TV set and makes a deep connection with the audience.
The thing is, the crew has done so many home rebuilds over the years that it must be getting old. I can just imagine one of the crew saying, “Been there, done that; bring on next site.”
So here’s my idea: let’s give the crew of Extreme Home Makeover another option, something they haven’t done before – rebuild Moosehead Manufacturing. It would be like Extreme Town Makeover.
Right now the whole site belongs to the town of Dover-Foxcroft as a tax-acquired property. Moosehead Manufacturing is no longer the problem for the old owners, but for the town and for the Piscataquis County Economic Development Council. The options for the building seem limited right now, but that could all change with a little help by a massive volunteer construction crew and a few TV cameras.
This is what I came up with for the new Moosehead Neighborhood Block (it’s an early concept title).
Instead of tearing down the building and constructing a new home in seven days, the crew could come in with a mission to rebuild Moosehead Manufacturing into a multi-use facility and restore its exterior to its historic façade.
Inside Moosehead, the front part would be a all-in-one neighborhood section. There would be a whole series of first-floor businesses such as a sports bar, flower shop, thrift store and a sporting goods store, the second floor would be low-income apartments.
In the back, there could be a community center, bowling alley and an indoor sports field/skate park built for the kids. It would be utilized by kids and adults alike all year long, especially high school students wanting to train in sports like tennis, baseball and softball. Plus it would help keep skateboarders off the narrow sidewalks in town.
The rooftop would be a closed-in, greenhouse-style community garden, with water drainage set up to run into a storm drain. A dock could be built in back to allow canoes, kayaks and small boats access the river.
The kicker, power for the whole structure could come from, or at least be supplemented, with solar and hydro-electric power, lowering the overall cost of the structure for the town.
All this would do a number of things: build a target for the center of Dover-Foxcroft to bring in tourists and residents alike, to give the town a tax income and save a historic structure in the county. Heck, a renovated Moosehead may bring in a developer who would run the facility.
It’s a win-win for all involved.
Now how do we convince Extreme Home Makeover of this?
Here’s how. Go online to http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/index?pn=apply and nominate Moosehead Manufacturing. It’s worth a shot. What’s the worst thing that happens? Moosehead stands vacant?
Even if you don’t want to nominate Moosehead Manufacturing for renovations, tell the Extreme Home Makeover team about a neighbor that could use a hand or even yourself and try to bring that group to Piscataquis County. Remember, anything to help one part of the county helps the whole county.
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