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?
Showing posts with label Column. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Column. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
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
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
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)