by  Peter Cates

Angel of Death by Jack Higgins; Putnam, 1995, 311 pages.

A thriller from 20 years ago.

I offer a passage that conveys the narrative page-turning power/humor of this book:

“Mullin took Dillon back to the entrance, and as he opened the Judas gate, there was a hollow booming sound in the distance.

“What was that?” Dillon said in alarm.

“Only a bomb, nothing to get alarmed about, my wee man. Did you wet your pants then?”

He laughed as Dillon stepped outside, was still laughing as he closed the door. Dillon paused on the corner. The first thing he did was peel away the moustache above his lip, then he removed the rain hat from his pocket, unrolled it, and took out a short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver, which he slipped into his waist band against the small of his back.

He put the hat on as the rain increased. “Amateurs,” he said softly. “What can you do with them?” and he walked rapidly away.

All types of story possibilities are suggested by this passage, only four pages into the novel. A U.S. Senator Patrick Keogh has agreed to negotiate a cease fire between IRA and loyalist Ulster groups in the Northern Ireland of the mid-’90s. Meanwhile, a very secret group, the January 30th gang has targeted the senator for termination as part of a larger plan to create horrible chaos by a series of random murders, with zero consistency, and thus heightening the element of terror among the finest investigative agencies.

Since 1959, novelist Jack Higgins, now 87 and living on Jersey, which is part of the Channel Islands, has penned 84 novels, of which 21 feature the ex-IRA gunman/now good guy, Sean Dillon, a very formidable, resourceful and, when necessary, ruthless agent. Angel of Death was his fourth appearance and the story cuts more quickly to the chase than the time to open this book for reading purposes. No more spoilers – get it!

by Roland D. Hallee

Arguably the most exciting time in the U.S. auto industry was the muscle car era. Although purists will make their case that it began with the 1948 Oldsmobile Rocket 88, most car enthusiasts, including myself, will point to the 1964 Pontiac GTO.

The GTO actually evolved from the Pontiac Tempest that was introduced as an entry-level compact in September 1960. It would later drop the moniker Tempest in favor of the LeMans line, which was an upgrade feature for those who wanted a more deluxe coupe. I owned a 1963 LeMans. The engine was a 195-cubic-inch 4-cylinder engine named the “Trophy 4” because it was derived from the right cylinder bank of Pontiac’s 389 cubic-inch V8. The engine produced enough horsepower to out perform rival Ford’s 6-cylinder engine.
Originally, in 1964 and 1965, Pontiac offered the GTO as an optional package.

By the early 1960s, General Motors management banned divisions from being involved in auto racing. With that ban on factory-sponsored racing, Pontiac’s managers began to emphasize street performance.

The GTO was the creation from an upcoming second-generation Pontiac Tempest with a larger 389 cubic inch V8 engine from the full-sized Catalina and Bonneville. By promoting the big-engine Tempest as a special high performance model, they could appeal to the younger, speed-minded market, which Ford was at the time preparing the sporty Ford Mustang variant of the second generation Falcon.

The name, which has been tossed around for years, was inspired by the Ferrari 250 GTO, the successful race car. It is an Italian abbreviation for Gran Turismo Omologato, or “officially certified for racing in the grand tourer class.”

Sales manager Frank Bridge, who did not believe it would find a market, insisted on limiting initial production to 5,000 cars. His prediction proved wrong as the GTO package sold a total of 32,450 cars in 1964.

The Tempest line, including the GTO, was redesigned in 1965, adding 3.1 inches to the overall length while maintaining the same wheelbase. It included a simulated hood scoop. A seldom seen dealer-installed option consisted of a metal underhood pan and gaskets to open the scoop, making it a cold air intake. Its effectiveness was questioned, but it allowed more of the engine’s roar to escape.

In 1966, GTO became a separate Pontiac model instead of being an option package of the Tempest LeMans. The entire body was restyled that year, gaining more curves to the sheet metal to give it the “Coke bottle” look that was popular at the time. Sales increased to 96,946 that year, the highest production figure for all GTO years. Although Pontiac had strenuously promoted the GTO in advertising as the “GTO Tiger,” it became better known in the youth market as the “goat.”

The 1967 model brought on few styling changes. The louvered-covered tail lights were replaced with eight tail lights, four on each side. Rally II wheels with colored lug nuts were also available. The grill was changed from a purely split grill, to one that shared some chrome. A total of 81,722 units were manufactured that year.

More changes came in 1968 with a redesigned A-body that included a more curvaceous, semi-fastback styling. The overall length of the car was reduced by 5.9 inches. The concealed headlights were a popular option. More innovations were the hidden windshield wipers and the hood mounted tachometer.

In 1968, “The Judge” was introduced. It had a Ram Air III engine, Rally II wheels, Hurst shifter with a unique T-shaped handle, wider tires, various decals and a rear mounted spoiler.

When I was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, my bunk mate had a “Judge” and we made frequent trips to visit his relatives in  Georgia and Florida. We usually made good time on the trips, until one day, reaching speeds of 110 mph, we were unable to outrun a county sheriff in a souped-up 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle 396. The car was unmarked, and we had no way of knowing he was a sheriff’s deputy. He let us off easy.

More design changes came in 1970, doing away with the hidden headlights in favor of four exposed round ones. The nose retained the protruding vertical prow theme, although it was less prominent.

By now, there were other manufacturers competing for the muscle car market: the Oldsmobile 442, Ford Boss Mustang, Buick Gran Sport, Dodge Charger and the Mercury Cougar, just to name a few.

The only time I actually owned a muscle car was when I convinced my wife that the Olds 442 was a family car. Mine was a 1966 version, but that’s a story for another time.
The Judge was still available in 1970, but with an option of the 455-cubic-inch V8 engine. But, by now, sales of the GTO began to decline, and the new styling did little to help sales. Punitive surcharges by insurance companies, and the increase in gasoline prices began to take its toll on the entire muscle car market.

By 1971, the GTO received another facelift, similar to the LeMans, which I purchased that year. It was the closest I ever came to owning a GTO. The LeMans came with a 350-cubic-inch engine.

By now, the wife was a little wiser.

David Pearson drove a 1971 GTO in the NASCAR Winston Cup series that year.

In 1972, the GTO reverted from a separate model line to that of being an option package for the LeMans.

New federal regulations in 1973 didn’t lend well for the GTO either. Laws now stipulated that front and rear bumpers had to be capable of withstanding 5-mile-per-hour impacts with no damage to the body. The result was the use of prominent and heavy chrome bumpers. The overall styling of the 1973 Pontiac was generally not well received by the car buying public.

In contrast, the Pontiac Grand Prix and Chevrolet Monte Carlo were better received because of the their squared-off style and formal rooflines. Oldsmobile also received better reviews with the Cutlass.

The 1974 model then underwent drastic changes, which in my opinion was the beginning of the demise of the GTO when it was turned into an entry into the compact muscle market made popular by the Plymouth Duster, Ford Maverick and AMC Hornet. Pontiac moved the GTO to the compact Pontiac Ventura, which shared its sheet metal with the Chevrolet Nova.
Sales were an improvement over 1973, at 7,058 but not enough to justify continuing the model.

During the 1999 Detroit Auto Show, a GTO concept car with a heritage-inspired ”Coke-bottle” shape, grille and hood scoop, was introduced to the world. It was only a design experiment and had no engine.

In 2004, the Pontiac GTO was relaunched in the U.S. market in the form of a rebadged, third-generation Holden Monaro. The revival prompted executives to import a Holden Commodore-based vehicle. Even though it was one of the best vehicles that GM offered at the time, it could not be purchased in the United States. It was determined that importing the car from Australia could be a profitable venture.

GM had high expectations to sell 18,000 units, but the Monaro-based GTO received a lukewarm reception in the U.S. The styling was frequently derided by critics as being too conservative and anonymous to befit the GTO heritage. Given the newly-revived muscle car climate, it was also overshadowed by the Chrysler 300, Dodge Charger, Dodge Magnum and the new Ford Mustang, which featured more traditional muscle car aesthetics. Only 13,569 Monaros were sold in 2004.

The GTO continued to exist until it was announced in 2006 by GM the general manager that 2006 would be the last model year for GTO. The explanation was the inability to meet new airbag deployment standards for 2007. The final production numbers for the 2006 model were 13,948, an increase from 11,069 the previous year.

The last Pontiac GTO came off the assembly line in Australia on June 4, 2006.

Next time, more muscle cars.

by Roland D. Hallee

I know I’ve written about gray squirrels in the past, but, I have to tell you about the two in particular that have made their home in my backyard. High in a tree, overlooking the garage, sits a large squirrels’ nest where these two reside. You rarely see them together, but when you do, it’s a comedy act rivaled by none.

I refer to them as my cultured squirrels. They have done such amazing things, that I have dubbed them Martha and Stewart because of some of their etiquettes.

For starters, my backyard is peppered with black chestnut pits. I learned a long time ago those nuts are a staple for these scavenging rodents. Annually, my wife and I visit a cemetery in China where there are horse chestnut trees. We gather a bagful and feed them to the squirrels, a little at a time.

Well, the black chestnuts were a mystery until about 10 years ago when I learned there is a black chestnut tree in the middle of Waterville, about 150 yards from my house – by the way the crow flies. These squirrels obviously make that journey to ac­quire those nuts, stash them in the nest, and discard the pits. I have to rake up the pits because the last thing I need is another tree growing in my backyard.

We watch them frolic around, chasing each other up and around the large pines in the backyard. We even hear them running across the peak of the roof to our house in the early mornings. Once recently, they actually looked like they were dancing on our porch railing. I had never seen that before, but there they were, face-to-face, with front feet wrapped around each other like they were about to dance to a Mozart waltz.

But, what had transpired before that was what really astonishes me. Next to the porch, on a bench, are my trash cans. One metal, one plastic. Now, quite a while ago, the squirrels had chewed a hole through the plastic lid. I repaired the hole and it stayed that way for about a year and a half. The other morning, I noticed the patch was removed. So, I applied another. Meanwhile, my wife and I did some sorting of various foods in the pantry, and discovered a container of some outdated crackers – mini crackers about the size of a nickel. We bagged them with the rest of the weekly trash, and deposited the bag into the trash can outside for Friday’s pickup.

A few days later, I noticed one of the squirrels sitting upright on the railing, chomping away on what looked like one of the crackers. So, I couldn’t help but sit and watch his next move. Sure enough, from my vantage point, I could see where this squirrel didn’t bother to undo the repaired patch, he chewed a new hole through the lid. He jumped off the railing, went down the hole into the trash can, and came out with another cracker. I watched him do that about six times before he noticed me, and left the area.

I went outside, looked inside the trash can, and the bag containing the crackers was split open. So I placed a brick temporarily over the hole. Here’s my question: How did that squirrel know that crackers were present in a plastic bag, tied securely at the top, and deposited into a plastic trash receptacle, with the lid snapped on tightly?

It boggles my mind how keen a sense of smell these little critters have.

I wrote this column last Thursday, and thought I was finished. Well, Martha or Stewart, were back to their old tricks. I spotted one of them sitting on the railing licking a paper muffin cup. My wife and I had muffins for breakfast that morning, and he was cleaning up the leftovers. Then, I noticed in front of him, a K-cup from our Keurig coffee making machine, which it had opened at the top, and was literally having coffee grounds with his muffin. I couldn’t tell if it had a pinky in the air while doing this.

It had enlarged the hole where the brick was sitting on top of the trash can, and gone inside to help himself. Normally, that bin would have been empty, but I had missed the trash pickup the previous week, giving Mr. or Mrs. Squirrel the luxury of two trash bags to pillage through.

The trash is now gone, so I guess the next step is to dispose of the plastic can, and purchase another metal one. I don’t mind feeding the squirrels, but my trash is personal.

by Katie Ouilette

WALLS, you, better than anyone, knows that a daily newspaper is supposed to tell you all the news-of-interest every day. But, some interesting information  came into our possession during Lew’s and my travels from Yarmouth, on Friday. Yes, The Town Line was available to us and, faithful readers, my apologies for saying Gerald Marble was, once, director of the Skowhegan’s State Fair, when, in speaking of son Russell spending his first paycheck on the hand-blown glass boat he purchased for me.  Yes, WALLS, I goofed, because it was Roy Symonds, that I should have given the credit to.  Well, you faithful readers can blame my mistake on my age, but I will say that both Gerald and Roy walked our Skowhegan downtown with the same sense of respect being accorded from town folk. Yes, I do remember both men……..do you?

Another happenstance really awakened my memories when the Woolen Mill in Sangerville was written about in a newspaper. Believe me, WALLS, I thought of the wooden spools on the shelf in our living room that came from the Maine Spinning Company. Maine Spinning’s building still stands on The Island and was significant for the military’s woolen materials made at our American Woolen Mills. Unless you faithful readers are close to my age, you don’t know how important the people who worked in our local mills and shoe factories were in the World Wars.

When Lew and I entered the Red Barn Restaurant, in Augusta, our memories awaked of all wars that our USA has been involved in, as we saw a tribute to Togus and its soon to celebrate its beginning.  Wow, how well I remember being in Garfield School, in Skowhegan, and our marching to downtown with flags in our hands…..flags to be waved as our National Guard had marched from the, once, Baptist Church in Skowhegan’s Bloomfield, ‘the original Skowhegan’ on our town’s Main Street.  Yes, those brave young men were marching to our Maine Central Railroad and the railroad cars that would take them to their ‘shipping-out locale’ and World War II.   Yes, we have our Civil War Governor, Abner Coburn to be grateful to for the MCRR.

At the post office, I received a reunion reminder from my alma mater.  Yes, when Dr. George Young’s daughter attended Colby Junior College, he read the X-rays that had to be taken there for Dartmouth Medical College and, you bet, that brought memories of Dr. Young’s son and his beginning Yonder Hill Campground on the Lakewood Road. Well, faithful readers, most folks couldn’t believe anyone would want to spend time at a campground, but Yonder Hill now has its third owner and it is known as Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park at Yonder Hill.

Y’know, WALLS, don’t you agree that memories that come alive through our years keep us aware of our importance on this trip
through life and, at the same time, understand that  those who don’t have the memories yet, will have them for all their tomorrows.

A few minutes ago I listened to ‘old songs of my era’ on MPTV.  Yes, lots of memories in those songs, too.