As a music arranger of a military band, try giving the melody line to the third clarinets and assign the harmony lines to the rest of the band. I can guarantee that no one will ever hear the melody despite its presence. Alternatively, give the melody to the trumpet section doubled by the piccolos. In this case I can offer the same guarantee that a deaf man seated in the last row of the fourth balcony will be tapping his foot and humming the melody.
The second Civil War veteran selected to be profiled in this column on the Highland Cemetery is Richard C. Boynton. He is buried in his family lot with his wife, a daughter, and his son and members of his family.
More than half a century ago, when I was an unabashed grammar-school pupil, I enjoyed the company of a cheerful, bright, and energetic chum whom I shall call Chet. Whether on the playground or in the classroom, Chet put his all into his work, and conveyed an optimism which elevated each of us.
For those who don’t like sentiment, throw this down and go on to something else. Today I want to share with all my folks what’s happening in my church. Most of you already know that I lived for years in Damariscotta on the Biscay Road. My partner at the time, Erik Nord, and I fixed up the beat-up old house on the corner of Biscay and Standpipe.
Nineteenth-century architect Daniel Burnham frequently expressed the admonition, “Make no small plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably will not themselves be realized.” He apparently lived those words.
It is often said that one of the best ways to truly learn something is to teach it.
Back when I was a 10-year-old rascal, I frequently found myself glued to the black-and-white television in the downstairs playroom of our northern New Jersey suburban home, watching the “Soupy Sales Show” on WNEW, channel 5. Most of his show has disappeared from mind, with one exception: Soupy routinely employed the comedic vehicle “show me a … and I’ll show you a … “
I started way ahead of time talking up town meeting so Robin would go with me. “I am not going. They don’t know me. They don’t care what I think. Besides, how can one vote make any difference?”
My internet phone is a miraculous thing as far as I understand such things. My first experience with a phone was when I lived at the dormitory up at Erskine Academy in 1958. We had a pay phone on the hallway wall. You had to pick up the earpiece, give the handle a crank, wait for the operator to speak, and tell her what number you wanted: “Line 3, ring 1, please.” Many times “Karen Pierson’s house, please” would work as I called her up to get help with a homework problem. We didn’t have a phone at home growing up.
When my family and I moved to Maine in 1989, one of the things I liked best about our new home was how safe we felt.
Emergency physicians take a fair amount of pride in the fact that we never refuse medical care to any patient who shows up at our door. It doesn’t matter when they show up, how they show up or who they are; we treat everyone the same. We see anybody that wants to be seen, regardless of their complaint or their ability to pay.
I was poking around the file cabinets up at church the other day and I came upon several scrapbooks full of my clipped-out columns, along with the original photos much of the time, dating back to 2005.
Some of the readers of this column are fortunate enough to live in areas where town water is available all year long. Others, such as myself, live in more remote regions where wells are the only source of reliable water.