Articles
To the media: a `no-theast’ kick in the pants
It has become necessary to interrupt our relentless pursuit of definitive solutions to cosmic problems in order to excise a festering sore in today’s marine and weather journalism. It’s the burgeoning use of “nor’easter.” There ain’t no such word. For something that doesn’t exist, it’s sure as hell contagious: the Guy Gannett newspapers have George
The sky can’t fall – it begins at your feet
(This column was originally written for the November issue of Working Waterfront, but as Ed explained it in an accompanying note last month, “… here is an attempt at a November column well in advance … Besides being enamored of the idea of the column (when am I not?) I would like to get it
Everything flows, nothing stays
And so, as it must to all men unwilling to climb one more shaky ladder to clean oak leaves out of a downspout, we moved from 43 degrees 56 minutes N. all the way to 44 degrees 015 N. to the local retirement massif five plus miles (Naut.) or so up the estuary. Quite a
A world where up is down
About a hundred years ago, Finley Peter Dunne, safe behind his nom de plume of Misther Dooley, no doubt instructed his mythical friend Mr. Hennessey as follows: “Always remimber, no matter whether the constitution follows th’ flag or not, the Supreme Court follows the iliction returns.” And at only a slightly lower level, the Hon.
Life’s list
About a week before the USA decided to take part in World War One, this columnist came into the world with his four and a half pounds and moan and bustle. Then a couple of weeks ago he came up all standing with the realization that every day from now on he’d be getting nearer
All at Sea: “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose”
It was the spring of 1936, if you can imagine such an ancient date, when we received our inheritance from Grandmother Lizzie Winslow, late of Congress Street in Belfast: five shares of AT&T, market value five bucks per share, annual dividend $1.25. This bonanza allowed a college sophomore (who knew everything, and in Mark Twain’s
At last, December
Truly yours, Poetaster Ed Myers