Jameson is sitting in his favorite rocking chair on the front porch of his house. There is a hint of spring in the air, but it’s still chilly enough to warrant a coat, in this case, his old, worn Barbour field jacket. He puts his hand in the pocket and feels the three small stones that have lived there for more than a decade: a flat piece of black shale from an old quarry, a small piece of white quartz in the shape of a heart, and a tiny ovular piece of green granite worn smooth by the North Sea. They’re each from Scotland and Jameson keeps them close to remember a place he loves and a time when he finally came clear of the past and was ready to begin again.
It has been six years since Jameson found Chestertown, a quaint, historic town over on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Or (better yet) since Chestertown found Jameson. It was love at second sight: he had crossed the little bridge over the Chester once before many years ago to visit Washington College with his daughter but left without much of an impression—or so he thought. But when he and his wife (Yes! Wife!) serendipitously circled back here on an unseasonably warm December day late in 2011, Jameson knew in his bones that this place was the magnet of his soul. The alchemy was inexplicable but true; his long road would unwind from here.
Jameson loves this old porch; it’s his open window on town life. People walk by and pleasantries are invariably exchanged. There is always small talk in a small town so if chat were currency, then Jameson would be rich as Croesus. Alas! Instead, he banks good friends, natural splendor, and a pace of living that fosters an appreciation of both. It’s so much more than enough.
Jameson hears something. He leans forward and looks up: high above, an airborne armada of geese are heading north; the mandala of life is continuing to turn. On days like this, Jameson feels something akin to a physical connection to the timeless and natural order of the cosmos that never seems to happen elsewhere. Just like the good folk who pass by on the street, the V formations in the sky are purveyors of useful information: “time to go; winter is done; we’ll be back come fall.”
By the time the geese return, Jameson will have turned seventy, another impossible-to-imagine mile-marker on the well-worn path that has led him to this time and place. When Jameson bought this quaint little house that sometimes leans right, sometimes left, President Obama was in the White House; now Jameson can’t bring himself to even think about the current reprobate occupant. Such a sad and dangerous fall from grace! Jameson fingers the stones in his pocket in search of some small comfort.
Sipping his morning coffee, Jameson knows full well how lucky he is, how lucky he has been all his life. Now the three small stones in his pocket move like prayer beads for he is grateful beyond measure: a happy childhood; children and grandchildren; a second chance at marriage; good friends, good work, and a world of memories. Redemption and renewal. This porch, this house, this town.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with homes in Chestertown and Bethesda. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy magazine. “A Place to Stand,” a book of photographs and essays about Landon School, was published by the Chester River Press in 2015. A collection of his essays titled “Musing Right Along” was released in May and is already in its second printing. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.
Vieth says
I love this post, Jameson.
XO,
Amy
Bob Moores says
Musings like this make Jameson my favorite writer and philosopher.