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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Luck of the draw
OLD TOWN — As I sat down in a booth at the local Dairy Queen last Thursday night, I thought about just how poorly I’ve been hitting to start our softball season and how much I would enjoy the two chili dogs and Reese’s Piece Blizzard that was coming soon after.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
Flashback to a twisted childhood
Ed. note: This did not run this week. Instead of losing it, however, I figured I'd post it online.
OLD TOWN — This column is brought to you today by the letter E and the number 9.
Childhood memories can be fickle things sometimes. Little things, like trips to the zoo or little league baseball, are remembered as being a lot more important than they were. Cartoons and children shows, meanwhile, are somehow remembered as being so much better than you originally thought too.
It was a notion that hit me like Stretch Armstrong slapping me across the face the other day as I watched episodes from the first season of Fraggle Rock on DVD. I remembered that show being one of my favorites growing up, and I thought watching them again I’d get a good laugh out of it.
Instead, I wondered how my generation made it to adulthood without any semblance of sanity remaining after watching these shows— and how I never noticed until now how the Fraggles must have been located in Minnesota given their thick Fargo-styled accent.
I was seriously concerned. I kept asking myself, “What did I learn watching my childhood TV shows?” This thought flooded my mind as I kept watched those goofy looking puppets bounce along the screen during the pilot episode of Fraggle Rock. It was supposed to be a show about world peace. That’s what the DVD box stated, at least. I’m not sure if that was what anyone got from it though.
It appeared that the show taught me only to eat construction pilings and to swing from vines from one cave to the next with no consequences whatsoever when you crashed against the far wall of the cave other than a nasty case of being cross-eyed.
Oh, that, and to always take advice from a singing trash heap.
Add to that, I grew up on cartoons like G.I. Joe, Voltron, Thundercats, He-Man and that strange show Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers (I always was the red one when my friends and I played Power Rangers on the playground) — shows that basically coupled fantasy-like battles with teamwork (and sadly, overly-tight clothing). At least there were those public service announcements at the end of G.I. Joe episodes telling kids not to play next to downed power lines and don’t drink poison that taught me something useful or those hours in front of the TV as a child may have been a complete waste.
Granted not all the cartoons growing up were as strange as this. There were truly educational shows like Sesame Street that went a long way to teaching us about our ABCs, numbers and crabby people only live in garbage cans.
The cartoons helped keep us innocent as children as well. They shielded us from the troubles our parents were going through, like Cold War fears, tough economic times and those 1980 trends that would have seriously stunted our mental growth.
However, I always thought I got more from all those hours of TV cartoons than just a good laugh and getting the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head. After watching the show again 20 years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I’m wrong.
Then again, I did make it out of the 1980s with only good memories and few mental scars. So maybe the shows did their job after all.
Now if I could only get the Fraggle Rock theme song from getting stuck in my head again.
“Dance your cares away/Worries for another day/Let the music play/Down on Fraggle Rock.”
OLD TOWN — This column is brought to you today by the letter E and the number 9.
Childhood memories can be fickle things sometimes. Little things, like trips to the zoo or little league baseball, are remembered as being a lot more important than they were. Cartoons and children shows, meanwhile, are somehow remembered as being so much better than you originally thought too.
It was a notion that hit me like Stretch Armstrong slapping me across the face the other day as I watched episodes from the first season of Fraggle Rock on DVD. I remembered that show being one of my favorites growing up, and I thought watching them again I’d get a good laugh out of it.
Instead, I wondered how my generation made it to adulthood without any semblance of sanity remaining after watching these shows— and how I never noticed until now how the Fraggles must have been located in Minnesota given their thick Fargo-styled accent.
I was seriously concerned. I kept asking myself, “What did I learn watching my childhood TV shows?” This thought flooded my mind as I kept watched those goofy looking puppets bounce along the screen during the pilot episode of Fraggle Rock. It was supposed to be a show about world peace. That’s what the DVD box stated, at least. I’m not sure if that was what anyone got from it though.
It appeared that the show taught me only to eat construction pilings and to swing from vines from one cave to the next with no consequences whatsoever when you crashed against the far wall of the cave other than a nasty case of being cross-eyed.
Oh, that, and to always take advice from a singing trash heap.
Add to that, I grew up on cartoons like G.I. Joe, Voltron, Thundercats, He-Man and that strange show Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers (I always was the red one when my friends and I played Power Rangers on the playground) — shows that basically coupled fantasy-like battles with teamwork (and sadly, overly-tight clothing). At least there were those public service announcements at the end of G.I. Joe episodes telling kids not to play next to downed power lines and don’t drink poison that taught me something useful or those hours in front of the TV as a child may have been a complete waste.
Granted not all the cartoons growing up were as strange as this. There were truly educational shows like Sesame Street that went a long way to teaching us about our ABCs, numbers and crabby people only live in garbage cans.
The cartoons helped keep us innocent as children as well. They shielded us from the troubles our parents were going through, like Cold War fears, tough economic times and those 1980 trends that would have seriously stunted our mental growth.
However, I always thought I got more from all those hours of TV cartoons than just a good laugh and getting the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head. After watching the show again 20 years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I’m wrong.
Then again, I did make it out of the 1980s with only good memories and few mental scars. So maybe the shows did their job after all.
Now if I could only get the Fraggle Rock theme song from getting stuck in my head again.
“Dance your cares away/Worries for another day/Let the music play/Down on Fraggle Rock.”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Hurry up and wait
DOVER-FOXCROFT — Maine, like any northern state, can tell the change of the seasons by two things: the leaves begin to bloom on the trees, and the bright orange construction barrels return to the streets.
Nowhere has this been more evident in Piscataquis County than on the .75-mile stretch of West Main Street in Dover-Foxcroft, where construction crews are working to replace the water main, the services to the houses and businesses, as well as replace the crumbling street with a new road bed.
When this project finishes in October, it will be a welcome sight for motorists in the area (that being said, motorists will be left to contend with the other side of Route 15 — from Foxbrook Variety to the Charlotte White Center — being torn up as well).
However, until West Main Street is finally repaved, people will have to deal with long waiting lines on either end of the construction as flaggers dictate who is going through the obstacle course. Does anyone else find it odd that flaggers have become the most powerful people in Dover-Foxcroft in a matter of mere months?
On any given day, it is these flaggers that can have logging trucks, cars, buses and semis backed up from the Foxcroft Academy tennis courts all the way to McDonalds and beyond. That alone is the same length of the construction zone, if not longer.
Yet, I’ve noticed during my multiple trips through there that everyone seems to be taking the construction in stride. No one is ever yelling at the flaggers, honking their horns or being downright irritable and making an unpleasant time even more unbearable.
Last Friday on my way back into Dover-Foxcroft, I got stuck in the backed-up line at 3:25 p.m. at the east entrance of McDonalds and was forced to wait my turn to meander my way past the yellow and gray Volvo front-end loaders and excavators. Here were the rest of my thoughts as I waited.
3:28 p.m.: West Main Street turned into a three-lane road as a car decided the right shoulder would now become the second eastbound lane. Where it ended up is beyond me. I was hoping to see it slid into the ditch and stuck.
3:31 p.m.: A white Chevrolet pick-up truck is turning the old video game Frogger into a real-life event, as he hops from the McDonalds driveway to Brothers Chevy, and from there to A.E. Robinson’s gas station in between on-coming traffic. Out of nowhere, another truck pulled out of A.E. Robinson shortly before the white Chevy got there. No collision, but the second driver looks none too pleased at the ignorance of the driver in the white Chevrolet.
3:32 p.m.: Line moved for the first time. I made it up to the eastern entrance at the A.E. Robinson gas station. The truck is now back in park.
3:34 p.m.: I don’t know how an emergency vehicle would make it through the construction, even with the lights and sirens. And what about the volunteer firefighters in the surrounding towns that might be stuck in that mess? If a call goes out that they are needed at the station, how do they get through that mess?
3:36 p.m.: The white Chevrolet makes another move, this time from A.E. Robinson all the way to Foxcroft Academy. It’s people like that, the impatient ones, that make me the most irate. Just wait in line people and take your time.
3:37 p.m.: Movement yet again.
3:39 p.m.: I was four cars away from making it through the construction. Instead, the flaggers stopped the line just short at the FA tennis courts. The truck is yet again back in park.
3:45 p.m.: I take that back. There’s three signs to summer. Blooming trees, construction cones and the sound of a Harley Davidson roaring down the street.
3:47 p.m.: More movement!
3:49 p.m.: I made it to the three-way intersection of Main Street and North Avenue. Total time in the construction was 24 minutes.
4:13 p.m.: In the same amount of time it took me to go 1.5 miles from McDonalds to the Main Street/North Avenue intersection, I traveled 23 miles to the intersection of Routes 221 and 43 just north of Hudson. Hopefully I remember not to take Route 15 home this fall when construction starts up on the east side of town.
Nowhere has this been more evident in Piscataquis County than on the .75-mile stretch of West Main Street in Dover-Foxcroft, where construction crews are working to replace the water main, the services to the houses and businesses, as well as replace the crumbling street with a new road bed.
When this project finishes in October, it will be a welcome sight for motorists in the area (that being said, motorists will be left to contend with the other side of Route 15 — from Foxbrook Variety to the Charlotte White Center — being torn up as well).
However, until West Main Street is finally repaved, people will have to deal with long waiting lines on either end of the construction as flaggers dictate who is going through the obstacle course. Does anyone else find it odd that flaggers have become the most powerful people in Dover-Foxcroft in a matter of mere months?
On any given day, it is these flaggers that can have logging trucks, cars, buses and semis backed up from the Foxcroft Academy tennis courts all the way to McDonalds and beyond. That alone is the same length of the construction zone, if not longer.
Yet, I’ve noticed during my multiple trips through there that everyone seems to be taking the construction in stride. No one is ever yelling at the flaggers, honking their horns or being downright irritable and making an unpleasant time even more unbearable.
Last Friday on my way back into Dover-Foxcroft, I got stuck in the backed-up line at 3:25 p.m. at the east entrance of McDonalds and was forced to wait my turn to meander my way past the yellow and gray Volvo front-end loaders and excavators. Here were the rest of my thoughts as I waited.
3:28 p.m.: West Main Street turned into a three-lane road as a car decided the right shoulder would now become the second eastbound lane. Where it ended up is beyond me. I was hoping to see it slid into the ditch and stuck.
3:31 p.m.: A white Chevrolet pick-up truck is turning the old video game Frogger into a real-life event, as he hops from the McDonalds driveway to Brothers Chevy, and from there to A.E. Robinson’s gas station in between on-coming traffic. Out of nowhere, another truck pulled out of A.E. Robinson shortly before the white Chevy got there. No collision, but the second driver looks none too pleased at the ignorance of the driver in the white Chevrolet.
3:32 p.m.: Line moved for the first time. I made it up to the eastern entrance at the A.E. Robinson gas station. The truck is now back in park.
3:34 p.m.: I don’t know how an emergency vehicle would make it through the construction, even with the lights and sirens. And what about the volunteer firefighters in the surrounding towns that might be stuck in that mess? If a call goes out that they are needed at the station, how do they get through that mess?
3:36 p.m.: The white Chevrolet makes another move, this time from A.E. Robinson all the way to Foxcroft Academy. It’s people like that, the impatient ones, that make me the most irate. Just wait in line people and take your time.
3:37 p.m.: Movement yet again.
3:39 p.m.: I was four cars away from making it through the construction. Instead, the flaggers stopped the line just short at the FA tennis courts. The truck is yet again back in park.
3:45 p.m.: I take that back. There’s three signs to summer. Blooming trees, construction cones and the sound of a Harley Davidson roaring down the street.
3:47 p.m.: More movement!
3:49 p.m.: I made it to the three-way intersection of Main Street and North Avenue. Total time in the construction was 24 minutes.
4:13 p.m.: In the same amount of time it took me to go 1.5 miles from McDonalds to the Main Street/North Avenue intersection, I traveled 23 miles to the intersection of Routes 221 and 43 just north of Hudson. Hopefully I remember not to take Route 15 home this fall when construction starts up on the east side of town.
The dusty guitar in the corner
At one time in my life I told myself I was going to learn how to play the guitar. I was all fired up about the idea after I got an acoustic Alvarez guitar — with that classic light-colored wood look on the outside — for Christmas three years ago.
For about a month, I would pick up the guitar pick when I had some free time and strum whatever came to mind. I taught myself how to play the Star Spangled Banner, the beginning to the song “Unforgiven” by Metallica and the intros to a few AC/DC songs.
Since then, the Alvarez has stood in the corner of my living room, collecting more dust than the book shelf does on which the guitar rests upon.
Picking up the guitar isn’t my only failed attempt at expanding my horizons. There’s also that set of roller skates in the back shed that I wore once, the countless non-fiction books I swore I’d read to enlighten myself — only to put them on the shelf and never touch again, and the tennis racquet on the porch that I only recently picked up again. And that’s only naming the things I can think of. Who knows what other projects I tried taking on and have forgotten about.
The kicker with all these bright ideas of mine is, well, they’re not easy things to do. Every time I try to read those non-fiction books on anything from pre-Soviet Russian history to the current Iraq war, I fall asleep within 20 pages. The roller skates force me to use muscles I haven’t used in a long time, plus the roads are so rough around my apartment that I would be better off just running anyway.
Tennis — don’t get me started on that sport. Why is it, if I try to rocket a tennis ball across the net that I end up smacking the tennis ball into the net, but if I lob it over gently just to get the ball over, I get the ball rocketed back at my feet. There’s no in between!
It’s easy in life to fall into a rut and become complacent with how things are. With the long drives to work, long hours at work or everything else, the last thing many of us want to do is pick up a new hobby or learn a new trait.
The thing is, it’s good for us to challenge ourselves every once in a while. Our minds are always looking for something new to dig into, whether it’s a new sport, new book or new hobby.
At least that’s what I told myself when I picked up the guitar the other day and tried to re-tune the guitar and start again with my lessons. Halfway into tuning the B string, however, I turned the tuning key too far and broke the string. Now the guitar is back in its customary place along the wall, this time with a string dangling down from its neck on to the floor.
Maybe it’s a sign the guitar isn’t for me. I wonder what’ll happen when I pick up that Russian history book.
For about a month, I would pick up the guitar pick when I had some free time and strum whatever came to mind. I taught myself how to play the Star Spangled Banner, the beginning to the song “Unforgiven” by Metallica and the intros to a few AC/DC songs.
Since then, the Alvarez has stood in the corner of my living room, collecting more dust than the book shelf does on which the guitar rests upon.
Picking up the guitar isn’t my only failed attempt at expanding my horizons. There’s also that set of roller skates in the back shed that I wore once, the countless non-fiction books I swore I’d read to enlighten myself — only to put them on the shelf and never touch again, and the tennis racquet on the porch that I only recently picked up again. And that’s only naming the things I can think of. Who knows what other projects I tried taking on and have forgotten about.
The kicker with all these bright ideas of mine is, well, they’re not easy things to do. Every time I try to read those non-fiction books on anything from pre-Soviet Russian history to the current Iraq war, I fall asleep within 20 pages. The roller skates force me to use muscles I haven’t used in a long time, plus the roads are so rough around my apartment that I would be better off just running anyway.
Tennis — don’t get me started on that sport. Why is it, if I try to rocket a tennis ball across the net that I end up smacking the tennis ball into the net, but if I lob it over gently just to get the ball over, I get the ball rocketed back at my feet. There’s no in between!
It’s easy in life to fall into a rut and become complacent with how things are. With the long drives to work, long hours at work or everything else, the last thing many of us want to do is pick up a new hobby or learn a new trait.
The thing is, it’s good for us to challenge ourselves every once in a while. Our minds are always looking for something new to dig into, whether it’s a new sport, new book or new hobby.
At least that’s what I told myself when I picked up the guitar the other day and tried to re-tune the guitar and start again with my lessons. Halfway into tuning the B string, however, I turned the tuning key too far and broke the string. Now the guitar is back in its customary place along the wall, this time with a string dangling down from its neck on to the floor.
Maybe it’s a sign the guitar isn’t for me. I wonder what’ll happen when I pick up that Russian history book.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
There's more to Memorial Day than the start of summer
VANCEBORO — For many people, the spaces on the calendar dedicated to Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays from May to September is already half-filled in ink for everything from family reunions to trips to camp and time set aside for home repairs and housework. Summer just seems to never start early enough and never go long enough to get everything in you want to do.
All this, of course, begins with Memorial Weekend. Dubbed the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Weekend has turned into a time for families and friends to go to camp with filled coolers, the boat and the grill, because it just doesn’t feel like summer until you fire the grill up.
My friends and I kicked off summer this past weekend at a family camp in Vanceboro. The camp overlooks Spendik Lake, and from across the lake you see the tall timbers of New Brunswick. We all enjoyed steaks and corn on the cob straight off the grill, a campfire on the beach and a five-mile canoe trip down the St. Croix River — my first-ever canoe trip, and one that I am glad to report did not end up with me spilling out of the canoe.
While it was all a lot of fun, the weekend is supposed to be our time as a nation to remember those who have fallen in battle to serve and protect this country. That’s what this past Monday is supposed to be all about.
It was a point lost on me until we made the two-hour drive home on Monday morning. The Jeep radio was set to a country radio station playing a tribute to our fallen soldiers. Radio host Kix Brooks from the country band Brooks and Dunn talked to other country stars about their music, to different military personnel about losses they have faced and played a wide variety of patriotic-themed country songs.
As a rendition of “God Bless America” sung by country star LeAnn Rimes came in over the radio, I stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the numerous American flags that hung from telephone poles along Route 6 and thought to myself, “Oops.”
Summers are so busy the way it is, especially since we are a nation of workers that takes very little time off. So when our businesses observe the Monday of Memorial Day as a national holiday and close up shop, we all take advantage of it and try to get as much done as possible. That means camping, housework or just relaxing at the house.
That being said, Memorial Day is still a time when we need to honor those that have died in battle while serving this country. They have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect this nation. Without those men and women, our nation wouldn’t be where it is today — like giving us a three-day weekend at the end of May as a way to kick off summer.
All this, of course, begins with Memorial Weekend. Dubbed the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Weekend has turned into a time for families and friends to go to camp with filled coolers, the boat and the grill, because it just doesn’t feel like summer until you fire the grill up.
My friends and I kicked off summer this past weekend at a family camp in Vanceboro. The camp overlooks Spendik Lake, and from across the lake you see the tall timbers of New Brunswick. We all enjoyed steaks and corn on the cob straight off the grill, a campfire on the beach and a five-mile canoe trip down the St. Croix River — my first-ever canoe trip, and one that I am glad to report did not end up with me spilling out of the canoe.
While it was all a lot of fun, the weekend is supposed to be our time as a nation to remember those who have fallen in battle to serve and protect this country. That’s what this past Monday is supposed to be all about.
It was a point lost on me until we made the two-hour drive home on Monday morning. The Jeep radio was set to a country radio station playing a tribute to our fallen soldiers. Radio host Kix Brooks from the country band Brooks and Dunn talked to other country stars about their music, to different military personnel about losses they have faced and played a wide variety of patriotic-themed country songs.
As a rendition of “God Bless America” sung by country star LeAnn Rimes came in over the radio, I stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the numerous American flags that hung from telephone poles along Route 6 and thought to myself, “Oops.”
Summers are so busy the way it is, especially since we are a nation of workers that takes very little time off. So when our businesses observe the Monday of Memorial Day as a national holiday and close up shop, we all take advantage of it and try to get as much done as possible. That means camping, housework or just relaxing at the house.
That being said, Memorial Day is still a time when we need to honor those that have died in battle while serving this country. They have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect this nation. Without those men and women, our nation wouldn’t be where it is today — like giving us a three-day weekend at the end of May as a way to kick off summer.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Home for Grandpa one last time
SHEBOYGAN FALLS, Wis. — They say the last thing to go for a person when they are dying is their hearing. I always thought it was a bit of a fluke until I walked in to his hospice room on Wednesday night.
There he was, quietly laying in bed sleeping while Grandma, Mom, aunts and uncle sat there by his side. I didn’t expect him to acknowledge I was in the room. From the sounds of it he had been pretty much out of it for the better part of the day. He’d been that way really since Sunday.
Grandma wanted to tell him anyway.
“Harold, Josh and Courtney are here to see you.”
His head picked up. His eyes almost opened and he looked like he wanted to say something.
He knew I was there.
It stopped me right in my tracks that night and just thinking about it stops me cold now too. It was pretty much the last time Grandpa was awake.
For three full days I joined my family in Suite 3 of the Sharon S. Richardson Community Hospice to be there for my grandfather. We watched movies, turned on the news and even the show “The Haunting” for Mom and Grandpa to watch. It was their show.
It was then when we all began the process of grieving.
Mom and I would got caught up on what I was up to in Maine and when I was coming home next month for my brother-in-laws wedding. It was good to get caught up for once without having to use the cell phone.
It was hard to sit there at the foot of his bed, look at Grandpa and think that the man who helped me through my geometry homework in middle school, who helped me build my two Pine Wood Derby cars for Cub Scouts and who would chase my cousins and I around the house as children by becoming a Frankenstein-like, playful “Monster” was now the man who could do little more than sleep.
He defied every nurse’s guess as to how long he’d make it. Many figured Thursday would be his last day, but that was three days short of the two weeks he told the staff he’d “be cured” and be able to go home. He was a fighter. His mind just didn’t know when to stop.
For three days we sat there in the hospice room, comforting each other and patiently awaiting for the time when Grandpa had decided to move on. There were moments filled with tears, others with joy. It was good to laugh, especially at Brian’s jokes during the late nights hours on Friday. It was also good to cry.
On Saturday my family made the trip from Sheboygan to Madison so we could attend my sister’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin. For months I felt awful that I would not make it home for that special occasion, but luckily we all had the time to spend cheering on my sister as she walked across the stage at the Kohl Center to shake hands with school officials she’s never met and grab her diploma cover.
We all felt guilty about making the trip knowing Grandpa was in such poor shape, but he would have been upset with us all if we had sat there in his apartment and watched him lie there while Natalie graduated. We had to go; it’s what he would have wanted.
When I last saw Grandpa later that night, I held his thin hand, told him how much he meant to me and hoped for my family’s sake — especially my grandmother — that his time would come soon. He wouldn’t have wanted to hold on forever, subjected solely to sleeping. Grandma was tired from the late nights and long hours of holding on to Grandpa and waiting.
When my flight back home reached its layover in Baltimore on Sunday morning, I turned on my phone to hear a message from my dad. Grandpa had passed shortly after 7 a.m., shortly after the wheels when up on my flight to Baltimore.
Actually, Grandpa passed away at 7:15 a.m. on May 17. For the man who loved a good puzzle it was an almost fitting time for the old engineer to go to a better place.
The waiting could finally end. It was a relief for all of us. I could hear that in Mom’s voice later that afternoon when I called to see how she was doing.
I was just happy that Grandpa knew I made it home to see him one last time.
There he was, quietly laying in bed sleeping while Grandma, Mom, aunts and uncle sat there by his side. I didn’t expect him to acknowledge I was in the room. From the sounds of it he had been pretty much out of it for the better part of the day. He’d been that way really since Sunday.
Grandma wanted to tell him anyway.
“Harold, Josh and Courtney are here to see you.”
His head picked up. His eyes almost opened and he looked like he wanted to say something.
He knew I was there.
It stopped me right in my tracks that night and just thinking about it stops me cold now too. It was pretty much the last time Grandpa was awake.
For three full days I joined my family in Suite 3 of the Sharon S. Richardson Community Hospice to be there for my grandfather. We watched movies, turned on the news and even the show “The Haunting” for Mom and Grandpa to watch. It was their show.
It was then when we all began the process of grieving.
Mom and I would got caught up on what I was up to in Maine and when I was coming home next month for my brother-in-laws wedding. It was good to get caught up for once without having to use the cell phone.
It was hard to sit there at the foot of his bed, look at Grandpa and think that the man who helped me through my geometry homework in middle school, who helped me build my two Pine Wood Derby cars for Cub Scouts and who would chase my cousins and I around the house as children by becoming a Frankenstein-like, playful “Monster” was now the man who could do little more than sleep.
He defied every nurse’s guess as to how long he’d make it. Many figured Thursday would be his last day, but that was three days short of the two weeks he told the staff he’d “be cured” and be able to go home. He was a fighter. His mind just didn’t know when to stop.
For three days we sat there in the hospice room, comforting each other and patiently awaiting for the time when Grandpa had decided to move on. There were moments filled with tears, others with joy. It was good to laugh, especially at Brian’s jokes during the late nights hours on Friday. It was also good to cry.
On Saturday my family made the trip from Sheboygan to Madison so we could attend my sister’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin. For months I felt awful that I would not make it home for that special occasion, but luckily we all had the time to spend cheering on my sister as she walked across the stage at the Kohl Center to shake hands with school officials she’s never met and grab her diploma cover.
We all felt guilty about making the trip knowing Grandpa was in such poor shape, but he would have been upset with us all if we had sat there in his apartment and watched him lie there while Natalie graduated. We had to go; it’s what he would have wanted.
When I last saw Grandpa later that night, I held his thin hand, told him how much he meant to me and hoped for my family’s sake — especially my grandmother — that his time would come soon. He wouldn’t have wanted to hold on forever, subjected solely to sleeping. Grandma was tired from the late nights and long hours of holding on to Grandpa and waiting.
When my flight back home reached its layover in Baltimore on Sunday morning, I turned on my phone to hear a message from my dad. Grandpa had passed shortly after 7 a.m., shortly after the wheels when up on my flight to Baltimore.
Actually, Grandpa passed away at 7:15 a.m. on May 17. For the man who loved a good puzzle it was an almost fitting time for the old engineer to go to a better place.
The waiting could finally end. It was a relief for all of us. I could hear that in Mom’s voice later that afternoon when I called to see how she was doing.
I was just happy that Grandpa knew I made it home to see him one last time.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A strange sort of Mother's Day
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
When you live 1,400 miles away from home, celebrating Mother’s Day amounts to sending flowers and making phone calls home.
This past Sunday was no different. While my wife was out with her friends having a “girls-only” brunch on Mother’s Day, I spent the morning with a cup of coffee and a cell phone, calling my mother and grandmother back home.
What should have been a morning full of smiles was replaced with a bittersweet feeling. My mother, Grandmother Green and myself could not talk really about how they were doing on the one day a year we devote to the maternal aspect of our families. Instead, we talked about how my grandfather was doing.
It was only a week ago when Grandpa moved into hospice care. He’s been suffering from cancer for quite some time, and it’s gotten to the point where he needs a little more help than any of us in the family can give him.
He’s cool with the move so far, which was a surprise to all of us. He’s been calling his new digs “my bachelor pad,” and in classic Grandpa form he’s been giving the nurses at this hospice center a little bit of grief. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.
But while this day was supposed to be about the women in our lives that mean so much, the three of us couldn’t think of anything else but Grandpa. Friday was a good day for him; Saturday not so much. Sunday he slept for the better part of the day I was told.
We’re all beginning to cope with the idea that the cancer is starting to take hold again, even with the recent round of radiation and treatment he received. The inevitability of what’s going on is taking its toll on everyone in the family.
Grandma seems to be doing all right. On Sunday when I talked to her she said she was going to the store to pick up two roses — one for her and one for Grandpa. Apparently I missed the fact it was her wedding anniversary that day as well. But you could hear in her voice that this is a trying time for her. She was tired.
So was Mom. Besides being there for Grandma right now, she’s in the middle of completing her bachelor’s degree online and she’s stuck in a humanities class right now that even I am looking at as if it was written in Greek. It’s the last thing she wants to look at after a long day in town and at the hospice center, but there are assignments due each week.
Somehow I don’t think the sunflowers my sister and I sent home were enough to show how much we care for her right now, but it put a smile on her face and that’s what matters.
At a time like this, if we were able to give Mom a brief moment of happiness for Mother’s Day, then maybe we did all right.
When you live 1,400 miles away from home, celebrating Mother’s Day amounts to sending flowers and making phone calls home.
This past Sunday was no different. While my wife was out with her friends having a “girls-only” brunch on Mother’s Day, I spent the morning with a cup of coffee and a cell phone, calling my mother and grandmother back home.
What should have been a morning full of smiles was replaced with a bittersweet feeling. My mother, Grandmother Green and myself could not talk really about how they were doing on the one day a year we devote to the maternal aspect of our families. Instead, we talked about how my grandfather was doing.
It was only a week ago when Grandpa moved into hospice care. He’s been suffering from cancer for quite some time, and it’s gotten to the point where he needs a little more help than any of us in the family can give him.
He’s cool with the move so far, which was a surprise to all of us. He’s been calling his new digs “my bachelor pad,” and in classic Grandpa form he’s been giving the nurses at this hospice center a little bit of grief. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.
But while this day was supposed to be about the women in our lives that mean so much, the three of us couldn’t think of anything else but Grandpa. Friday was a good day for him; Saturday not so much. Sunday he slept for the better part of the day I was told.
We’re all beginning to cope with the idea that the cancer is starting to take hold again, even with the recent round of radiation and treatment he received. The inevitability of what’s going on is taking its toll on everyone in the family.
Grandma seems to be doing all right. On Sunday when I talked to her she said she was going to the store to pick up two roses — one for her and one for Grandpa. Apparently I missed the fact it was her wedding anniversary that day as well. But you could hear in her voice that this is a trying time for her. She was tired.
So was Mom. Besides being there for Grandma right now, she’s in the middle of completing her bachelor’s degree online and she’s stuck in a humanities class right now that even I am looking at as if it was written in Greek. It’s the last thing she wants to look at after a long day in town and at the hospice center, but there are assignments due each week.
Somehow I don’t think the sunflowers my sister and I sent home were enough to show how much we care for her right now, but it put a smile on her face and that’s what matters.
At a time like this, if we were able to give Mom a brief moment of happiness for Mother’s Day, then maybe we did all right.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The layman's take on the swine flu
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
Probable versus confirmed; outbreak versus epidemic versus pandemic.
All the talk about today’s swine flu epidemic has been a cause for concern and angst for people worldwide. It’s being compared to the deadly Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, the one that killed more people than World War I did, which was going on at that same time.
Readers are left wondering, “What’s the difference between a confirmed case and a suspected case? Who can say what’s confirmed? And what the heck is H1N1?”
Here’s the thing folks. This strain of the flu, known as H1N1 or the swine flu, has killed 26 people worldwide according to U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano and has infected just over 1,000 others, but the fact remains this is not that bad thus far.
This flu killed 26. The regular, ho-hum seasonal flu kills 36,000 annually.
And this isn’t the first time that we’ve gotten the swine flu.
While bouncing around on ProFootballTalk.com (to see if Brett Favre is yet again going to unretire and join the hated Minnesota Vikings), there was a video clip from 1976 with two Green Bay Packer football players talking about going to get their flu vaccine to stave off the swine flu.
That being said, there’s no vaccine for this flu yet so don’t go running to the doctor’s office demanding one because you read the word vaccine in this column and thought, “You know what, those old football players are right. I need to get vaccinated.”
What we all need to do in Piscataquis County is three basic things: wash your hands, cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze and stay home if you’re sick. It’s what health officials in the county have been saying since Day 1, and it’s the same message coming down from the federal government.
These solutions may sound like simple common decency. That’s because it is. Regular use of soap and hot water does wonders to fend off the flu, as does that antibacterial hand wash stuff. If you’re sneezing and coughing, don’t do it on the person next to you. For one, you don’t want to spread whatever you got to the whole community. Secondly, it’s disgusting. By the way, don’t pick your nose either (that’s right, you reading this while your forefinger is tickling your brain — stop it). Also, only use a tissue once and throw it away. The paper company in this state could use a little extra business if people would quit saving tissues to reuse 10-20 times.
If you’re sick, stay home. That goes for kids in school and working adults. Just stay home, get some rest, eat well and get better. Now, this doesn’t mean that if your significant other is sick, that doesn’t mean you have to quarantine yourself as well. If you don’t have the symptoms of the regular flu, go to work. If you have flu-like symptoms, stay home.
And if you have flu-like symptoms, don’t go to the doctor unless those symptoms get serious. There’s nothing a doctor can do about the regular, ho-hum flu other than look at you and send you home. Do everyone a favor and avoid the hospital if you’ve got the standard flu so you don’t spread it to everyone else in there. If it gets bad where you have shortness of breath, dizziness or chest pain, then go talk to a doctor. Otherwise, stay home.
Lastly, here’s three things I would like everyone to do to help mitigate this issue right now: be aware of others around you and who’s sick and who’s not; educate yourself about the flu by going to the federal Center for Disease Control and Prevention Web site (www.cdc.gov) or the Maine CDC site (http://www.maine.gov/dhhs/boh/swine-flu-2009.shtml), and lastly, use some common sense.
TO ALL CAMP OWNERS, FISHERMEN AND NATURE BUFFS: The introduction of Atlantic salmon into the Penobscot River will affect us here in Piscataquis County, even if the Penobscot doesn’t venture into the county. It’s not just salmon going in to the river, but also alewives and other “feeder fish” going into area waters as well.
Whether you know a little or a lot on the issue of the introduction of diadromous fish (fish that swim in both freshwater and marine waters) into the Penobscot River, Piscataquis County Manager Marilyn Tourtelotte set up a public information meeting at the Piscataquis County Superior Court on Thursday, May 14 from 6-8 p.m. to ask question to the State of Maine’s Atlantic Salmon Commission, the Department of Marine Resources and Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife about the proposed plan.
If you do nothing else, go and learn about how this plan could affect fishing in area lakes and rivers. This plan affects you just as much as it affects someone in Bangor.
Probable versus confirmed; outbreak versus epidemic versus pandemic.
All the talk about today’s swine flu epidemic has been a cause for concern and angst for people worldwide. It’s being compared to the deadly Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, the one that killed more people than World War I did, which was going on at that same time.
Readers are left wondering, “What’s the difference between a confirmed case and a suspected case? Who can say what’s confirmed? And what the heck is H1N1?”
Here’s the thing folks. This strain of the flu, known as H1N1 or the swine flu, has killed 26 people worldwide according to U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano and has infected just over 1,000 others, but the fact remains this is not that bad thus far.
This flu killed 26. The regular, ho-hum seasonal flu kills 36,000 annually.
And this isn’t the first time that we’ve gotten the swine flu.
While bouncing around on ProFootballTalk.com (to see if Brett Favre is yet again going to unretire and join the hated Minnesota Vikings), there was a video clip from 1976 with two Green Bay Packer football players talking about going to get their flu vaccine to stave off the swine flu.
That being said, there’s no vaccine for this flu yet so don’t go running to the doctor’s office demanding one because you read the word vaccine in this column and thought, “You know what, those old football players are right. I need to get vaccinated.”
What we all need to do in Piscataquis County is three basic things: wash your hands, cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze and stay home if you’re sick. It’s what health officials in the county have been saying since Day 1, and it’s the same message coming down from the federal government.
These solutions may sound like simple common decency. That’s because it is. Regular use of soap and hot water does wonders to fend off the flu, as does that antibacterial hand wash stuff. If you’re sneezing and coughing, don’t do it on the person next to you. For one, you don’t want to spread whatever you got to the whole community. Secondly, it’s disgusting. By the way, don’t pick your nose either (that’s right, you reading this while your forefinger is tickling your brain — stop it). Also, only use a tissue once and throw it away. The paper company in this state could use a little extra business if people would quit saving tissues to reuse 10-20 times.
If you’re sick, stay home. That goes for kids in school and working adults. Just stay home, get some rest, eat well and get better. Now, this doesn’t mean that if your significant other is sick, that doesn’t mean you have to quarantine yourself as well. If you don’t have the symptoms of the regular flu, go to work. If you have flu-like symptoms, stay home.
And if you have flu-like symptoms, don’t go to the doctor unless those symptoms get serious. There’s nothing a doctor can do about the regular, ho-hum flu other than look at you and send you home. Do everyone a favor and avoid the hospital if you’ve got the standard flu so you don’t spread it to everyone else in there. If it gets bad where you have shortness of breath, dizziness or chest pain, then go talk to a doctor. Otherwise, stay home.
Lastly, here’s three things I would like everyone to do to help mitigate this issue right now: be aware of others around you and who’s sick and who’s not; educate yourself about the flu by going to the federal Center for Disease Control and Prevention Web site (www.cdc.gov) or the Maine CDC site (http://www.maine.gov/dhhs/boh/swine-flu-2009.shtml), and lastly, use some common sense.
TO ALL CAMP OWNERS, FISHERMEN AND NATURE BUFFS: The introduction of Atlantic salmon into the Penobscot River will affect us here in Piscataquis County, even if the Penobscot doesn’t venture into the county. It’s not just salmon going in to the river, but also alewives and other “feeder fish” going into area waters as well.
Whether you know a little or a lot on the issue of the introduction of diadromous fish (fish that swim in both freshwater and marine waters) into the Penobscot River, Piscataquis County Manager Marilyn Tourtelotte set up a public information meeting at the Piscataquis County Superior Court on Thursday, May 14 from 6-8 p.m. to ask question to the State of Maine’s Atlantic Salmon Commission, the Department of Marine Resources and Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife about the proposed plan.
If you do nothing else, go and learn about how this plan could affect fishing in area lakes and rivers. This plan affects you just as much as it affects someone in Bangor.
Battling technology just isn't worth it
By Josh Salm/Piscataquis Observer
Hi. My name is Josh Salm, and I’m an technology and information junkie.
There. I admitted it. It’s not something new that I just found out recently. I’ve known about this quirk of mine for years. It’s a product of the 24/7 news cycle, Internet news sites and working in the newspaper business.
I also love playing with computers and game systems. I know nothing really about how they work, but I know enough to turn them on, get online and that’s about it. It’s enough for me to get in trouble.
My problem is fed in large part by the wireless Internet connection at my apartment and my laptop. I am online constantly to read sports stories, check the latest AP stories and playing Texas Hold’Em poker.
This all came to a head Sunday morning, when I sank into the recliner on a beautiful, sunny day with my coffee cup and laptop to take in the second round of the NFL draft on ESPN and follow my Green Bay Packers online.
That’s when the Internet connection went out.
Now most people would just close the computer and go do something else, like I don’t know, enjoy the summer-like weekend we had. I would have loved that. Instead, for some reason that boggles my mind even now, I fought with the Internet for an hour or so. I tried to fix the connection through the computer, then rebuilt the connection in the wireless modem and lastly reset the cable company’s modem before realizing there was no information going in or out. So I called the cable company to get a new modem, because I was sure I fried mine.
The 20 minutes I sat on the phone, listening to a lovely recorded female voice tell me over and over again that I could probably fix the Internet connection by resetting the modem. I’m glad that recording had a pleasant voice, or I would have been screaming at the poor guy who finally spoke to me — only to tell me the whole state was out of service and it would likely not be up and running for some time.
Again, it was a beautiful, sunny day outside and I cooped myself up inside, having resigned myself to my Wii game console to play golf — you know, instead of actually going outside to play golf, because who does that on a sunny Sunday morning? Well, guess what, my Wii wouldn’t turn on.
Another 20 minutes later on a customer service line taught me I can fix it myself. I guess those new-fangled game consoles have sensitive surge protectors in them, so they will lock down if the power fluctuates in the house. Too bad that wasn’t around 15 years ago when I had my Sega Genesis.
After thanking the nice woman on the phone for fixing my Wii instead of making me pay $250 to replace my Christmas present, I decided I had enough. Off went the TV — the draft won’t change at all if I watch it or not — The laptop was closed and the Wii stood silent. I went out to my porch to enjoy the sun for a while.
I mean, how many times does the mercury reach 80 on an April weekend anyway? At least I could cope without technology for a while.
That didn’t last long after the Internet came back, but it’s a start.
Hi. My name is Josh Salm, and I’m an technology and information junkie.
There. I admitted it. It’s not something new that I just found out recently. I’ve known about this quirk of mine for years. It’s a product of the 24/7 news cycle, Internet news sites and working in the newspaper business.
I also love playing with computers and game systems. I know nothing really about how they work, but I know enough to turn them on, get online and that’s about it. It’s enough for me to get in trouble.
My problem is fed in large part by the wireless Internet connection at my apartment and my laptop. I am online constantly to read sports stories, check the latest AP stories and playing Texas Hold’Em poker.
This all came to a head Sunday morning, when I sank into the recliner on a beautiful, sunny day with my coffee cup and laptop to take in the second round of the NFL draft on ESPN and follow my Green Bay Packers online.
That’s when the Internet connection went out.
Now most people would just close the computer and go do something else, like I don’t know, enjoy the summer-like weekend we had. I would have loved that. Instead, for some reason that boggles my mind even now, I fought with the Internet for an hour or so. I tried to fix the connection through the computer, then rebuilt the connection in the wireless modem and lastly reset the cable company’s modem before realizing there was no information going in or out. So I called the cable company to get a new modem, because I was sure I fried mine.
The 20 minutes I sat on the phone, listening to a lovely recorded female voice tell me over and over again that I could probably fix the Internet connection by resetting the modem. I’m glad that recording had a pleasant voice, or I would have been screaming at the poor guy who finally spoke to me — only to tell me the whole state was out of service and it would likely not be up and running for some time.
Again, it was a beautiful, sunny day outside and I cooped myself up inside, having resigned myself to my Wii game console to play golf — you know, instead of actually going outside to play golf, because who does that on a sunny Sunday morning? Well, guess what, my Wii wouldn’t turn on.
Another 20 minutes later on a customer service line taught me I can fix it myself. I guess those new-fangled game consoles have sensitive surge protectors in them, so they will lock down if the power fluctuates in the house. Too bad that wasn’t around 15 years ago when I had my Sega Genesis.
After thanking the nice woman on the phone for fixing my Wii instead of making me pay $250 to replace my Christmas present, I decided I had enough. Off went the TV — the draft won’t change at all if I watch it or not — The laptop was closed and the Wii stood silent. I went out to my porch to enjoy the sun for a while.
I mean, how many times does the mercury reach 80 on an April weekend anyway? At least I could cope without technology for a while.
That didn’t last long after the Internet came back, but it’s a start.
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