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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Weather, construction takes toll on this writer
DOVER-FOXCROFT — It’s hard to get away from complaining — er, I mean conversing — about construction nowadays. Or the weather for that matter. Some sort of goofy weather system coming through the area is almost as much of a given as a 10 minute traffic delay due to road construction in these parts.
That being said, there are four things I noticed this weekend that have left me scratching my head, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The first happened Friday, when a freak cold front pushed through the Penquis region. It brought with it a quick, nasty rain storm that seemingly dropped trees on power lines throughout the entire region. I rushed over to the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Station when the call came out for help clearing trees out of the road and off the lines when I heard the same call go out to the Brownville, Milo, Charleston, Bradford and Dexter areas. The storm came through quickly, dropped a little bit of rain and seemed to have a little wind to it, but it didn’t seem like it would bring the whole forest down as well. Luckily no one seemed to be hurt in all that.
Shortly there after, I get a call from my dad back in Wisconsin to break the good news to me: they finally got some rain. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? After the summer we’ve been having, it’s strange to hear someone nowadays happy to see rain falling from the sky.
In that part of eastern Wisconsin, it’s not uncommon for the region to go through a few weeks of drought-like conditions before it rains again. This year seemed worse than most and Dad is counting on his corn crop a little more this year than in the past so he needed rain in a hurry.
Well, he got it from the sounds of it — in the way of 2.75 inches of rain. However, it’s actually dried out to the point where Dad’s already looking for another inch of rain if he could get it. I’m still telling Dad he can have all the rain he wants from here.
After all that, I just walked out the door of the Observer office Friday evening for my softball game at the fairgrounds when I was greeted with a cold breeze that sent me running back inside for a jacket, sweatshirt — something more than the T-shirt and athletic shorts I was wearing at the moment. That storm front that moved through dropped temperatures from the 70s to the 50s in a hurry and I was stranded in Dover-Foxcroft with nothing but a thin track jacket to fend off the cool night.
It was August 8, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t think I needed to start leaving a sweatshirt in the car for cold Maine nights, especially seeing that the sun hadn’t set yet. Those nights were supposed to be reserved for late September.
Monday I made my way back to Dover, back to work, softball and rain. Packed next to me in the car was a sweatshirt next to my camera and notepad. I learned my lesson from last week.
Of course, as I turned onto Route 43 outside of Hudson, I was met with a Maine Department of Transportation road crew tearing up the road installing a new culvert to alleviate flooding along the low-lying roadway. Instead of actual human flaggers, however, this crew was using a remote-controlled flagger trailer that had traffic stopped — for no reason it seemed — for over 10 minutes. I could see traffic held up on the other side of the construction zone, waiting for the armbar to rise and light to turn from red to blinking yellow signifying “You may finally move forward now.”
That’s when it occurred to me how much I missed human flaggers instead of these obnoxious robots. At least with people standing there they can react to a situation and move traffic more efficiently. And at least with people there you can see that something is being accomplished, at least some of the time. That, and it’s hard for me to get that upset at a person doing their job.
Then again, if I start getting frustrated about robot flaggers, or the weather for that matter, this late in the season, I’m going to have a meltdown by November —just in time for snow, ice and potholes to kick in.
That being said, there are four things I noticed this weekend that have left me scratching my head, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The first happened Friday, when a freak cold front pushed through the Penquis region. It brought with it a quick, nasty rain storm that seemingly dropped trees on power lines throughout the entire region. I rushed over to the Dover-Foxcroft Fire Station when the call came out for help clearing trees out of the road and off the lines when I heard the same call go out to the Brownville, Milo, Charleston, Bradford and Dexter areas. The storm came through quickly, dropped a little bit of rain and seemed to have a little wind to it, but it didn’t seem like it would bring the whole forest down as well. Luckily no one seemed to be hurt in all that.
Shortly there after, I get a call from my dad back in Wisconsin to break the good news to me: they finally got some rain. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? After the summer we’ve been having, it’s strange to hear someone nowadays happy to see rain falling from the sky.
In that part of eastern Wisconsin, it’s not uncommon for the region to go through a few weeks of drought-like conditions before it rains again. This year seemed worse than most and Dad is counting on his corn crop a little more this year than in the past so he needed rain in a hurry.
Well, he got it from the sounds of it — in the way of 2.75 inches of rain. However, it’s actually dried out to the point where Dad’s already looking for another inch of rain if he could get it. I’m still telling Dad he can have all the rain he wants from here.
After all that, I just walked out the door of the Observer office Friday evening for my softball game at the fairgrounds when I was greeted with a cold breeze that sent me running back inside for a jacket, sweatshirt — something more than the T-shirt and athletic shorts I was wearing at the moment. That storm front that moved through dropped temperatures from the 70s to the 50s in a hurry and I was stranded in Dover-Foxcroft with nothing but a thin track jacket to fend off the cool night.
It was August 8, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t think I needed to start leaving a sweatshirt in the car for cold Maine nights, especially seeing that the sun hadn’t set yet. Those nights were supposed to be reserved for late September.
Monday I made my way back to Dover, back to work, softball and rain. Packed next to me in the car was a sweatshirt next to my camera and notepad. I learned my lesson from last week.
Of course, as I turned onto Route 43 outside of Hudson, I was met with a Maine Department of Transportation road crew tearing up the road installing a new culvert to alleviate flooding along the low-lying roadway. Instead of actual human flaggers, however, this crew was using a remote-controlled flagger trailer that had traffic stopped — for no reason it seemed — for over 10 minutes. I could see traffic held up on the other side of the construction zone, waiting for the armbar to rise and light to turn from red to blinking yellow signifying “You may finally move forward now.”
That’s when it occurred to me how much I missed human flaggers instead of these obnoxious robots. At least with people standing there they can react to a situation and move traffic more efficiently. And at least with people there you can see that something is being accomplished, at least some of the time. That, and it’s hard for me to get that upset at a person doing their job.
Then again, if I start getting frustrated about robot flaggers, or the weather for that matter, this late in the season, I’m going to have a meltdown by November —just in time for snow, ice and potholes to kick in.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
My call for an interstate in northern Maine
“… despite notable successes in the past few years, Maine has suffered from an increasing tax burden, endemic loss of jobs and opportunities throughout many parts of the state ,and the persistent and growing perception that Maine policymakers are hostile to business and the economy of Maine … “
This is a quote from “Where We Stand 2003” a publication put out by the Maine State Chamber of Commerce six years ago. It’s one of the numerous old texts that I sift through on a daily basis in the Observer office. On a whim when my eyes needed a break from the hundreds of Shiretown Homecoming photos our staff took Friday and Saturday, I picked up the booklet on a walk through the back of the office and started to skim through it.
The MSCC stated in its introduction there are six areas that lawmakers needed to focus on to put Maine in a better place: reducing the cost of health care, improving the economic development prospects, reducing the state’s tax burden, reigning in government spending, reforming the worker’s compensation system and keeping education at the forefront of future growth.
All those points are easily talking points of any political session, even in the six years since this publication was printed. That being said, there was one thing that strikes me as something that is truly needed in the Penquis region and moreover for northern Maine: “the creation of a high-speed four lane divided east/west highway, as well as the four-lane extension of I-95 to Madawaska.”
An interstate highway makes a large difference in the marketplace, especially in rural Maine where that is the only source of transportation of goods given that rail has fallen to the wayside and air transportation is not logical.
Growing up next to I-43 in eastern Wisconsin, I noticed just how much of a difference an interstate roadway makes in an urban area. Dotted along the roadway in Sheboygan is a series of large factories, box stores, restaurants, industrial parks and housing subdivisions that give the town of 50,000 a large tax base to work off of. It brings in people, and most importantly brings in work. There too, rail is not what it once was and air transportation makes little sense.
If you go west from the interstate, jobs become more sparse because the factory work is located closer to the main artery. It quickly becomes a land where farming is king — well, at least the land is there for farming, and it’s prosperous for a few.
At any rate, an east/west interstate that connected Quebec to Nova Scotia through Maine would likely have to go through southern Piscataquis County to be effective and cost-efficient. It would make Piscataquis County a much more desirable location to start a business and for tourists— especially if this new east/west highway had a I-95 spur shoot off from the Pittsfield area and connect west to Greenville or Guilford.
As the MSCC said in 2003, “transportation infrastructure investments are critical to Maine’s economic future in several ways. First, they generate substantial numbers of jobs during construction. Even more importantly, once completed, major transportation arterials serve as a foundation for economic growth and development.”
Granted, the interstate is not the be-all, end-all for economic growth. If it is not supported correctly, jobs leave just as quickly as they come in. In Sheboygan, numerous factories have closed or downsized due to the economic recession. The kicker is, however, that more jobs are slowly trickling in again — in large part because of its access to the outside world.
I’d hate to see the authors of “Where We Stand 2023” have to recite that same passage that was written six years ago. It’s time the Penquis region get that same kind of access.
This is a quote from “Where We Stand 2003” a publication put out by the Maine State Chamber of Commerce six years ago. It’s one of the numerous old texts that I sift through on a daily basis in the Observer office. On a whim when my eyes needed a break from the hundreds of Shiretown Homecoming photos our staff took Friday and Saturday, I picked up the booklet on a walk through the back of the office and started to skim through it.
The MSCC stated in its introduction there are six areas that lawmakers needed to focus on to put Maine in a better place: reducing the cost of health care, improving the economic development prospects, reducing the state’s tax burden, reigning in government spending, reforming the worker’s compensation system and keeping education at the forefront of future growth.
All those points are easily talking points of any political session, even in the six years since this publication was printed. That being said, there was one thing that strikes me as something that is truly needed in the Penquis region and moreover for northern Maine: “the creation of a high-speed four lane divided east/west highway, as well as the four-lane extension of I-95 to Madawaska.”
An interstate highway makes a large difference in the marketplace, especially in rural Maine where that is the only source of transportation of goods given that rail has fallen to the wayside and air transportation is not logical.
Growing up next to I-43 in eastern Wisconsin, I noticed just how much of a difference an interstate roadway makes in an urban area. Dotted along the roadway in Sheboygan is a series of large factories, box stores, restaurants, industrial parks and housing subdivisions that give the town of 50,000 a large tax base to work off of. It brings in people, and most importantly brings in work. There too, rail is not what it once was and air transportation makes little sense.
If you go west from the interstate, jobs become more sparse because the factory work is located closer to the main artery. It quickly becomes a land where farming is king — well, at least the land is there for farming, and it’s prosperous for a few.
At any rate, an east/west interstate that connected Quebec to Nova Scotia through Maine would likely have to go through southern Piscataquis County to be effective and cost-efficient. It would make Piscataquis County a much more desirable location to start a business and for tourists— especially if this new east/west highway had a I-95 spur shoot off from the Pittsfield area and connect west to Greenville or Guilford.
As the MSCC said in 2003, “transportation infrastructure investments are critical to Maine’s economic future in several ways. First, they generate substantial numbers of jobs during construction. Even more importantly, once completed, major transportation arterials serve as a foundation for economic growth and development.”
Granted, the interstate is not the be-all, end-all for economic growth. If it is not supported correctly, jobs leave just as quickly as they come in. In Sheboygan, numerous factories have closed or downsized due to the economic recession. The kicker is, however, that more jobs are slowly trickling in again — in large part because of its access to the outside world.
I’d hate to see the authors of “Where We Stand 2023” have to recite that same passage that was written six years ago. It’s time the Penquis region get that same kind of access.
The Catch-22 of Rec Sports
ORONO — As the opposing shortstop caught the infield pop-up for the third out, our 2009 rec-league softball season was over. Our team, the Dead Animals, capped a solid season off with a disappointing first-round exit in the playoffs. We all lined up and shook hands, wishing the Hollywood Slots team the best of luck in their next game and commending them on a good game.
The drive home from Orono High School was short, but there was plenty of time to sit there in the car wondering how I could have done more to help. There was the 0-for-3 performance from the plate that didn’t help, or the pop fly to left center that I should have caught instead of getting called off my the left fielder.
Rec-league softball is a strange Catch-22 for me. On one hand, it’s supposed to be fun and laid back. It’s more important to hang out with friends and have a laugh than anything else — at least that’s what my wife tells me every week. She’s a bit more of an optimist than I am.
I try to have a good time each week, and winning goes a long way toward that goal. The kicker is, I have such a competitive streak in me that I can’t brush the losses off that easily. It stings every time, some games worse than others. Monday night was no exception, as we yet again failed to build off a solid regular season with a strong run in the playoffs.
This may sound like Bill Belichick talking to reporters after a post-season loss, but it’s the truth. At some point a little post-season glory would be nice.
I know I’m not alone in this. No matter if it is in Orono or Dover-Foxcroft, people take their rec sports seriously. You can’t fault a person for that. No one wants to go out each week and get their butt kicked on the diamond, even if it is just for fun and laughs.
Part of it has to do with the fact that rec-league sports is in many ways the only competitive release people have anymore. How these recreational leagues are treated by many adults remind me of the way kids treat high school sports — with the same intensity, the same passion and sometimes the same frustration at each loss.
I know Monday night I felt that frustration. An 0-for-3 night at the plate will gnaw away at me for a few days, at least until I step up to the plate Friday night at the Fairgrounds for the YMCA league game. I’ll be looking for a little redemption that night, something to let me know that Monday’s loss was a fluke and that I’m a better player than that.
Otherwise it’s going to be a long winter of waiting for softball to start up again.
The drive home from Orono High School was short, but there was plenty of time to sit there in the car wondering how I could have done more to help. There was the 0-for-3 performance from the plate that didn’t help, or the pop fly to left center that I should have caught instead of getting called off my the left fielder.
Rec-league softball is a strange Catch-22 for me. On one hand, it’s supposed to be fun and laid back. It’s more important to hang out with friends and have a laugh than anything else — at least that’s what my wife tells me every week. She’s a bit more of an optimist than I am.
I try to have a good time each week, and winning goes a long way toward that goal. The kicker is, I have such a competitive streak in me that I can’t brush the losses off that easily. It stings every time, some games worse than others. Monday night was no exception, as we yet again failed to build off a solid regular season with a strong run in the playoffs.
This may sound like Bill Belichick talking to reporters after a post-season loss, but it’s the truth. At some point a little post-season glory would be nice.
I know I’m not alone in this. No matter if it is in Orono or Dover-Foxcroft, people take their rec sports seriously. You can’t fault a person for that. No one wants to go out each week and get their butt kicked on the diamond, even if it is just for fun and laughs.
Part of it has to do with the fact that rec-league sports is in many ways the only competitive release people have anymore. How these recreational leagues are treated by many adults remind me of the way kids treat high school sports — with the same intensity, the same passion and sometimes the same frustration at each loss.
I know Monday night I felt that frustration. An 0-for-3 night at the plate will gnaw away at me for a few days, at least until I step up to the plate Friday night at the Fairgrounds for the YMCA league game. I’ll be looking for a little redemption that night, something to let me know that Monday’s loss was a fluke and that I’m a better player than that.
Otherwise it’s going to be a long winter of waiting for softball to start up again.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Empathy for the umpire
DOVER-FOXCROFT — I stood there, looking at the orange mat behind home plate, wondering to myself, “Where did that pitch just land?”
I was looking right at the pitch the whole way through, but I didn’t quite see where it landed. With a 2-2 count, the pitcher and batter were both staring right at me waiting for me to call the pitch a ball or a strike.
There, on the orange mat, was the imprint. Strike 3. It was clear to see now that I looked closer, but that moment of indecision had daggers cast at me from the batter’s eyes. She was not a fan, and I don’t blame her.
As the next batter walked up to the plate, I began to ask myself, “Why did I volunteer to ump this game?”
Umpires are hated people, some more than others. It depends on just how bad the ump does his or her job that night, and even that’s a subjective thing considering one play can make the difference in a game.
It’s a thought that hit home the other night when I was playing league ball in Veazie. Standing in center field, I watched as the shortstop rifled a throw to first base, causing the first baseman to make a reaching stab at the ball, falling to the ground. She never took her foot off the bag and had full control of the ball the whole time. This was obvious to see, even from 80 yards away.
However, the ump called the base runner safe, causing all of us to suggest to the umpire in a kind way that we are looking out for his well-being and that maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call his eye care specialist and have his eyeglass prescription updated.
As I made the walk back to the dugout, I realized I probably would have made the same call during the Friday night softball league in Dover had I been the umpire.
The thing is, I’m not decisive enough on calls. When I am decisive, I usually end up botching something — like that time I called the guy out but swung my arms in a “he’s safe” motion. It leads to confusion, to tempers flaring and to me seeking that elusive Southwest Airlines plane from the TV commercials when they ask “Do you want to get away?”
While all the players in the Dover league are good sports and sportsmanship is something that seems to run high at the Fairgrounds, I hope I get my act together one of these weeks and call a clean game. Otherwise I’m fairly certain the proverbial daggers that were cast at me last Friday night could turn in to actual softball bats hurled at me in the near future.
I was looking right at the pitch the whole way through, but I didn’t quite see where it landed. With a 2-2 count, the pitcher and batter were both staring right at me waiting for me to call the pitch a ball or a strike.
There, on the orange mat, was the imprint. Strike 3. It was clear to see now that I looked closer, but that moment of indecision had daggers cast at me from the batter’s eyes. She was not a fan, and I don’t blame her.
As the next batter walked up to the plate, I began to ask myself, “Why did I volunteer to ump this game?”
Umpires are hated people, some more than others. It depends on just how bad the ump does his or her job that night, and even that’s a subjective thing considering one play can make the difference in a game.
It’s a thought that hit home the other night when I was playing league ball in Veazie. Standing in center field, I watched as the shortstop rifled a throw to first base, causing the first baseman to make a reaching stab at the ball, falling to the ground. She never took her foot off the bag and had full control of the ball the whole time. This was obvious to see, even from 80 yards away.
However, the ump called the base runner safe, causing all of us to suggest to the umpire in a kind way that we are looking out for his well-being and that maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call his eye care specialist and have his eyeglass prescription updated.
As I made the walk back to the dugout, I realized I probably would have made the same call during the Friday night softball league in Dover had I been the umpire.
The thing is, I’m not decisive enough on calls. When I am decisive, I usually end up botching something — like that time I called the guy out but swung my arms in a “he’s safe” motion. It leads to confusion, to tempers flaring and to me seeking that elusive Southwest Airlines plane from the TV commercials when they ask “Do you want to get away?”
While all the players in the Dover league are good sports and sportsmanship is something that seems to run high at the Fairgrounds, I hope I get my act together one of these weeks and call a clean game. Otherwise I’m fairly certain the proverbial daggers that were cast at me last Friday night could turn in to actual softball bats hurled at me in the near future.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The great debate: to shave or not to shave
DOVER-FOXCROFT — “If you want to play, you’ve got to shave.”
That’s the line running through my head as I looked in the mirror at a fellow firefighter’s apartment, shaving cream smeared over my goatee and razor in my hand. If I wanted to join the LP training session at the former Moosehead Manufacturing campus on Monday night, I had to be clean-shaven so my air mask would create a seal around my face.
I hadn’t shaved off my goatee on purpose since my wedding day in 2005 — there was that time in 2006 it came off, but that’s because the neighbor decided it would be a great idea to light off M-80 firecrackers in a sofa near my apartment just at the moment I was pulling a razor near my chin. I remember that morning all too well.
BOOM!
It was in that instant that half my chin became painfully exposed. Thankfully it was only hair that was removed and not half my face. I tell you, I was sure glad when the city finally disposed of that sofa. I could at least shave knowing that travesty would not happen again.
I’m not the type that has some kind of emotional connection to facial hair. I just started sporting a goatee back in college to make me look older so I could get into the bars easier. It was a necessity then that just stayed with me all these years.
Anyway, back to Monday. If I wanted to train, I had to shave.
I couldn’t believe that my arm started to move on its own, taking off the fuzz above my lip. Five minutes later, I cleaned up the last remnants of my goatee, washed the remaining shaving cream off my face and looked back in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. I stood in the back listening to the pre-drill instructions, rubbing my face as if that would help speed up the hair-growing process. After the instructions were done, we split up in four-person attack teams and I began to get ready for my first major firefighter training exercise.
Maybe shaving would be worth it after all.
That’s when our fire chief remembered I’m not air-pack certified, therefore making me ineligible to participate.
So while 38 other firefighters from Dover-Foxcroft, Milo, Charleston and Brownville took turns attacking a LP training exercise, I stood off to the side, wearing my turn-out gear, with my camera and notebook taking notes for a newspaper story.
All I could think of the whole time was, 1.) I need to get that air-pack training ASAP; and 2.) if all I was going to do was be a reporter, I would have left the goatee on.
That’s the line running through my head as I looked in the mirror at a fellow firefighter’s apartment, shaving cream smeared over my goatee and razor in my hand. If I wanted to join the LP training session at the former Moosehead Manufacturing campus on Monday night, I had to be clean-shaven so my air mask would create a seal around my face.
I hadn’t shaved off my goatee on purpose since my wedding day in 2005 — there was that time in 2006 it came off, but that’s because the neighbor decided it would be a great idea to light off M-80 firecrackers in a sofa near my apartment just at the moment I was pulling a razor near my chin. I remember that morning all too well.
BOOM!
It was in that instant that half my chin became painfully exposed. Thankfully it was only hair that was removed and not half my face. I tell you, I was sure glad when the city finally disposed of that sofa. I could at least shave knowing that travesty would not happen again.
I’m not the type that has some kind of emotional connection to facial hair. I just started sporting a goatee back in college to make me look older so I could get into the bars easier. It was a necessity then that just stayed with me all these years.
Anyway, back to Monday. If I wanted to train, I had to shave.
I couldn’t believe that my arm started to move on its own, taking off the fuzz above my lip. Five minutes later, I cleaned up the last remnants of my goatee, washed the remaining shaving cream off my face and looked back in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. I stood in the back listening to the pre-drill instructions, rubbing my face as if that would help speed up the hair-growing process. After the instructions were done, we split up in four-person attack teams and I began to get ready for my first major firefighter training exercise.
Maybe shaving would be worth it after all.
That’s when our fire chief remembered I’m not air-pack certified, therefore making me ineligible to participate.
So while 38 other firefighters from Dover-Foxcroft, Milo, Charleston and Brownville took turns attacking a LP training exercise, I stood off to the side, wearing my turn-out gear, with my camera and notebook taking notes for a newspaper story.
All I could think of the whole time was, 1.) I need to get that air-pack training ASAP; and 2.) if all I was going to do was be a reporter, I would have left the goatee on.
Friday, July 10, 2009
MY BCS plan
The sun is shining outside, the temperatures are in the 80s .... and I'm stuck inside on the computer listening to ESPN radio. One of the items mentioned is Congress looking into possible antitrust issues with the BCS Championship system, due in large part to the University of Utah getting hosed and Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) having a little bit of clout.
Anyway, here's my plan to fix college football. Take it for what it's worth.
College football needs an 8-team playoff to determine a national champion. Selection for the field would be the conference champion from each of the Big Six Conference (Big Ten, Big XII, Big East, ACC, SEC, Pac-10) and then two at-large berths from outside conference champions only (such as Mountain West, MAC, WAC) based on the AP and coaches poll. No computer BS needed.
That's right; Conference champions only -- no Big XII North Champ Nebraska if they lose the Big XII title game to Texas. Just Texas and that's it. That takes care of the possibility of two or three teams from one conference in the playoff. Just give us the best from your area and we'll go from there.
The four games of the first round would begin on New Year's Day with sites in Florida (preferred bowl game - Orange Bowl), Texas (Cotton), California (site like the LA Coliseum) and then a fourth site like Nashville. No team from that region (i.e. Florida) cannot play in that game -- travel for everyone to make it fairer. No reason USC plays at the Coliseum in the playoffs, or the Gators play in Orlando.
The remaining Big Three bowl games, Rose, Sugar and Fiesta, are revolving semi-final and championship sites. Second-round games are on the next Saturday, with the title game likely nine days later on that Monday night (the NCAA likes to put title games on Mondays. Bastards.)
Teams not eligible for the NCAA playoff gets to compete in the traditional bowl games that all conclude on New Years Eve.
This plan takes care of two things: 1.) true declaration of a national champion; 2.) need for the piece of crap BCS system to select teams. There's still plenty of money thrown around and everyone still gets a chance to play ball.
The only loser in all this I think would be the Rose Bowl, losing the tradition that is the New Years Day game. But you know what, deal with it - and that's coming from a Big Ten guy. If the only sacrifice made in all this is having the Granddaddy of Them All lose a little bit of its luster, then so be it. You don't think the bowl's history remained pristine with the introduction of the BCS, did you?
There's my plan. Whatcha think?
Anyway, here's my plan to fix college football. Take it for what it's worth.
College football needs an 8-team playoff to determine a national champion. Selection for the field would be the conference champion from each of the Big Six Conference (Big Ten, Big XII, Big East, ACC, SEC, Pac-10) and then two at-large berths from outside conference champions only (such as Mountain West, MAC, WAC) based on the AP and coaches poll. No computer BS needed.
That's right; Conference champions only -- no Big XII North Champ Nebraska if they lose the Big XII title game to Texas. Just Texas and that's it. That takes care of the possibility of two or three teams from one conference in the playoff. Just give us the best from your area and we'll go from there.
The four games of the first round would begin on New Year's Day with sites in Florida (preferred bowl game - Orange Bowl), Texas (Cotton), California (site like the LA Coliseum) and then a fourth site like Nashville. No team from that region (i.e. Florida) cannot play in that game -- travel for everyone to make it fairer. No reason USC plays at the Coliseum in the playoffs, or the Gators play in Orlando.
The remaining Big Three bowl games, Rose, Sugar and Fiesta, are revolving semi-final and championship sites. Second-round games are on the next Saturday, with the title game likely nine days later on that Monday night (the NCAA likes to put title games on Mondays. Bastards.)
Teams not eligible for the NCAA playoff gets to compete in the traditional bowl games that all conclude on New Years Eve.
This plan takes care of two things: 1.) true declaration of a national champion; 2.) need for the piece of crap BCS system to select teams. There's still plenty of money thrown around and everyone still gets a chance to play ball.
The only loser in all this I think would be the Rose Bowl, losing the tradition that is the New Years Day game. But you know what, deal with it - and that's coming from a Big Ten guy. If the only sacrifice made in all this is having the Granddaddy of Them All lose a little bit of its luster, then so be it. You don't think the bowl's history remained pristine with the introduction of the BCS, did you?
There's my plan. Whatcha think?
Staving off the late June summer doldrums
The past three weeks seems like a take from the Bill Murray movie, “Groundhog Day.” Each day it seems the skies have been overcast, the temperature fairly mild and rain threatened to fall from the clouds. It all seemed like a never-ending pattern of gloominess.
Independence Day was no exception. That being said, the five of us at camp had enough waiting for Mother Nature to relent and allow the warm weather and sunshine break through. We all decided on the Fourth of July to make a go of it on the lake and have fun in spite of the weather.
I thought that meant we were going fishing. The other four took that as time to go tubing on the lake.
“They’re insane,” is all I muttered to myself as we piled into the boat and pulled away from the dock. Standing tall on the dock feeding rope out was Darren, anxiously awaiting to hop on to the Big Bertha inner tube and get towed around the lake. The other three in the boat had their swimsuits on. I was fully decked out in a sweatshirt, jeans and bad attitude.
Why waste our time freezing our butt off in the middle of this extended Maine spring when we could do some fishing? Granted the fishing the day before led to me catching a small white perch and everyone else casting for nothing, but still, it had to be better than tubing around on a cold summer day.
As Eric threw the throttle forward and doing his best to throw his own brother Darren off the tube, I began to realize maybe this wasn’t so bad. Darren was laughing hysterically — when he had a chance to breathe at least — and the two women in the back of the boat were both screaming for Eric to head to the big waves and wondered what their own turn had to offer.
For weeks I’ve heard TV and radio reports about seasonal depressions and disorders, when people get anything from a bad case of the blues to legitimate depression. It’s something I end up going through every year by February and March, where I just end up becoming irritable and down in the dumps about everyday life. I question why I do things, if it’s worth it and even why I get up some days. This spring was especially rough, but like every other year the blues went away when the sun came out.
I noticed Saturday those low feelings were coming back. I sat in the forward chair of the ski boat while my other friends were having fun and couldn’t bring myself to have a good time. I do my best to put on a smile and make it look like I’m alright, but it takes a lot out of me to do that. On top of it all, tubing was never my thing — seeing that I swim as well as a rock — so the idea of hoping on Big Bertha on a cold, overcast summer day was about the worst thing I could think of.
Something must have clicked on that last tour of the lake, because out of nowhere I told Eric to head for the dock so I could change and give it a go on the tube. The look on my face must have been something strange to see because even I couldn’t believe I said that.
It was the perfect medicine to the awful weather we’ve been having. It was sprinkling by the time I jumped on the raft, the air temperature was cold enough to give you a chill and the water spray made things worse. That being said, it was a blast. I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time.
Of course, my whole upper body was sore for two days after I held on to that raft with everything I had, but in the end it was worth it because for once I could laugh — and do so without forcing myself to have a good time.
I wasn’t the only one to shake the late June doldrums. Cities decided to host fireworks, people took to Fourth of July celebrations and others hosted barbecues in spite of the heavy rains and overcast skies, and it turned out great.
Maybe Mother Nature got the hint we’re all sick of what she’s been brewing for the past few weeks, because Sunday was a beautiful day outside. Granted the gray skies and rain returned, but there’s finally sunshine in the forecast for later in the week.
That’s good, because our summer is long overdue to begin.
Independence Day was no exception. That being said, the five of us at camp had enough waiting for Mother Nature to relent and allow the warm weather and sunshine break through. We all decided on the Fourth of July to make a go of it on the lake and have fun in spite of the weather.
I thought that meant we were going fishing. The other four took that as time to go tubing on the lake.
“They’re insane,” is all I muttered to myself as we piled into the boat and pulled away from the dock. Standing tall on the dock feeding rope out was Darren, anxiously awaiting to hop on to the Big Bertha inner tube and get towed around the lake. The other three in the boat had their swimsuits on. I was fully decked out in a sweatshirt, jeans and bad attitude.
Why waste our time freezing our butt off in the middle of this extended Maine spring when we could do some fishing? Granted the fishing the day before led to me catching a small white perch and everyone else casting for nothing, but still, it had to be better than tubing around on a cold summer day.
As Eric threw the throttle forward and doing his best to throw his own brother Darren off the tube, I began to realize maybe this wasn’t so bad. Darren was laughing hysterically — when he had a chance to breathe at least — and the two women in the back of the boat were both screaming for Eric to head to the big waves and wondered what their own turn had to offer.
For weeks I’ve heard TV and radio reports about seasonal depressions and disorders, when people get anything from a bad case of the blues to legitimate depression. It’s something I end up going through every year by February and March, where I just end up becoming irritable and down in the dumps about everyday life. I question why I do things, if it’s worth it and even why I get up some days. This spring was especially rough, but like every other year the blues went away when the sun came out.
I noticed Saturday those low feelings were coming back. I sat in the forward chair of the ski boat while my other friends were having fun and couldn’t bring myself to have a good time. I do my best to put on a smile and make it look like I’m alright, but it takes a lot out of me to do that. On top of it all, tubing was never my thing — seeing that I swim as well as a rock — so the idea of hoping on Big Bertha on a cold, overcast summer day was about the worst thing I could think of.
Something must have clicked on that last tour of the lake, because out of nowhere I told Eric to head for the dock so I could change and give it a go on the tube. The look on my face must have been something strange to see because even I couldn’t believe I said that.
It was the perfect medicine to the awful weather we’ve been having. It was sprinkling by the time I jumped on the raft, the air temperature was cold enough to give you a chill and the water spray made things worse. That being said, it was a blast. I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time.
Of course, my whole upper body was sore for two days after I held on to that raft with everything I had, but in the end it was worth it because for once I could laugh — and do so without forcing myself to have a good time.
I wasn’t the only one to shake the late June doldrums. Cities decided to host fireworks, people took to Fourth of July celebrations and others hosted barbecues in spite of the heavy rains and overcast skies, and it turned out great.
Maybe Mother Nature got the hint we’re all sick of what she’s been brewing for the past few weeks, because Sunday was a beautiful day outside. Granted the gray skies and rain returned, but there’s finally sunshine in the forecast for later in the week.
That’s good, because our summer is long overdue to begin.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A belated Father’s Day to remember
NEWTON, Wis. — The needle on the Jeep Grand Cherokee was pushing 75 as I rushed up I-43 in Eastern Wisconsin to get to the Newton Firefighters Park for the Lakeshore Two-Cylinder Antique Tractor Pull.
It had been quite a few years since I raced up that section of interstate, dating back to when I was working as a roofer during my summers off from college. I was home last weekend for my brother-in-law’s wedding — which was a good time and great to see the family once again.
Sunday, however, I relived part of my teenage years by flying up the interstate once again because I wanted to get to the pull as soon as I could. It was my only chance that weekend to see my folks and I had to shoot the breeze with Dad seeing Father’s Day was the weekend before.
As soon as I pulled in to the yard, I walked over to the scale where my father was weighing in tractors for the 5,700-pound stock class and measuring hitch heights to make sure they were between 18 and 20 inches. Before I could say hi, Dad hollered at me, “Get on your tractor. You’re up soon.”
Sure enough, the John Deere 60 — that tractor my late grandfather gave my dad and I all back at Christmas before he passed away — was standing in line ready to pull. I found out later on that Dad had planned on me pulling ever since I was going to be there that Sunday morning.
I jumped up on the steel seat of the Deere and waited my turn to hook up to the Eliminator, every once in a while turning around to listen to instructions from Dad about staying in first gear, stay in the middle of the track and how to slide up in the seat if the front end started lifting off the ground.
All I could think of was, “If I would have known I was pulling, I wouldn’t have worn my Badger red ‘Sconnie’ shirt to the pull. I would’ve worn my green Packer shirt instead; it matches the tractor better.” Trust me, I wasn’t the only person who thought that. I was wearing the wrong colors, but that was forgiven soon after.
My turn finally came up. I backed the tractor up to the Eliminator sled, had old man Harold hook the sled up to the clevis on the hitch of the tractor and walk away. I put the Deere in first gear, throttled down and pulled the chain tight, then threw the throttle all the way forward.
Now antique tractor pulls are not fast-moving affairs. In all honesty, it moves pretty slow — especially in first gear. Nonetheless, I was moving quick to do everything I could to help the tractor down the track. I pushed the throttle forward a few more times to make sure it was at the stops, turned the front wheels to keep myself out of the soft spot on the side of the dusty track and waited patiently for the front end to start lifting off the ground so I could slide forward in my seat and hope my 160-pound frame could help keep the 5,700-pound machine closer to the ground.
Finally the red flag flew in front of me, signaling my pull was over. It was pretty early in the class, but I thought the 60 had a good pull. Dad was all smiles after I pulled off the track and shut the tractor down.
His smiles only got bigger after it was announced that the 60 won the class, the first time in four years we won. It was the first time I won a tractor pull and holding up that trophy I guess was just what Dad wanted for Father’s Day. What made the day even better was when he got a trophy of his own — a second-place trophy — pulling the 720 a few classes later. Both trophies stand on top of the beer fridge in the garage back home, along with the other first-place trophy Dad won with the 60 in 2005.
Months after Dad lost his father and I lost my grandfather, this seemed like a fitting way to celebrate Father’s Day. It was one I will never forget.
It had been quite a few years since I raced up that section of interstate, dating back to when I was working as a roofer during my summers off from college. I was home last weekend for my brother-in-law’s wedding — which was a good time and great to see the family once again.
Sunday, however, I relived part of my teenage years by flying up the interstate once again because I wanted to get to the pull as soon as I could. It was my only chance that weekend to see my folks and I had to shoot the breeze with Dad seeing Father’s Day was the weekend before.
As soon as I pulled in to the yard, I walked over to the scale where my father was weighing in tractors for the 5,700-pound stock class and measuring hitch heights to make sure they were between 18 and 20 inches. Before I could say hi, Dad hollered at me, “Get on your tractor. You’re up soon.”
Sure enough, the John Deere 60 — that tractor my late grandfather gave my dad and I all back at Christmas before he passed away — was standing in line ready to pull. I found out later on that Dad had planned on me pulling ever since I was going to be there that Sunday morning.
I jumped up on the steel seat of the Deere and waited my turn to hook up to the Eliminator, every once in a while turning around to listen to instructions from Dad about staying in first gear, stay in the middle of the track and how to slide up in the seat if the front end started lifting off the ground.
All I could think of was, “If I would have known I was pulling, I wouldn’t have worn my Badger red ‘Sconnie’ shirt to the pull. I would’ve worn my green Packer shirt instead; it matches the tractor better.” Trust me, I wasn’t the only person who thought that. I was wearing the wrong colors, but that was forgiven soon after.
My turn finally came up. I backed the tractor up to the Eliminator sled, had old man Harold hook the sled up to the clevis on the hitch of the tractor and walk away. I put the Deere in first gear, throttled down and pulled the chain tight, then threw the throttle all the way forward.
Now antique tractor pulls are not fast-moving affairs. In all honesty, it moves pretty slow — especially in first gear. Nonetheless, I was moving quick to do everything I could to help the tractor down the track. I pushed the throttle forward a few more times to make sure it was at the stops, turned the front wheels to keep myself out of the soft spot on the side of the dusty track and waited patiently for the front end to start lifting off the ground so I could slide forward in my seat and hope my 160-pound frame could help keep the 5,700-pound machine closer to the ground.
Finally the red flag flew in front of me, signaling my pull was over. It was pretty early in the class, but I thought the 60 had a good pull. Dad was all smiles after I pulled off the track and shut the tractor down.
His smiles only got bigger after it was announced that the 60 won the class, the first time in four years we won. It was the first time I won a tractor pull and holding up that trophy I guess was just what Dad wanted for Father’s Day. What made the day even better was when he got a trophy of his own — a second-place trophy — pulling the 720 a few classes later. Both trophies stand on top of the beer fridge in the garage back home, along with the other first-place trophy Dad won with the 60 in 2005.
Months after Dad lost his father and I lost my grandfather, this seemed like a fitting way to celebrate Father’s Day. It was one I will never forget.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Luck of the draw
OLD TOWN — As I sat down in a booth at the local Dairy Queen last Thursday night, I thought about just how poorly I’ve been hitting to start our softball season and how much I would enjoy the two chili dogs and Reese’s Piece Blizzard that was coming soon after.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
As I was digging in to the second chili dog, a friend handed me his phone and told me it’s for me.
The first thing I heard was, “You’re going to have to get a bigger freezer.”
The line confused the living daylights out of me. Why would I need a bigger freezer? I can barely fill the one I have now and …
That’s when it hit me. Somehow I got a tag in the annual Maine moose hunt on my first try, with just one $7 chance entered in to the lottery. If I would have known better, I would have bought a MegaBucks ticket that night and truly tested my luck.
The next two phone calls I got proved to me just how unlikely that feat was. The first call came from a friend who has applied for a permit for over 15 years now, has acquired the most amount of points possible to help his cause and still has come up empty, and who was not amused with the fact that I landed a tag on basically a whim and a prayer.
The next came from my subpermittee, who told me to get ready for the October hunt.
After talking to a number of other hunters since then, I’ve come to one simple conclusion: I am fairly certain I’m a hated man.
I say that because, when I tell hunters who have put in for the lottery for over 10 years, have the maximum amount of points tallied up and who paid $22 for six chances to get one moose permit that I got a tag on just one measly chance and no points helping me out to speak of, they get fairly upset.
And rightfully so, I might add. Hunting moose is one of Maine’s finest outdoor traditions, yet residents that have tried to get one tag for nearly a quarter-century still come up short. It seems like a broken system considering the fact that they were told when this lottery was started decades ago that they would only have to wait 10 years at the most to get a permit.
I feel bad that those who have put hundreds of dollars for numerous chances into the lottery have come up empty year after year. There’s got to be a better system to dole out the permits than this, because a 25-year wait for a moose tag is far too long to make any hunter wait.
Then again, I’m thrilled to get what will likely be the only chance to go moose hunting. Actually, October will be the first time I ever go hunting since I’ve moved to Maine, let alone hunting for moose. Growing up in Wisconsin, deer hunting is a state pastime that lasts just nine days — starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and going until the Sunday after. Ever since moving out this way, I’ve been itching to take to the woods again with my Remington .30-06 rifle and get back to my roots.
I just hope I can bag a moose in October. Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time looking those hunters in the eye that didn’t get chosen and tell them that my tag was wasted.
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