At the funeral, few spoke in honor of my uncle. The shame! After all the man had done for everyone present! When all those tender spoken anecdotes added up to so little, such a mite in a man’s eye, I decided to liven up things in the dead man’s name. Having died almost childless, half-friendless, a loner in a small town far from the bustling metropolis he’d been born into, the thought of him going into oblivion without a proper sendoff, haunted me. So I stood up unsteadily.

Odd how a small thing can stir a huge memory. One Saturday morning, on NPR’s “It’s Only a Game,” the talk had turned to the versatility of a noted sports writer, who was not, said commentator Glenn Stout, “just a one-note pony.” My body jacked bolt upright in its recliner, my Ovaltine sloshed into my lap, and my mind barely choked off an expletive so crude that it is now commonly reserved for strolling gangs of teenage girls. One Note Pony? Who in the name of Gypsy Rose Lee would possibly remember!

Tuneful ponies are, of course, rare, and nowadays seldom noticed.

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Dear LPN editor:

In order to raise extra money for some of the things that keep our dear Lake Pemaquoddy dear, such as the anti-millfoil and loon-counting projects, in addition to the long-established Ice-Out raffle, I hereby propose an extension.

Association members would be invited to estimate (guess) the dates of completion of other local processes about which dates can be estimated (or guessed): e.g., when X will finish shingling the front of his house; when Y, now that he’s insulated his upstairs hall and second bedroom, will sheet-rock them; and when Z will finally clear all the c**p out of his front yard.