There are two basic ways in which human beings make decisions. Either we act based on our fears, or we respond to our visions and dreams by planning — if only in incremental steps — for our future.

For more than three decades, those of us who live in Biddeford have wrestled with the dilemma of having a trash-to-energy incinerator located smack dab in the middle of our downtown.

In retrospect, it certainly would appear the decision to locate the Maine Energy Recovery Company on the banks of the Saco River was a short-sighted, reactionary move based on short-term objectives. But at the time, it seemed like a great opportunity, and few people remember that both Biddeford and Saco were competing to have the incinerator located in their community.

Today, we have the luxury of 20-20 hindsight, not to mention the harsh realization that the decision made 30 years ago was executed without the benefit of all the anecdotal knowledge and hard data that comes with burning trash in the midst of an area striving for economic redevelopment.

It makes sense that I am spending so much time lately looking back at 1982. It was a pivotal time in my life. In June, I graduated from high school and it was exactly 30 years ago today — on July 2 — that I reported to Lackland Air Force Base for my first day of basic training.

When I left Saco, there was no MERC….when I returned home many weeks later, I was greeted by the unmistakable presence of a new stack looming over the horizon of my hometown. It was designed by General Electric and our downtown was all but abandoned, lost in the rush of interstate expansion and a sprawling retail mall located just 15 minutes up the road.

Some downtown businesses — Reilly’s Bakery, Youlands and others — survived, but many others did not. Eli the Cobbler, Murphy’s Music and McKenney & Heard are today nothing more than faint and fond memories. The same goes for Butler’s, Woolworth’s, the Children’s Shop, Polakewich’s, Nichol’s….that list is endless.

MERC did not kill downtown Biddeford, but it also didn’t provide much relief for a patient that was already on life support.

Things change…it is the only constant; and today Biddeford is a much different community than it was in 1982.

I have had my fill of looking back, of yanking out the scrapbooks of my subconscious memory. I am also weary of the fear and the constant worry of an uncertain financial future that seems to be the fodder for cable news and talk radio hosts.

I was working as the editor of the Courier when Biddeford Blankets announced its abrupt closing. I remember going down there to cover the story, and I will never forget the experience of speaking with the hundreds of suddenly displaced employees who were grappling with the unpleasant reality of an unknown future.

They stood in the parking lot, huddled in small groups, backs against the biting winds of an early winter. They hugged one another, glanced backward at the buildings where they toiled and slowly made their way home.

Biddeford was shifting again. It wasn’t much longer before the WestPoint mill was also shuttered.

Looking at those brick mill buildings, those icons of my hometown’s past, it was hard — if not impossible — back then to imagine what life would be like without those places. But Biddeford, especially its people, are strong and resilient.

The city survived, and new life began creeping back to those mills.

So, yes…I am weary of the rear view mirror and the fears of the unknown. I want to stop looking back and begin looking forward.

Where will Biddeford be 10, 20 or even 30 years from now? What unimagined potential lies along the river’s banks? Can I see this city the way it was viewed by the people who settled here more than 300 years ago?

Am I a man of vision or fear? Thirty years from now, when my son is 47, will he respect the decision his father made?

The bottom line: are we better with or without a trash incinerator in the middle of our downtown? Are we tired of the problem? Are we willing to take the steps needed to solve that problem?

Tomorrow evening (July 3), we will all have the opportunity to weigh in about a proposal crafted by the city of Biddeford and MERC’s owners to finally close the facility. It is a complex proposition, and I invite you and everyone else to learn more about the plan, its benefits… and yes, its consequences.

You can read, print and download all the documents by visiting the city’s website; and you can also find all those documents and much more information, including Frequently Asked Questions and recent media stories about the plan by visiting a site set up by the Biddeford-Saco Chamber of Commerce by clicking this link: closemercplan.org

I hope to see you at City Theater on Tuesday night. Regardless of how you feel about the proposal, your voice matters. And I hope you will join me in looking forward without fear.

Disclosure Notice: I am a resident of Biddeford, but I also provide professional consulting services to Casella Waste Systems, the company that owns and operates MERC.

This evening, a 30-year saga in Biddeford may finally come to a close. The Biddeford City Council will vote in just a couple of hours on a proposal that calls for purchasing and closing the MERC facility, a trash-to-energy facility located in our downtown area.

The 7 p.m. meeting will be held at the Biddeford Middle School.

Before I go any further, you probably already know, but it bears repeating that I provide professional consulting services to MERC’s parent company, Casella Waste Systems.

But  I am also a Biddeford taxpayer who grew up in this community, and I have been vocal about this issue for a long time, years before I provided consulting services to MERC’s parent company.

With that bit of disclosure out of the way, I am hoping that regardless of how you feel about the pending agreements, you will participate vigorously in the public process.

As the editor of the Biddeford-Saco Courier, I reluctantly encouraged a YES vote on the 2005 referendum that called for Biddeford and Saco to enter into an agreement to buy and eventually close MERC for $30 million, contingent on the state providing $10 million of funding.

Today, the proposed purchase price is considerably lower, but that does NOT mean there will be no tax impacts. As a taxpayer, I am acutely aware of the difficult economy and the struggles our community faces in the days, weeks and years ahead.

But please allow me to be clear, there will be a tax impact because of MERC, whether these agreements are signed or rejected.

For example, according to analysis provided by the city of Biddeford, the tax impact of this deal would represent a $77/year tax increase for a homeowner with a property valued at $200,000. If this deal is rejected, the same homeowner would see an annual tax increase of roughly $66/year, when considering the fact that we would still need a new waste handling contract and higher tipping fees.

The city’s financial data and more information about this proposal can be found on the city’s website http://biddefordmaine.org and lots more information, including downloadable copies of the agreements and a recent media archive about the proposal can be found at a website hosted by the Biddeford-Saco Chamber of Commerce at http://closemercplan.org

Is getting rid of MERC, its stigma, the lingering concerns about potential health and environmental impacts and the opportunity for vigorous and robust downtown development worth $11/year (91 cents a month)? I say YES.

It’s the middle of July, and we all have things we would rather be doing than attending a public hearing, but this is our fourth bite at this apple. The state is watching; our neighbors are watching. It is now time for us to ask ourselves, what are we going to do to solve our problem?

The loss of tax revenue will be significantly offset (not completely) by increases from state revenue sharing, increase in state education subsidies and decreases in our county taxes.

We will still have a tipping rate well below (roughly 50%) what is paid by our neighbors and many other communities.

The purchase is being offered at zero interest over 20 years; and the tax impacts are significantly reduced in the first few years as our community works to redevelop the area and attract new businesses. The purchase price will be buffered by cell phone tower contracts and TIF revenues.

The recycling contract that is part of this deal is less than what our neighbors across the river are paying for the same service.

Financially speaking, it’s difficult to imagine us getting a better deal, but I encourage you to do your own research and make up your own mind.

During last week’s council workshop meeting, members of the city’s negotiating team made one point that everyone should consider: Casella intends to get out of the incineration business, with or without this deal. Their business model focuses on recycling.

Biddeford is being given first offer. Another operator could decide to use the facility as a biomass plant (construction and demolition debris), or as a waste plant; but will they have the financial capacity and resources that Casella has? Will they seek a property tax abatement, considering a bargain selling price?

Make no mistake, I am also worried about MERC’s employees, but we have seen this community rebound before; and are we prepared to sacrifice our future and potential for roughly 75 jobs that will soon be ending, one way or another?

The bottom line? Will  Biddeford be better off with or without MERC operating in the heart of our downtown? Answer that question for yourself, and please take an active role in this hugely important issue for our community and its future.

I hope to see you on Tuesday, July 17, and I invite your questions or feedback.

Related: Fear and loathing in Biddeford

Thirty years.

Where does the time go?

A couple of weeks ago, I took a seat on the patio at the Run of the Mill restaurant in Saco. It was a beautiful weekday afternoon, and the sun was slowly setting against the backdrop of old mill buildings struggling for new life in a new world.

If you had asked me 30 years ago, I doubt that I could have imagined being there, not to mention the people I was sitting with. The faces seemed familiar, just 30 years older. They looked old. It all seemed surreal. I did not belong there.

There were plenty of stories, and lots more memories shared around the table. The beer tasted good, and the river rushed by, paying no attention to these former classmates planning a reunion. I kept up with the conversation but my mind traveled back in time.

It was 30 years ago this weekend that we awkwardly marched two-by-two down center court to the waiting headmaster and our much-anticipated diplomas. I doubt that any one of us would have imagined where we would be or what we would be doing on this particular afternoon thirty years into the future. This day was then so far into the future; so far beyond our imaginations.

They call high school graduation ceremonies “commencement exercises.” We are told that this is not the end; it is the beginning of the rest of our lives.

What a crock. Things end, and new things begin. It has always been this way.

We laughed and sighed, telling stories about the places we had been and the things we remembered.

But some things never change. I didn’t fit in then, and I don’t quite fit in now.  The only difference (besides my profound loss of hair) is the fact that it doesn’t matter that much. Ok, so maybe a little . . . but I digress.

I do not think of myself as someone who is pushing 50. In my mind, I am 35…maybe 36…so what am I doing with these old fuckers, talking about kids, careers and long ago memories?

I drove home that evening, wondering why we put so much effort into reunions; into recreating memories and reminiscing with people who are really no longer connected to one another other than the fact that they all gathered in one particular high school gymnasium on one particular day in 1982.

It was eight years ago this weekend that Laura and I closed on our house in Biddeford. One of the first things I did was unpack a scrap piece of lumber with small notations written on it. I held that stick up against a piece of the door frame in the unfinished part of our basement, and I meticulously copied the notations, according to name, height and date.

It was a trick I learned from my great-grandmother, Cleo, more commonly known as Nana. When I was a young boy, I visited Nana every Saturday morning at her second-floor apartment on Pearl Street in Biddeford. Nana spoiled me rotten.

At first, it was visits after Saturday morning Catechism classes at St. Mary’s; and then it became the much-anticipated end of my newspaper route that stretched from Franklin Street in Saco to Pine Street in Biddeford and included all of Gooch Island.

There were invariably pizzas from Mr. T’s and plenty of Boston Creme donuts from Dunkin’ Donuts.  It’s a small miracle that I do not weigh 350 pounds.  Those edible delights were all served to me on a TV tray in the living room so that I didn’t have to miss an action-packed moment of The League of Justice or Sealab 2020. There were no DVRs back then.

But there is no Nana today, and you can have my DVR for just one more of those Saturday mornings. Nana loved me unconditionally, no questions . . . no admission price… I was her son’s grandson, and that lineage came with perks that rival those bestowed upon Great Britain’s royal family.

Of course, I dutifully ran Nana’s Saturday errands…a payment on the account at Doyon’s Pharmacy, picking up a piece of cleaned jewelery at Youland’s or getting a new plunger at McKenney &  Heard. And before I left to head back across the river to my boyhood home, I would stood against the closet door that Nana marked at least each month. With a ruler and a pen she notched that door with my height to measure my growth. It was her archive: evidence of what she achieved and why she worked so hard for all those years.

So, I did the same thing with Tim and Matthew when we were all living in that tiny Old Orchard Beach bungalow. But how could I keep those memories alive when we decided to sell our home? I grabbed a piece of a lumber, a pen and a level. I then carefully marked that scrap of wood so that I could carry it forward into our brave new world.

It is a world that has changed dramatically since 1982. There was no MERC. Those downtown mill buildings were still (although waning) epicenter of manufacturing. People actually drove Ford Pintos with wood panels. Van Halen was a relatively new band, and we listened to that music on cassette tapes. There were no answering machines or blogs.

We remember so that we do not forget. We reminisce because it reminds us of our shared and fragile connections.

There is comfort in ritual; there is innocence in nostalgia, and there is the sudden realization that change is certainly incremental, yet never-ending.

Anything will grow in June, when it’s very easy to forget that the days will soon again become much less long.

Our relationship has always been somewhat strained.

There is an edge, a certain wariness. Something that neither of us talk about.

Sometimes, we just struggle through it. But more often than not we just let it hang in the air, a cloud of mistrust, fear and the evolving realization that we are more alike than either of us can imagine.

Today, he seems different. More confident, relaxed.

Me? Not so much, save for a recent dose of clarity.

Today is his 15th birthday, but it was earlier this week that Matthew became a man; that he became what I always knew he could be.

And  I could not be more proud of him.

It was a warm day, a holiday. There was another lawn that needed to be mowed.

The Rent-A-Teenager program we started just a few days before was flourishing. The phone was ringing off the hook, and both Tim and Matt were adjusting to the sudden influx of responsibility and the world of work.

Tim, my oldest son, was grumpy and tired. He was dragging and stalling.

I did what I do best: I got frustrated. “We committed to this job,” I barked. “When we say we’re going to do something, we do it!”

Tim shrugged. It was a job he committed to, but he was not feeling well and wanted some more time to wake up before leaving.

I had my own struggles. I had planned a window of time to help the kids with their business, but I had lots of other plans and the clock was ticking. There was a barbecue with friends, bills to be paid, laundry . . .

Another 10 minutes went by, and I loaded the mower in the truck. Tim was sullen, angry. “If you won’t do it, I will,” I huffed.

Matthew watched the exchange between me and his brother without commentary. He had the day off. He had his own holiday plans.

As I was backing the truck out of the driveway, he flagged me down. “I’ll do it, Dad,” he said.

We rode to the job site in our typical silence. I was concerned. It was a good-sized lawn, and I assumed most of it would fall on my shoulders.

I was judging Matthew the boy. I did not realize then that I was riding with Matthew the man.

We got to the site, and I gave him the instructions. He listened carefully before helping unload the mower, the trimmer and a push-broom.

To stay on schedule, I started the trimming, but kept a careful eye on Matthew with the lawn mower. I have high expectations. I am demanding.

But Matthew never wavered. He was sweating in the direct sun, but kept the lines straight. His eyes were fixed on the ground before him, carefully watching for rocks. He never stopped. He never paused. He never complained.

When he finished the mowing, he carefully inspected his work before sweeping the walkway without me telling him to do it.

He wanted that lawn to look good, perfect.

We returned home in silence. Two men who just finished a job. A father and a son.

The silence was comfortable, familiar for both of us.

I snuck a glance at him in the passenger seat of my truck. He was smiling. And then it dawned on me: He had become everything I wanted him to be: a hard worker, honest, ethical and polite.

I have known Matthew since he was four years old. God had given me an amazing gift. I just saw a boy become a man, and that is a rare thing to witness.

Matthew saw a job that needed to be done. His family needed his help. Without question, without hesitation, he stepped up and delivered.

Matthew and Tim are brothers, but they are not the same.

My relationship with Tim has always been easier, less awkward . . . more natural.

Tim is instinctively courageous and confident. He can fix anything. He is handsome, tough and cool. The self-appointed defender of the weak who is always ready to push the envelope.

We call him “Fonzie.” He is everything I was not when I was 17. Just ask my classmates.

I secretly admire him, even when he pushes the envelope just a wee bit too far.

Matthew? Think Richie Cunningham. A bit more shy and not as confident. A gifted writer and artist. Someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. A model student, polite, clean-cut and destined to be anything he wants to be.

Matthew is the kid you want your daughter to date. He is funny, exceptionally smart and ready to blow the SATs out of the water.

Tim embraced me as his father almost immediately. It was not the same with Matthew.

Matt clung to the idea that his biological father and Laura would reunite. He had little use for a demanding stepfather who can lecture with the best of them.

Matthew and I clash because we are both perfectionists, dreamers, procrastinators. We are both overly sensitive and a tad needy at times.

When I saw Matthew,  I saw a mirror.

I’m stupid like that. Matthew is not my reflection. He is his own man. Whatever I could teach him has been taught. He is more than ready for whatever lies ahead; great things, I’m sure.

Happy birthday, Matthew! You are an exceptional man, and I am so very proud of you!