Simple idea, huge impact

I think we can all agree that inventing the space shuttle or the combustion engine or the pacemaker were amazing feats of genius, but guys like Walter Fredrick Morrison impress me more.

Traveling to the moon, revolutionizing Earth-bound transportation or making the human heart beat regularly are all impressive, but the folks who solved those problem had the benefit of a problem to solve. Walter Fredrick Morrison had a plastic lid from a popcorn container and from that, he created one of the most famous toys there is: the Frisbee.

I'm not unlike anyone else in that from time to time, I'll have an idea for an invention that seems worthy and marketable. Like most everyone else, I wouldn't know where to start. Morrison had the courage to stick his neck out for a simple plastic disc, and I find that amazing.

Morrison died this week at age 90.

The worst shrapnel I'll probably ever see

There probably aren't many people who read my story in the Bangor Daily News today about a Jump Rope for Heart event at a local elementary school. A lot of journalists I know wouldn't cover such an event unless told to by an editor. In a world where there is corruption, greed and tragedy everywhere, not to mention an endless supply of positive stories, assignments like this fall by the wayside too often.

But I had a couple free hours, so I went. I talked to the teachers and a representative from the American Heart Association, but what I was really looking for was any reporter's biggest challenge in an elementary school: finding a kid who will open up a little.

I was also the photographer, so I threaded my way through the gymnasium taking pictures. Jump ropes twirled and slapped the floor all around me as the kids rotated between four jumping stations. At one point I saw a girl I'd interviewed starting to jump over a long rope swung by two friends. Next to them was another team. Hoping to find a position in time to take the girl's picture, I tried to squeeze between the two swinging ropes. One of them hit me on the right shoulder and the other struck my left ear. Both teams had to stop and start over.

At that moment I thought of some reporters I know who cover wars and natural disasters, or who have spent time in prison. I know an African reporter who has been tortured and an American who has been held hostage. I'm honored to know those people and proud of how they represent our profession. They're heroes.

I don't know whether I'll ever see a war zone or natural disaster, but I do know that yesterday I was grateful that the worst shrapnel I've ever seen consisted of two jump ropes.

For a dog I've never met

I've never met Mabel the dog, but this week I sent her a small donation.

Mabel is the beloved pooch of Mandy, a member of my high school class. I can't say that Mandy and I have ever been close friends, but I've always admired her for many reasons. To start with, she was and is beautiful, which will catch the attention of any adolescent or teenage boy, including me. She was popular and definitely a member of what I considered a brat pack of girls and guys who resided in the upper crust of popularity.

Mandy was different than some of them, though. Despite the fact that she could choose her friends, Mandy is the type of person who judges people on a single criterion: their heart and how they use it in the world. After reconnecting on Facebook, she and I worked together a little last summer to organize our 15-year class reunion. I wasn't surprised that she hadn't changed.

Mabel, pictured above, was a frequent character in Mandy's Facebook posts and it was clear that my old friend was smitten with her four-legged roommate.

A couple of months ago, Mabel fell ill. Cancer. One of her rear legs was recently amputated. You can read Mabel's story here.

I've never met Mabel and it'll probably be years before I see Mandy again, but I was compelled to throw a few dollars their way. Though it was undoubtedly too small to pay for much of Mabel's treatment, I considered my donation to be a little nudge to the wheel of what comes around goes around.

Maybe you'll give the wheel another push?

When he grows up

Caleb and I were listening to some blues by Keb Mo yesterday while driving to the store. He tells me to turn it down so he can say: "Daddy, I'm going to be in a band just like this when I grow up and I'm going to play the organ. Do you know what I'm going to name it?"

"What?" I say.

"Beetle O. Beedle Um Bum."

I laugh. "That's a good name."

"Yeah. I don't think Keb Mo is a very good name for a rocking band."

I trust his judgment.

The wilds of Somerset County

Today I traveled to the town of Bingham in central Somerset County. As I'm prone to do, I took the back way.

Out of Hartland, Route 151 takes you to a wide spot in the road known to locals as the town of Athens. A store that sells groceries and hardware, a couple churches, many farms and a factory that makes wood pellets for heating are the main attractions. Instead of heading west toward Solon, which would have brought me to busy Route 201 and quickly to Bingham, I stayed on Route 151 north through Brighton Plantation.

For a good ten miles, there is almost nothing, not even telephone poles. The first part of the journey brings you steadily uphill, the second back the valley that contains the mighty Kennebec River. Picturesque views peep through the forest on both sides of the road, but they were quickly forgotten when I crested the hill. Suddenly, an expansive blue landscape stretched out in three directions. Lakes and small ponds could be seen looking down, but the eye is tugged toward the horizon, where a series of snow-capped mountain peaks loom toward the sky. These are the White Mountains.

The sudden beauty, as cliche as it sounds, took my breath away. My tires hit gravel on the shoulder of the road until I regained composure and jerked the car back to tar. If I wasn't trying to stay on schedule for my interview, I would've stopped and took it in for a while. I might have even taken some photos. For me, there's something in common between distant mountain ranges, empty oceans and crackling campfires: I could stare at them for hours.

When my family made the move last fall from beautiful coastal Bath, some people wondered why we'd trade that pristine environment for ultra-rural central Maine. If they could see a view like the one that startled me today on an barren road through out-of-the-way towns, they'd have their answer.

Hush little baby

Caleb's day care provider is sick today, so he's home with me until noontime, when I'll take him to pre-kindergarten class.

I was doing some interviews for work this morning and he was in the other room playing his electric piano and singing. "I hear some nice singing in the background," said the University of Maine professor I was on the phone with. After the call I asked Caleb what he was doing.

"I'm practicing some new lullabies so we can make a bedtime CD for the baby," he said. "Daddy, can we use your recorder?"

The recorder is a small digital voice recorder I use sometimes for complicated interviews or press conferences. I told him if he keeps practicing I'd help him make the CD, and I will. So far he has three songs, any of which would make a fantastic lullaby.

He's going to be such a great big brother. Nearly every day he suggests a name. His favorites so far are Autumn for a girl and Jason or Rusty for a boy. He has a pile of books he's grown out of set aside for the baby, as well as some toys. He's full of questions about the baby and has been to all of our ob/gyn appointments so far. After he hears the heartbeat, he talks about it all the way home.

I can't wait to see Caleb holding and feeding the baby, helping with baths and running away when it's diaper time. Part of me worries that he'll have a hard time adjusting to sharing our attention, but the other part of me thinks he'll be so busy tending to the baby that he won't notice.

We'll see, I guess.

Seth "Superman" Koenig

My good pal Seth Koenig, a reporter at The Times Record in Brunswick, is on fire. He recently won 2009 Journalist of the Year for the Maine Press Association. Over the weekend, he won 2009 Journalist of the Year for the New England Press Association.

Seth's greatest strengths are the pride he has in his work and the teamwork attitude he brings to work every day. He has sacrificed a lot in his years at The Times Record: a barely livable wage, countless hours away from his family and an ever-expanding beat to cover.

I sort of recruited Seth to my former beat at The Times Record; he took over when I left Maine in the summer of 2006 for a journalism fellowship at Harvard University. I knew he had the potential to overtake me and just about every other journalist in Maine in terms of accomplishments, but I didn't anticipate he'd make such quick work of it. I predict that later this year, perhaps in early May, Seth will add some other major accomplishments to his acumen.

Well done, Seth!