MENU

Sections

  • Home
  • About
    • The Chestertown Spy
    • Contact Us
    • Advertising & Underwriting
      • Advertising Terms & Conditions
    • Editors & Writers
    • Dedication & Acknowledgements
    • Code of Ethics
    • Chestertown Spy Terms of Service
    • Technical FAQ
    • Privacy
  • The Arts and Design
  • Local Life and Culture
  • Public Affairs
    • Ecosystem
    • Education
    • Health
  • Community Opinion
  • Donate to the Chestertown Spy
  • Free Subscription
  • Talbot Spy
  • Cambridge Spy

More

  • Support the Spy
  • About Spy Community Media
  • Advertising with the Spy
  • Subscribe
July 9, 2025

Chestertown Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Chestertown

  • Home
  • About
    • The Chestertown Spy
    • Contact Us
    • Advertising & Underwriting
      • Advertising Terms & Conditions
    • Editors & Writers
    • Dedication & Acknowledgements
    • Code of Ethics
    • Chestertown Spy Terms of Service
    • Technical FAQ
    • Privacy
  • The Arts and Design
  • Local Life and Culture
  • Public Affairs
    • Ecosystem
    • Education
    • Health
  • Community Opinion
  • Donate to the Chestertown Spy
  • Free Subscription
  • Talbot Spy
  • Cambridge Spy
3 Top Story Archives Point of View Jamie

Watermelon Time By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 8, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Share

I spent the Fourth of July weekend with family in Rehoboth. It wasn’t the whole clan, just six adults, four sunny days, delicious meals, and a sandy beach. At one point, one of us—no names will be used here—decided he wanted a watermelon mojito for his evening cocktail. Fortunately, the garden delivered, and so, after a post-beach outdoor shower, it was game on.

Personally, I’m not much of a mojito guy and less of a watermelon mojito guy, but I was intrigued. (Please don’t misunderstand: I have nothing against watermelons. A slice of watermelon with a pinch of salt goes a long way with me on a hot summer day, but mixed in a cocktail…meh.) Anyway, this was the first watermelon I had encountered this summer, and I was glad to see its juicy redness which looked like an old friend that would pair well with a sprig of muddled mint and a shot of rum. Maybe worth a try after all…

Think about watermelons: you’re a kid again and you’e holding a big grin of watermelon. It’s an explosion of color, texture, flavor, and juiciness. Messy, too: you can have a seed-spitting contest while the juice dribbles down your chin, staining your white t-shirt. Who cares? It’s summer and you don’t need a shirt anyway.

These days, watermelons are ubiquitous: they are grown in climes from tropical to temperate and there are literally more than a thousand varieties worldwide. They’re old, too: a few years ago, scientists traced 6,000 year-old watermelon seeds found in the Libyan desert back to an ancestor plant in West Africa. But those first watermelons were tart. It took some savvy Romans to figure out how to breed a sweet, pulpy variety.

Watermelons are technically a large fruit with a hard rind surrounding a modified berry called a pepo. They have a high water content (as much as 91% of a watermelon is water!) and can be stored for eating in dry seasons. They arrived in the New World with the Spanish explorers who settled Florida in the 16th Century. A hundred years later, they had found their way up to New England and down to Central and South America. In the Civil War era, they were often cultivated by free black farmers and became a symbol for the abolition of slavery. Sadly, that symbol of freedom morphed into a racist stereotype during the Jim Crow era. Sigh.

Frida Kahlo’s last painting, completed just days before her death in 1954, depicted varieties of watermelons. (It’s the image that accompanies this Musing.) The painting is a fitting and vibrant conclusion to the artist’s short and tragic life, rich in color contrasts, curves, and angles. It also contains a mournful message from the artist: Kahlo inscribed “Vida la Viva”—“Long Live Life!”— on the central melon wedge at the bottom of the canvas, an ironic commentary on her pain-filled existence due to polio, a terrible bus accident, and multiple surgeries.

But perhaps the message isn’t so mournful after all: maybe the artist is showing us that once our own shell is cut open, it reveals an inner life that is vibrant, fresh, and sweet. Also, the many seeds of the watermelon, like those of the pomegranate in Greek mythology, symbolize fertility and immortality. Once the fruit is gone, the seeds carry the promise of new life forward into eternity.

Like a family.

I like that interpretation.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Archives, Jamie

Rabbit, Rabbit. By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 1, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Share

(Author’s Note: This recalls a Musing from December, 2020.)

It just so happens that the first day of this new month falls on a Museday, the weekday formerly known as Tuesday. I hope you all remembered to say “Rabbit Rabbit!” when you woke up this morning. If you did, July will be lucky for you. If you didn’t, you might want to stay in bed for the rest of the month. Just sayin’…

In case you don’t happen to practice rabbit-rabbitology, it works like this: upon waking on the first day of a new month, you must immediately say “Rabbit! Rabbit!” If you do, you’ll have good luck throughout the month. However, if you should happen to forget, well, some things are better left unsaid. Despite what Wikipedia thinks, this is not just a silly superstition; it’s a cold, hard fact—just ask all the lucky individuals who hit the lottery after shouting RABBIT RABBIT like a lunatic on the first day of their lucky month.

Some rabbiteers, especially British ones, believe it’s essential to invoke three rabbits upon waking, not just two. I think that’s a bit of overkill but so what? We need all the luck we can get these days. Who knows? Maybe if I remember to say “Rabbit! Rabbit!” on the first day of August, I’ll wake up to find out these last few months were just a bad dream.

Rabbits, especially ones with cute little feet, have always been associated with good luck. Why is that? Why don’t we have key chains featuring curly pig’s tails or furry llama’s ears? I’m surprised that PETA hasn’t done as much to protect rabbits’ feet as it has to safeguard all those feisty minks from the mean furriers who would make them into fashionable fur coats. My wife has one such coat hidden away in a closet, far from the prying eyes of any anyone who might make her life miserable if she wore it to the grocery store on some frosty winter day. She claims it isn’t really hers —“it belonged to my mother!”—so, of course, she’s not culpable.

Back in the day, we used rabbit ears for better reception on our old black-and-white television sets. Was that because their ears were as lucky as their feet? What about their little cottontails? Aren’t they lucky, too? All the rabbits I know have refused to comment on the matter.

Rabbits abound—as they are wont to do—in literature. Peter bedeviled Mr. McGregor in his garden. Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail are beloved by generations of children, as is Margery Williams’ “Velveteen Rabbit.” It was the White Rabbit, running late as usual, who led Alice down to Wonderland, and that same rabbit caused my generation to tune in to Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane. My own two children loved their tactile storybook “Pat the Bunny,” while I, reader of record in our household, preferred Richard Adams’ debut novel, “Watership Down,” a wonderful story about a nest of rabbits seeking to establish a new home after their old warren was destroyed. That book was rejected seven times before Rex Collings, Ltd, a one-man publishing operation in London, saw the light in 1972. The book won several major awards and became a series on Netflix. How’s that for good luck!!

Some people believe luck is self-made. One works hard or practices hard, and, lo-and-behold, one gets lucky. Maybe, but I prefer to thank those two (or three) little rabbits who are working hard to send a monthly dose of good luck to all those of us who believe in them. I think of them akin to Santa’s elves, laboring away up in their North Pole workshop, big ears and all.

Rabbits have always been symbols of fertility. At Easter, one even shows up with a basket full of colored eggs, a mixed metaphor if ever I saw one. Maybe that’s a rabbit’s dirty little secret: a rabbit can even get lucky with a chicken.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Morning, Noon, and Night By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 24, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Share

Morning:

I know a place where the view never gets old. The back deck faces almost due east, and at daybreak, the sky glows with promise, especially today because we’re at the summer solstice, the first full day of summer and the longest day of the year. There’s both promise and warning here: the forecast promises sunny and warm (but not too warm!) weather, perfect for a wedding ceremony later in the day. But warning, too: we’ve turned another planetary corner and now, we’re headed back into darkness. It will take months to get there, but this turning is as inevitable as it is worrisome. Time is passing…

But let’s just take today as it comes. Two young people will be taking the plunge, joining their lives and families together in ties that bind, no matter what may come. That is worthy of celebration and more— of hope. God knows we need all the hope we can get these days, and so we’ll witness their vows, then sing and dance ’til the cows come home, and since it’s the summer solstice, I’m sure those cows will be celebrating until the wee hours of another morning. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?

Noon:

 There was a time when I believed I was made of iron, and that the universe was a benevolent place, capable of human manipulation. I stood atop mountains and surveyed my domains like Alexander the Great, or Genghis Khan, or even Louis XIV, the “Sun King.” But now I think I was more like Ozymandias, Percy Bysshe Shelley’s fabled “King of Kings,” whose “frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command” said everything there was to say about mortal hubris, but nothing about the ravages of time. When a traveler from an antique land stumbled upon a crumbling statue in the desert, all that remained of Ozymandias’ was his shattered visage and the haunting inscription on the statue’s pedestal: “Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!” On that day, this once great king of kings was trunkless and decayed, a “colossal wreck,” in an empty landscape “boundless and bare,” where “the lone and level sands stretch far away.”

But I didn’t know any of that at my noon. Then, there was more daylight ahead of me than behind, so I went blithely about my own business, deaf to the barely audible ticking of the clock. It seemed to me there was time enough for everything, and everything seemed possible. If there were thunderstorms on the horizon, I didn’t see them coming my way. I just rowed merrily along on a boundless incoming tide, oblivious to rapids that lay upriver.

Night:

And now it’s getting dark, the sun is setting. The evening light glows warm and lovely, but it also hides the stones that lie beneath the surface and the shadows that lurk along the riverbank. I need to find a place to rest for the night.

A few days ago, I learned that someone I once cared for deeply had died. That was bad enough, but to make matters worse, she had died two years ago, the victim of a cruel and relentless disease. And I never knew she was gone; I didn’t feel her passing in my bones. The whispering universe that had once been my friend forgot to tell me of her struggle and pain. I probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything about that, but I just should have known. I would like to have been able to say goodbye to her, if only to myself.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Harambee By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 17, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Share

In the summer of 1968, I was two months shy of my 20th birthday and on my way to Nairobi, Kenya. That, in itself, is a story. I was supposed to be on my way to Haiti to be a volunteer at the Albert Schweitzer Hospital there, but Papa Doc’s repressive regime was under attack and it was deemed unsafe to travel to Haiti. A few months earlier, I had applied for—and received—a summer study grant from my university, so at the last minute, I scrambled for another opportunity, and with a little paternal help, I secured an internship shadowing Kenya’s Minister of the Interior. It was an election year in Kenya, and I wanted to observe how a single-party nation practiced democracy.

If you were around at the time, you may recall that 1968 was an “annus horribilis.” Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated. So had Bobby Kennedy. There was civil unrest in the streets of every major city in America, and protests against the Vietnam War were common front-page news. President Lyndon Johnson had declared he would not seek reelection, a decision that would result in violent clashes between anti-war demonstrators and the Chicago police during the Democratic National Convention in August.

Far away in Kenya, I missed most of the action that hot summer. However, I did have a front-row seat in the theater of Kenyan politics. On several occasions, I accompanied Lawrence Sagini, Kenya’s Minister of the Interior, on visits to small rural villages where he was greeted with dances, songs, and the joyful ululations of women in traditional dress. At every stop, Minister Sagini would deliver a stump speech in Swahili, and two words always rung out loud and clear: “Uhuru” (meaning Freedom or Independence) and “Harambee” (meaning We All Pull Together). Kenya was a relatively new democracy in 1968 —it had only gained its independence five years earlier—so the concept of pulling together toward a common goal was a powerful and galvanizing concept. It permeated every village we visited, even the most visibly disenfranchised ones. If it’s true that (as Tip O’Neal once said) that “all politics is local,” then what I witnessed in those ochre-colored villages was vintage single-party politics at its best.

But sometimes what one sees on the cover of a book isn’t the whole story. Kenya may have been one of the rising stars in the nascent pantheon of African democracy, but beneath all the hope and promise of new statehood, there were serious tensions. There was a residue of anti-colonialist sentiment, a widening gap between the “haves” and the ‘have-nots,” and perhaps most dangerous of all, tribal divisions that ran counter to the promise of Harambee. Kenya’s ruling elite were almost all Kikuyu, the largest and most prominent ethnic group in the country. The Kikuyu had played a significant role in the Mau-Mau rebellion, a central event in Kenya’s struggle for independence, and, as a result, they had come to dominate Kenyan politics.

Tom Mboya was a significant exception to this rule. He was of the Luo people, a small but dynamic ethic group in Kenya’s cultural quilt. He was an extraordinarily charismatic man who had worked with President John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr to create educational opportunities for African students to study in America. (In recognition of his efforts, he was the first Kenyan to appear on the cover of Time Magazine.) In the summer of 1968, Tom Mboya was Kenya’s Minister for Planning and Development, one of the most critical portfolios in a developing country’s government. I remember shaking hands with him at a rally, and I’m not kidding when I tell you that I could literally feel the warmth and power within the man. But, sadly, nothing gold can stay. Less than a year later, Tom Mboya was shot to death in the streets of Nairobi; his murder was either a political assassination or the bloody result of the long-standing rivalry between the Kikuyu and Luo peoples. Like Dr. King and Senator Kennedy, Tom Mboya was another bright candle suddenly and tragically extinguished.

Two days ago, a state senator and her husband were killed in their home in Minnesota; another couple were seriously wounded by the same attacker. Remember that Swahili word  “harambee?” Maybe now, we need to stop tearing each other apart and start pulling together. What do you think?

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Archives, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Keeping Score By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 10, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Share

The fourth hole at Chester River Golf Club is a par three over water. Depending on the pin placement, from the regular tees, a successful shot—one that lands safely on the green—requires a carry of somewhere between 130 and 155 yards, and on many days, the wind makes the hole play a bit longer. It’s a lovely hole, but don’t be fooled: it can bite.

A few years ago, I was playing with my friend Key. I stepped onto the fourth tee, addressed the ball, and sent it—plunk!—to a watery grave. At that point, I had two options: I could hit my next shot from the drop area which was considerably closer to the green, or drop another ball on the tee on the line of my previous shot. Both options carried a one-stroke penalty. I’ll admit that I was frustrated so maybe that’s why I selected the second (and riskier) option. I dropped another ball on the tee, swung, and the ball flew up and away. It landed on the green, took a hop or two, and rolled straight into the hole. Later that afternoon, when I told my guru Eggman about what had happened, he yawned and said, “just another ho-hum par.”

Of course, he was right; my score on the hole was just a three that day. But there are threes and then there are threes, and this three was the latter. Keeping score matters.

I find myself keeping score a lot lately. Not as often on the Chester River golf course, but rather on the golf course of my life. I look back and see the error of my ways, and I remember the few times I hit it in the hole. I have no doubt I am many strokes over par on that particular golf course, but the memory of unexpected, even miraculous, recoveries help to soften the blow.

If keeping score matters, so does forgiveness. Here’s an example of what I mean by that: I am twelve years old, in seventh grade. Remarkably, I am in a front-row seat in Forbes Field watching my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play the vaunted New York Yankees in the first game of the 1960 World Series. Mickey Mantle is at bat. I whisper a little prayer, something along the lines of “God, if You let me get a foul ball, I promise I will become a minister.” On the very next pitch—I swear this is true!—Mantle takes a mighty cut, nicks a piece of the ball, and that ball rolls right toward me. I lean over the railing and pick it up: a foul ball—a World Series foul ball off the bat of Mickey Mantle! I am beyond dizzy with excitement, until it hits me: I just made a promise to God. Now what do I do?

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve told this story to two people: my wife and a kind friend. (He and I happened to be on the Chester River golf course at the time.) I’d been thinking a lot about that day so many years ago, and I’m haunted by the memory because I did not fulfill the promise I made to God. But both my wife and my friend said essentially the same thing to me: look at the scorecard of your life. There are many ways to be a minister, and God is probably not too disappointed in you. Late in the game, that thought comforts me.

There are threes and then there are threes. There are ministers and then there are ways to minister.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

The View By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 3, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Share

We were in Annapolis last week to celebrate a family milestone. A year ago, my wife’s son and his beloved headed out to Colorado, ostensibly to attend a couple of concerts. But that’s not all they did: they also got married! It was a genius move: they had the wedding of their dreams without all the attendant family hullabaloo— just two people saying “I do” to each other under a sound track provided by a guitarist from one of their favorite bands and a rushing mountain stream. When we got word of their ceremony, we were surprised and maybe even a little stunned, but that quickly turned to elation because we realized that this was exactly the way Marcus and Lauren wanted to begin the rest of their lives together,

While we were in Annapolis, we stayed with family who live on the Eastport side of Spa Creek. From the deck of their comfortable home, the view never gets old. When the weather is right and I have some time on my hands, I’m perfectly content to sit quietly and enjoy the play of light and the passing parade of boats. Like Peter Sellers’ character Chauncey Gardner in “Being There,” I, too, “like to watch.”

I feel the same way about our front porch in Chestertown: that view never gets old either. But views are only the manifestation of our personal perspectives. From one side of our front porch, my view is of the lovely pocket green space across the street. However, if I switch to the other side of the porch—my wife’s preferred side—my perspective changes. I see Jane’s Church and the Wine & Cheese Shop, two of our town’s most important landmarks. I suppose the best view would be from the middle of the porch, but my usual seat is often slightly left of center. Now remember, I’m only talking about where I like to sit on the porch.

Let’s face it: your point of view is critical. It informs your world. It centers you. It’s either the first step of your next journey, or the last step of your previous journey. Maybe it can even make you feel like the Greek philosopher Archimedes when he discerned the principle of the lever: “Give me a place to stand (or in my case, to sit) and I will move the earth.”

But back to that happy day in Annapolis. I was comfortably ensconced on Emme’s and Poppy’s deck in cool, sunny weather, watching the clouds drift over the spire of St. Mary’s church on the Annapolis side of Spa Creek. It was Memorial Day weekend, so there was an endless parade of boats going up and down the creek, most of them bedecked with flags and bunting, the unmistakable signal of oncoming summer. It was a lovely day in the new month of ‘Maycember,’ that deceptively busy time of year marked by celebrations of all kinds of endings and beginnings. Teachers know another school year is almost over. Seniors are being launched into the world with words of varying degrees of wisdom from all those graduation speakers I warned you about a couple of weeks ago. The world is looking rosier by the day. But I’m neither a Pollyanna, nor oblivious to all that is going on in the world, both at home and abroad. I feel the chaos in my bones. Nevertheless, in that brief moment under scudding clouds and despite the chilly breeze, I felt something akin to hope because the best view was just coming into focus: we were finally going to gather and celebrate the next new branch on our family’s tall tree.

Welcome aboard, Lauren, Andrew, and Daniel!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: Jamie, 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights

The Salt Leaf (Redux) By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 27, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Share

(Author’s note: this is my annual Memorial Day Musing. If you read it before, please read it again. If you haven’t read this before, I hope you’ll think on it.)

 Yesterday was Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer. These days, we tend to celebrate Memorial Day with parades and picnics, fireworks and flags, barbecues and boats. But underneath all the hoopla, there is a somber purpose to Memorial Day. Originally known as Decoration Day, Memorial Day was established during the Civil War to honor all those members of the military who gave their “last full measure of devotion” in service to our country. The essence of Memorial Day is sacrifice.

And so today, I thought we should pause to reconsider the lowly mangrove, that ubiquitous shrub that thrives throughout Florida and in many other tropical climes as well. That the mangrove thrives at all is nothing short of a miracle because it roots in very salty water, water that is, in fact, saline enough to kill most other plant species. So, how does the mangrove survive?

Look closer. Mangrove leaves are a brilliant jade green. But interspersed among all that green finery, there are bright spots of yellow. These are the salt leaves. By a science I do not pretend or presume to understand, these leaves are programmed by Mother Nature to extract enough of the concentrated salt in brackish water to render it sufficiently fresh to nourish the host plant. Theories abound about how this actually works. While some botanists posit that it is the root system of the mangrove that filters as much as 90% of the salt from seawater, thereby providing enough fresh water to feed the plant, other botanists believe that the alchemy of turning salt water into fresh water is done by the salt leaves of the plant. By some evolutionary miracle, each mangrove is programmed to produce a specific number of these leaves, each one capable of excreting an enormous quantity of salt through glands on their surface. In effect, the mangrove’s salt leaves sacrifice themselves for the greater good of the host. I like that second theory a lot.

Years ago, I spent a morning trying to count the number of salt leaves on one mangrove. It was a futile effort. The roots of a mangrove ecosystem are so intertwined that it is impossible to distinguish one plant from another, and anyway, after a while, they all began to look alike. So I did the next best thing: I estimated. Best guess? Maybe one leaf in a thousand is a salt leaf. Even if I’m off by a factor of ten, that’s still quite a burden for a single tiny yellow leaf to bear.

Yesterday, on the last Monday in May, we observed yet another Memorial Day. It’s the only day of the year when we officially remember and honor all the men and women who were, and are, our nation’s salt leaves. It is through their sacrifice that the rest of us are blessed to live in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

There is another interesting aspect to the mangrove: locals say it “walks.” Thanks to all  those yellow salt leaves, as the mangrove thrives, its root systems spread. Silt collects among those new roots, and eventually new land begins to form, land that becomes host and home to an amazing variety of new plants and animals. Life begetting life.

Honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Thank the salt leaves.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Archives, Jamie

Commencing By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 20, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Share

’Tis the season of new beginnings. And so we celebrate the completion of one phase of our lives and the commencement of the next by donning all that academic regalia—our caps, gowns, and hoods—and step off into an unknown future with all the pomp and circumstance we can muster. We’ll joyfully move the tassels on our mortarboards from right to left, the traditional signal that tells all the world we are no longer merely undergraduates, but full-fledged GRADUATES! So, Gaudeamus igitur, everybody; Let us rejoice today, for now that we are armed with all this knowledge, we’re ready to take on this brave, new, crazy world, and make it better once and for all! Really?

I have a friend who used to make it his business to annually compile a list of significant commencement speakers and their words of wisdom. I haven’t heard from him for a while, but maybe he was on to something. Surely someone will say something somewhere that will make it all right again. So I’ve decided to explore the universe of this year’s graduation speakers. Who are they ? What words of wisdom will be spoken? Will they be sane or silly? You decide…

I’ll warn you: it’s a long and certainly incomplete list, but don’t worry; I’ve culled it for you. There are, of course, lots of politicians, because what politician worth his or her salt can pass up a chance to step up to the microphone and pontificate? But there are plenty of others on the guest speakers’ list, too: activists, actors, artists, and athletes; business leaders and bureaucrats, professors and philanthropists, scientists and soldiers. A plethora of illustrious alums. Even a Muppet! Ready? Let’s go!

Want to be entertained? Sandra Oh is speaking at Dartmouth while Henry Winkler—the Fonz!—is at Georgetown.  LeVar Burton—aka Kunta Kinte—is the speaker at Howard University and Steve Carrell is on the podium at Northwestern. Snoop Dogg will do his thing at USC. Usher is at Emory University in Atlanta, and Elizabeth Banks (“The Hunger Games”) is at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. And down in Nashville, Gary Sinise, Forrest Gump’s Lieutenant Dan, will be at Vanderbilt

Jerome Powell will deliver Princeton’s commencement speech. Wonder what’s on his mind? Kristi Noem will be keeping the homeland secure at Dakota State. And Donald Trump is on the list—twice: once at West Point and again at the University of Alabama. Hold on to your mortarboards!

Cue the fanfare: Katie Ledecky and her fourteen Olympic medals will be on display at Stanford. Another Olympian, Mia Hamm, is the speaker at the University of North Carolina. Simone Biles will be the speaker at Washington University in St. Louis. Ten!

Derek Jeter is on the dais at the University of Michigan and Orel Hershiser is on the mound at Bowling Green.

The Media is everywhere this spring: Scott Pelley will speak exactly for 60 Minutes at Wake Forest. Jonathan Karl is right here in Chestertown at Washington College. Al Roker is watching the weather at Siena College, and Steve Kornacki will be wearing khakis under his robe at Marist College.

Pope Leo XIV won’t be speaking at Villanova or anywhere else this year, but I wish he were. He’s seems both willing and able to speak truth to power.

My favorite? Kermit the Frog, croaking at the University of Maryland. You heard me: Kermit is coming to College Park! Will Maryland change its colors to green? Will Miss Piggy be in the audience?

So that’s the lineup, or at least some of it. As for any words of wisdom, truth, like beauty, will be in the eyes and ears of the beholders. Let’s just hope there is some humor, creativity, grace, and a sense of hope in the messages delivered. Especially hope; we need hope.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

This Crazy World By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 13, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Share

Well, friends, the world sure got a little crazier since I was here last week. I mean, can you believe it? The new Pope is an American, and from the South Side of Chicago, no less! Pope Leo XIV may have spent a third of his life serving the people of Peru, and another third of his life deep in the quiet recesses of the Vatican, but c’mon: the White Sox haven’t looked this good since Shoeless Joe Jackson was in the lineup!

Meanwhile, over at the White House, Santa Clause apparently no longer resides at the North Pole but instead in Doha, Qatar, and he just delivered an early Christmas gift to the President: a brand, spanking new Air Force One that comes with absolutely no strings attached, even to the reindeer who’ll be pulling it on countless trips to Mr. Trump’s personal golf properties or down to Mar-a-Lago for the weekend! Thank you, Sheik Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, and a very merry Christmas to you, too!

Closer to home, our very own little property here on the Eastern Shore continued to observe its own special Mother’s Day tradition. We call Mother’s Day “Mulching Day” and we celebrate it by loading eleven inordinately heavy bags of black mulch into the back of the car, then unloading and opening the same into several iterations of a broken plastic wheelbarrow so that my wife—mother of two, grandmother of eight—can spread it all around the back and front yards under my patient and loving supervision. We also planted four new boxwoods in front of the porch, a new row of white begonias in front of them, and all kinds of bright new flowers in the big stone planters by the front steps. The lawn got mowed (I did that!), and another large bag of weeds went out to the curb, ready for pickup. My back is tired and my fingernails are dirty. Believe me: it’s not easy being a supervisor!

But then, of course, we had to clean up. We put away all the tools (which really means we had to reorganize the shed again), swept another dune of pollen off the porch, and recoiled at least a mile-and-a-half of garden hose because, as I’m sure you know, no project is really ever done until there’s no evidence there was a project in the first place. We aim for the appearance of effortless upkeep, a skill many dream of, but only a lucky few ever master.

But I have to say: I love seeing our house emerge from its annual winter doldrums and step sprightly into spring. Apparently, passersby do, too. My wife is far too modest to boast about all her hard work, but I enjoy basking in the glow of all the compliments we get from the folk who stop to admire her handiwork. I just flick a little water on my face to make it look like I’m sweaty and humbly accept the kudos they toss over the fence. “Yes; it really does look nice, doesn’t it? Thank you!”

And meanwhile, this crazy world continues to spin. This just in: remember those 145% tariffs the President imposed on China? Well, they just got slashed to 30% because “neither side wanted a decoupling.” Even Shoeless Joe wouldn’t take that bet!

So stay tuned: it really is a crazy world out there! I wonder what’s next…

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: Jamie, 3 Top Story

Boxing Gloves by Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 6, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 5 Comments

Share

My memory is increasingly suspect these days, but this really happened. At least, I think it did…

It was the summer of 1966, the months between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I was heading north, part of a group of young volunteers organized by what was known at the time as The Grenfell Mission (it’s now called the Quebec-Labrador Foundation) that provided community-based support for conservation and the cultural heritage of the coasts of northern Quebec and Labrador. There were about a dozen of us who would spend the next several weeks working and living in various isolated fishing villages along the St. Lawrence River in northern Quebec. To get there, we flew commercially to Montreal, then boarded a small DC-7 that took us on to Quebec City at which point, we embarked on a packet steamer that over the course of the next three days dropped us off, one-by-one, in our assigned villages. I was the last boy to disembark. My new home would be with the Nadeau family who lived out on the quay near the village of St. Paul’s River, the last stop before the Labrador border; Newfoundland lay just off the coast.

The Nadeau family had eleven children, the eldest only a couple of years younger than I. (I would turn 18 at the end of that summer.) My “job” was to work with the young children in the village, teaching them how to swim, an essential life skill since all the boys would grow up to be fishermen, and all the girls would grow up to marry fishermen. I suppose there were other skills to impart, but in reality, I was basically a camp counselor, a tall and gangly pied-piper to the village kids who had been released from the town’s one-room schoolhouse for the few short weeks of a northern summer. Of course, what I didn’t realize at the time was that I was the one who was doing all the learning—about a different culture, a different way of life, an entirely different world. It was, to say the least, my first experience in becoming a small part of a world that was so much larger than anything I had ever known or even imagined.

Bob Bryan, the chaplain at the high school I had attended, ran the program. He was an Anglican priest and his summer parish was the Quebec-Labrador coast. To tend to his flock, he flew his own sea plane up and down the coast, baptizing babies, marrying couples, burying the dead. He was a revered figure in those parts and I wanted to be just like him someday.

On this particular day, I was with the village kids in town when we heard Bob’s plane overhead. He circled the village a couple of times, then waggled his wings, a sure sign he had something for us. I remember looking up and seeing his grinning face looking out from the pilot’s little window, just before he dropped a package that tumbled down to us. The kids rushed to open the package. Inside were two pair of boxing gloves.

Bob’s plane continued to circle above us. Immediately, the kids formed a ring and the boxing gloves were distributed. I got the first pair and an enormous teenage boy got the other pair. What happened next was…well, I don’t really remember what happened next, but it must have been the shortest match in the history of boxing. I was like one of those cartoon characters who wakes up to see little birdies swirling around his head. I think I remember seeing Bob, leaning out the window of the plane waving and laughing before he flew away.

There is no real point to this story; it’s just a memory, but, like other good memories, it recalls another time, another place, and another me. As my brother-in-law David liked to say, “It’s all good.”

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Next Page »

Copyright © 2025

Affiliated News

  • The Cambridge Spy
  • The Talbot Spy

Sections

  • Arts
  • Culture
  • Ecosystem
  • Education
  • Health
  • Local Life and Culture
  • Spy Senior Nation

Spy Community Media

  • About
  • Subscribe
  • Contact Us
  • Advertising & Underwriting

Copyright © 2025 · Spy Community Media Child Theme on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in