Is a bunny the right secular symbol for the Easter holiday?

With Easter just around the corner, the perennial question remains. Why is an egg-toting bunny synonymous with the holiday? Rabbits don't lay eggs. So where does the Easter Bunny get his stockpile? I'm guessing theft on a grand scale, pure and simple. Perhaps a different species, the one that actually does all of the work, deserves to be in the spotlight.

The obscure 60s TV show that helped shape this reporter's career

Like most children wondering about their future, I had various ambitions when I was a kid, one of which was to become a political cartoonist. That idea never got off the drawing board (so to speak). Instead, after the usual youthful collection of short-lived jobs and false starts, I ended up spending most of my working life as a journalist.

I worked in radio news in Massachusetts and then as a reporter for newspapers in New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Maine for more than 30 years. And for most of that time, I covered state politics for papers in New Hampshire and Maine, particularly the interplay among assorted governors, state legislatures, and the ever-present special interests that deceive themselves into believing that lobbying is a noble profession.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but perhaps my eventual career as a political reporter began to take shape as far back as the mid 1960s, when I was a kid. Back then, I was addicted to a TV series on CBS that you’ve probably never heard of, even if you’re old enough to remember the time period.

The show was called Slattery’s People, and it starred Richard Crenna as, of all things, a state legislator named Slattery (in an unnamed state). Slattery’s People survived for a mere two years, from 1964 to 1965. It scored poorly in the ratings, but it won praise from the critics, and created at least one teenage fan in the process.

Looking back, I guess I was hooked from that point on. While studying political science in college in the late 60s and early 70s, I spent hours sitting in the public galleries at the Massachusetts State House in Boston, engrossed by the legislative process. For four years starting in 1977, I covered the New Hampshire Legislature in Concord as a newspaper reporter, followed 10 years later by the start of a 21-year stint reporting from the Maine State House in Augusta.

So why didn’t I go into politics rather than journalism? For one thing, I try not to lie, and when I do fib, I’m not very convincing. No poker face. So that would have disqualified me right off the bat. Plus, I have little tolerance for ignorance. If elected, I would have quickly antagonized ill-informed constituents who subjected me to their moronic opinions. Moreover, I'm more of an observer than a participant, a common journalistic characteristic.

Richard Crenna, who died in 2003, had a long and varied career in movies, TV and radio, but I still associate him with a long-forgotten role that he played almost 60 years ago. As a narrator intoned at the start of each episode of Slattery's People: “Democracy is a very bad form of government. But I ask you never to forget. All the others are so much worse.”

In my hometown as a kid, "Merry Christmas" was "Joyeux Noël"

By Paul Carrier

It’s been many years since I greeted my Franco-American aunts, uncles and grandparents in French at Christmas get-togethers in Southbridge, Mass., which had a large population of transplanted Québécois and their descendants. All of those relations are long gone or far distant now, and I’ve grown accustomed to offering holiday cheer in English when I’m out and about.

That’s just what I did while shopping yesterday, even though I had just learned that the retailer I was dealing with here in Maine had, like me, grown up in a French-speaking home. “Merry Christmas,” I said automatically as Liz and I completed our transaction. He replied in kind.

But as we began to walk away, I turned back impulsively and said with a wave "Joyeux Noël.” Breaking into a big smile, the man offered a hearty, enthusiastic “Joyeux Noël” of his own. For the briefest of moments, I felt like a kid again. Maybe he did too. I hope so.

A dog in sheep's clothing

It was 10 degrees out when I took our 14-year-old chocolate lab Aquinnah, (aka Quinn), for a walk a few minutes ago. While Quinn "checked his mail” by sniffing God knows what at an intersection, a complete stranger driving by in a pickup waved at me.

He may be one of those friendly people who wave at everybody; there are lots of folks like that here in Maine. But I’ve noticed on winter dog walks that passing motorists are more likely to wave on the coldest days, when our two dogs are sporting their sheepskin-style coats. In dog-loving Maine, some people are just suckers for dressed up pups.

Growing old: It's not for the faint of heart

From time to time, while walking our chocolate lab Aquinnah, I cross paths with a white-haired, sweet-tempered man who, I would guess, is in his late 70s or older. This pleasant, sociable fellow, who uses a walker on his neighborhood jaunts, always has nice things to say about Aquinnah. Our encounter on Wednesday was no exception.

‘Oh, what a beautiful chocolate . . . (hesitation) . . . cat,” he said. I was taken aback, but smiled politely. It was quite disconcerting to think that an elderly fellow making the rounds on his own could not differentiate between a cat and an 85-pound dog. But that was not the case. No sooner had he turned a canine into a feline than he immediately corrected himself. “That is such a beautiful dog,” he said.
 
This dog lover is not so badly impaired that he cannot recognize a dog when he sees one. He was at a loss for words for two or three seconds, and did his best to save face by saying what came to mind. Still, the fact that he could not dredge up the word “dog” and substituted “cat” instead is, in and of itself, a reflection on the ravages of time. Growing old is not for the faint of heart.

A springless springtime in central Maine

We are having an unusually cold spring this year here in central Maine. April was a chilly washout, and although May has been marginally better so far, the temperature readings have been erratic, and often unpleasant. The scarf and winter gloves are back in storage, but I'm keeping my winter coat handy, with good reason.

That's all by way of preface to the following.

We have two large, rectangular compost bins in our backyard. Normally at this time of year, if I dig far enough into one or both bins I'll find plenty of black, crumbly, nutrient-rich compost, perfectly timed for use in our flower and vegetable gardens. But not this year. When I started digging yesterday, I got down to about 18-20 inches. Everything below that was frozen solid.

A close encounter with a "glass half full" kind of guy

Now, this is what I would call a positive outlook in action.

While walking on our riverside trail earlier this week, I came upon a man in a wheelchair and his dog, who wore an “emotional support animal” vest. With the owner's permission, I stopped to pet the friendly brown pooch.

I didn't ask why the man was in a wheelchair or why he has an emotional support animal; it would have been rude to pry. He didn't volunteer any information either, but based on observation alone, it seemed clear that he's had his share of problems.

As I resumed my walk, I told the man to have a good day. I said this automatically, almost unconsciously, as another way of saying goodbye. But the man’s response gave me pause. “Any day above ground is a good day,” he said with a smile.

"Our house is a very, very, very fine house . . . ."

The house in the 1930s. The tree and the utility pole are long gone.

My wife Liz and I bought our house back in 1988, and we have lived in it ever since. Come August, it will be 31 years since we moved in.

Perhaps that helps to explain why I often take the place for granted. It’s such an integral part of our lives that it’s easy not to give it too much thought, unless the roof sheds shingles in a windstorm, or clapboards rot, or a window needs to be glazed, or it’s time to repaint the porch floor. In other words, whenever any of the myriad things that can go wrong in an old house do go wrong.

But I was reminded this week how much we really do love this house, which was built as a rental property in the 1870s by Llewellyn (aka Llewelynn) Lithgow. A 19th-century merchant and book lover, Lithgow remains a beloved figure here in Augusta, Maine, because he left a $20,000 bequest to the city to help build what is now Lithgow Public Library.

A handyman came to the house yesterday to tackle a relatively minor job, and I quickly learned that he loves old homes. He oohed and aahed over our antique doorbell, the tin ceilings in the kitchen and the dining room, the vintage door trim (he speculated that it’s oak) and the nearly six-foot-tall wooden ("wooden!") shutters. All of these oldfangled features, among others, cost us nothing, beyond upkeep. They came with the house. Even the sturdy, old-fashioned front door got a glowing appraisal. If we ever replace it with a new door, the handyman warned, don't let a contractor make off with the old one, because we could get good money for it. I could almost imagine my late grandfather, Wilbrod Archambeault, a building contractor who died two years before we came here, giving me similar advice in his native French.

When our wide-eyed visitor finished his work and left, I took a seat in the living room and looked around with a renewed sense of pride. Our House, the old Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song, came to mind, with its memorable reference to “a very, very, very fine house, with two cats in the yard . . . .”

Our home is not grand or unique, and there’s never a shortage of things to be done in a house built by men who had a clear recollection of the Civil War. But after yesterday’s chat with an appreciative guy who assessed the house with fresh eyes, I’m feeling pretty damn good about our humble abode, much as we did when we bought it way back when. Our four cats never venture into the yard, but we do live in “a very, very, very fine house.”

A pet peeve of a former journalist

As a retired newspaper reporter, there are few things that get under my skin more than the habit some journalists have of assuming they can read minds.

While listening to the news from NPR the other day, I heard a report from the BBC about the deteriorating situation in Venezuela. The report noted, among other things, that Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro believes allowing humanitarian aid from Colombia would pave the way for an American military invasion of his country.

Now, on its face, such reporting may seem straightforward enough. But here's the rub. The BBC does not know what Maduro believes, only what he claims to believe. Does he really believe an invasion is a serious threat? Or is that claim a cynical ploy to bolster his support by frightening his fellow Venezuelans? I don't know. You don't know. And neither does the BBC.

News organizations should report what they know to be true, not what they assume to be true. In this case, the BBC knew what Maduro said about the risk of invasion, but not whether Maduro actually believes what he said.

What politicians say and what they believe often are two very different things. Reporters covering a speech or a news conference know the former. They cannot possibly know the latter. Lest we forget: politicians lie. A lot. So stick to reporting the known (what was said) without making assumptions about the unknown (what's actually going on in a politician's mind).

Enjoying a close encounter of the canine kind

When I walked into a store in Portland, Maine, yesterday, there was a tall, fit, clean-cut man dressed in dark clothing standing near the entrance, with a yellow lab resting at his feet. My first impression was that he was a cop, but I wasn’t sure because I saw no badge, cap, shoulder patch or gun.

One of my guiding principles is never pass up a chance to pet a dog, so I walked up to the man and asked if I could do just that. He smiled and nodded. As I reached down to the dog, I asked the man if he was a police officer. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I am. He is. We both are.” That’s when I noticed a police badge on the dog’s harness, near his chest. “He’s a great dog,” the officer said, beaming with obvious pride and devotion. “I just love him to bits.”

My day was made.

A reminder to cherish our dogs, while we still can

I was walking our 13-year-old chocolate lab Aquinnah yesterday morning when I crossed paths with a woman who was taking her 13-year-dog outside. She and I had spoken before, so I already knew her dog is deaf and blind.

This always pleasant, talkative woman makes observations about her dog -- and mine -- whenever we happen to meet on the street near her house, and yesterday was no exception. She said her aged and infirm dog still has the presence of mind to routinely feign the need for a walk, because the medium-sized mixed breed knows she’ll get a treat once they’re back in the house. Whether she did her "business" or not.

“I guess the appetite is the last thing to go,” I said.

“Apparently so,” the woman replied. “We’re grateful for every day we get.”

Isn’t that the truth.

All hail the gift bag!

Once upon a time, back in the last century, stores sold something during the holiday season called a gift box. It came in several sizes. There were square boxes and rectangular boxes, big and small boxes, tall and short boxes. The giver would place a gift in a box, wrap it in brightly colored paper, and possibly even top it off with a pretty bow. The creative gift giver might even fashion a bow from scratch, instead of using the stick-on variety.

Now the engineers of gift packaging have come up with what the public clearly views as an improvement: the gift bag. You might still find the occasional gift box in retail shops, but the bag has shoved the box into a dark and dingy corner of the holiday display, a lonely, unloved and unwanted throwback.

The gift box has become a dinosaur. Extinction looms. Laziness has decreed that the gift bag is a far superior item, because the giver simply plops a gift in the bag and is done with it. No more measuring and cutting and wrapping and taping pesky pieces of paper. No ribbons. No bows. No quaint notions about the recipient being deserving of a bit of extra effort. The gift box is labor-intensive, like a car with manual windows that you roll up. The gift bag is easy peasy.

I associate boxes with gifs; bags with groceries and, on a smaller scale, dog poop. But that's just me. Old school. Progress is unstoppable.

Reassuring a confused trucker

While walking our 85-pound chocolate lab Aquinnah yesterday morning, I passed through a parking lot, where a driver from a food-services company was hauling deliveries into a restaurant. He spotted us, and went about his business.

After I brought Aquinnah home, I headed out on a slightly different route with Martha, a black 40-pound pit bull-lab mix. As we rounded a corner, the same guy I had seen before pulled his truck out of the restaurant lot and onto our side street.

He stopped the truck beside us with a confused look on his face and opened his window. "Did you just have a different dog?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied. "Don't worry. You aren't losing it."

Two young boys discuss a dog who "smells like dog"

I was walking our chocolate lab Aquinnah yesterday afternoon when we crossed paths with two boys who were playing outside. One looked like he was about 7, the other, about 5. The older one asked if they could pet Aquinnah, and of course I said yes, because he loves children.

The boys did not appear to be familiar with doggie etiquette, because they ran toward Aquinnah, which is never a good idea when approaching a dog who does not know you. Aquinnah's eyes grew wide with apprehension, but the kids slowed to a walk as soon as I asked them to, and all was well.

As the boys patted Aquinnah's head and rubbed their hands along his back, the younger one said, disapprovingly, "Your dog smells like dog." To which the older boy replied, in a tone designed to convey his advanced years and greater wisdom, "All dogs smell like dog."

Don't you just hate it when that happens, Captain Morgan?

I was in the backyard Tuesday afternoon when a very angry and agitated man started shouting and swearing up a storm nearby. I couldn't see him from my vantage point, but I could track his progress as he walked down the street, thanks to the cavalcade of F-bombs. 

A few minutes later, I discovered the source of his outrage. While walking one of our dogs up the street, I found a shattered liquor bottle on the sidewalk. The size of the stain suggested that it was full -- or close to it -- when Captain F-bomb dropped it, probably minutes after he bought it at the supermarket nearby. The only thing that survived intact was the label.

A fond farewell to a neighborhood dog

I don’t remember when I first met Zack. It probably was last year, or maybe the year before. But I do remember where and how we met.

The handsome, muscular boxer was walking along a street here in Augusta, Maine, with his owner when we first crossed paths. As I usually do when I come upon a dog I don’t know, I asked the owner if his pooch was friendly, to find out if it was safe to pet him.

It turned out Zack was the very embodiment of canine civility. Calm. Gentlemanly. His owner and I didn’t get around to introducing ourselves by name. We just launched into a conversation about Zack in particular, and dogs in general.

Thus began a casual, sporadic relationship. Zack and I routinely bumped into one another on our respective jaunts. I even timed my walks, when possible, to coincide with Zack’s stroll, which always occurred about 9 a.m. or so. Sometimes, Zack seemed aloof as I approached him. At other times, he would run toward me, as if we were old friends.

Then, one day last summer, I heard a ruckus outside our house, and raced outside to see what was going on.

Zack and his “dad” had both been attacked by another dog. By the time I got outside, the two of them had wandered down the street, and were now on the sidewalk in front of our house. Zack had a red gash in his back. His owner’s arm was covered in blood. While a passing Good Samaritan called for an ambulance, I got a stool for the injured man. Then I ran over to the nearby restaurant where, he told me, his wife worked.

Despite his ordeal, Zack remained calm and quiet while a police officer, the animal control officer and ambulance attendants bustled about. In the weeks that followed, his wound (and that of his owner) healed nicely, so that eventually there wasn’t even a scar on Zack’s back. From that point onward, whenever I encountered Zack, his owner and I marveled at the dog’s complete recovery. It was quite obvious, as it had been all along, that this guy really loved his dog. For his part, Zack became more consistently friendly toward me.
 
Fast forward to this week. While walking our chocolate lab Aquinnah on Thursday, I spotted Zack’s owner off in the distance. Alone. I’d never seen him without Zack, but our paths diverged and we didn't come face-to-face, so I couldn't ask about Zack. Yesterday, I happened to be driving when I spotted Zack’s owner once again. Alone. I pulled over.

“Where’s Zack?”

“No more Zack,” he replied.

About two weeks ago, Zack began having severe seizures at home. Repeatedly. His "mom" and "dad" tried to hold him down as he convulsed. He walked in circles, and kept falling down. A vet diagnosed a brain tumor.

Zack, who was 11 years old, was euthanized.

Zack’s owner told me all of this with great composure, and I told him several times how sorry I was for his loss. Eventually, I could see that he was struggling to remain in control of himself. I knew it was time to leave him alone with his grief.

“Thanks for your concern,” he said, as he turned and walked away. His shoulders were hunched. He looked lost, diminished. As I headed home, a solitary figure receded in my rearview mirror.

Serendipity reigns during a 30-minute walk in Belfast, Maine

Belfast, Maine, on April 28, 2018. (Liz Soares photo)

My wife Liz and I visited Belfast, Maine, yesterday. It’s one of our favorite day trips, primarily because it’s less than an hour from our home, it’s on the coast, and it has a great bookstore and an authentic pizza joint.

There’s a harbor walk there that passes through a working waterfront and across a footbridge spanning the Passagassawakeag River. The weather wasn’t ideal for a walk. It was a bit chilly, with a light drizzle. But we were determined to stroll the waterfront anyway.

And so we did.

Along the way, we met a fluffy white dog who ran up, yapping, to everyone who approached him, then retreated to the side of his smiling but silent owner.

We met Audrey, a young hound mix who is a rescue from Tennessee. She had a lovely assortment of tan and gray markings, the likes of which I'd never seen before. Her owner said he will be retiring from his job on Monday, which will give him more time to spend with his pup. He urged us to bring our own dogs with us the next time we visit Belfast.

We met Norton, a 10-year-old chocolate lab who has surgery coming up, to remove a growth. He gave me a baleful sidelong glance when I used his name. (Norton is a fine name for a dog, but not as good as that of a black lab I met recently: Reuben. Full name: Reuben Sandwich.)

And we met Matthew, a tiny, very thin little boy with the biggest, most gorgeous blue eyes to be found anywhere. Matthew was walking along the footbridge with a quiet young woman, presumably his mother. He peppered us with all kinds of questions. Where were we going? Would we come back to the bridge later? Then he challenged me to a short but swift race. Which, of course, he won.

The dictionary defines serendipity as “the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.” Serendipity abounded in Belfast, Maine, yesterday. Had we arrived 30 minutes sooner, or 30 minutes later, none of this would have happened. All would have been different.

I'm dreaming of a brave new online world, but it's a pipe dream

You know what would be fun? If the people who ostensibly comment on news stories and columns and editorials online actually commented on the content of those news stories and columns and editorials -- you know, after reading them -- instead of using the comments section to mouth off on their pet theories about, well, everything but what's in the news stories and columns and editorials.

Having digested the news stories and columns and editorials before weighing in, they would then do so in a thoughtful manner that respects the opinions of people who disagree with them. Those people, in turn, would return the favor and behave in a similar fashion, resulting in an actual dialogue among sensible adults.

I know. That's crazy talk. Because everybody already has the answer to everything without wasting time actually reading news stories and columns and editorials. So screw that, and screw the idiots who disagree. Because in America, we’re all free to make asses of ourselves.

The only time I really, truly, absolutely hate shoveling snow

I don't mind shoveling. Honestly. It's good exercise if done properly, it gets me outside, and it allows me to bask in the silent beauty of a fresh layer of the white stuff, without enduring the deafening roar of a snowblower. I don't even mind shoveling when it's very cold outside, or when it's still snowing. But if there's anything I hate it's when Mother Nature takes a really deep breath while I'm shoveling and unleashes stiff winds to return the freshly moved snow to its original location, thus reminding me once again that humans are puny little creatures who are no match for her. That I could do without.

The protocol for making the acquaintance of her canine majesty

In a world where even the president of the United States speaks like a punk and advertises his illiteracy whenever he tweets, I'm always delighted to encounter people who have some respect for the English language.

I was strolling along our local rail trail the other day when I met a diminutive woman in, I would guess, her 70s. She was walking a tiny white dog decked out in a colorful sweater. I never pass up an opportunity to pet a dog, so I asked my standard opening question in these situations: “Is your dog friendly?”

Normally, people simply say yes or no, or launch into an animated and entertaining monologue about their dog’s quirks in the "greeting strangers" department. But not this time.

“Yes,” the woman said ever so slowly, “if you present yourself properly by letting her sniff your hand.”

So I did as I was told. Assuming a suitably deferential bearing, I presented myself properly to the four-legged queen before giving her a few pats. Perhaps that was a bit forward of me, but her majesty didn't seem to mind.