The path led us straight east into the rising sun. It was a frigid January morning and although we did not know it at the time, we would encounter all four seasons of weather within the next few hours. This was the second day of our hike on the Fife Coastal Path, a meandering journey along Scotland’s North Sea coastline.

The details of that journey have been previously recounted. In a nutshell, my friend Robert and I had planned a trek of about 25 miles through picturesque fishing villages, over rugged beaches and even through a farmer’s boggy cow pasture. It was a leisurely ramble but one with a deadline. I had to be back to St. Andrews University by three pm on the second day to attend a meeting and we still had miles to go.

The details of our walk are fading in the midst of my memory but one image still stands out clearly. It’s a segment of path, running straight and true toward a new day, the sun just breaking over the horizon. We had slept well the previous night and this new day dawning beckoned to us like an old friend. New days can be be like that, full of hope and promise. On the other side of that same coin is the letting go of things past: the mistakes, the failures, the broken promises and the hard lessons learned. New days bring new opportunities, new possibilities. The future is built on the past, one new day at a time.

Obviously, there is a point to this: tomorrow is America’s new day, the first day of a new year in the life of our nation. I am filled with hope and cautious optimism. At the same time, I am not blind to the enormous challenges that lie in wait along our path: a terrible pandemic, a deep internal divide, centuries of injustice. There they lie, stones in the road to our future. They can bring us a screeching halt or we can work together to heave them out of the way. It’s our choice.

We are on the cusp of greatness or despair. There can be healing or fresh, new wounds. There is either a new day dawning or the continuation of an endless night. No doubt there are some who will choose the darkness but I’m betting that more will embrace the dawn.

The last leg of our journey back to St. Andrews was not easy. I got lost for a while and had to retrace a mile or two of my steps. The cows in farmer Logan’s field were less than hospitable. The time grew short; I feared I would miss my meeting. But then we crested a hill and there below us was St. Andrews Bay and just beyond, the “auld grey toon” itself. We picked up our pace and as I turned down the lane than ran to my house overlooking the North Sea, I knew I had just enough time to put on fresh clothes and hurry over to my meeting.

When I got to the university, I told my host what I had done. He looked at me, thunderstruck. “You even mucked through Logan’s field? Never liked that man or his cows, for that matter.” And that was that. We moved on.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

 

Last week, while our nation was spiraling down toward chaos, we lost a precious man. Actually, Alex Trebek had left us several weeks ago but through the magic of television, he had remained with us like a ghostly dividend of kindness and decency at a time when those essential human commodities seemed in exceedingly short supply. 

I did not know Alex Trebek, but I felt (I suspect like many of you) I did. For many years, he had been a welcome guest in our home despite the fact he always seemed to show up right around suppertime. He had been the host of Jeopardy! since 1984, presiding over that iconic show for more than 8,000 episodes, a mind-bending run of longevity in a medium characterized by gnat-like attention spans and dominated by jaded viewers “what-have-you-done for-me-lately” mindset. Alex would be the last person ever to brag, but he won seven Emmy Awards for his hosting ability, which was likely the natural offshoot of his modest and charming persona. Over the years, he rose to become a one-man electronic Mt. Rushmore, the face of intelligent television—I know; that’s almost an oxymoron—yet he never came across as a dilettante or a know-it-all. Like all good teachers, he made learning fun by allowing his viewers to challenge their recall and to unlock and assemble their own puzzles.

Alex was a celebrity who never seemed comfortable with that status. He was kind, sincere, uncomplicated, decent, resilient, and unequivocally brave in the face of a dreadful disease. He was a handsome man, sober in dress and temperament. Born in Canada (he became a naturalized American citizen in 1988), Alex had a wonderfully understated sense of humor and a twinkle in his eye. Through no fault or ambition of his own, he achieved one-name status—think Cher, Sting, Serena—with just a little bit extra. Johnny Gilbert, Jeopardy!’s long-time announcer, always introduced him as Alexxx, before adding the surname ‘Trebek’ almost as an afterthought. 

Jeopardy! was unique: a television show with an appealing format and a personable quiz-show host who already knew all the answers; all we had to do was ask the right questions. It was entertaining, informative, and, dare I say, fun. I have aging friends who watch Jeopardy! to keep their minds sharp and young friends who enjoy its competitive challenge. I’ve even caught myself yelling at contestants when I know the correct answer and they don’t. (It happens occasionally.)  Alex would surely have frowned at such a display of poor sportsmanship.

Ken Jennings, a former Jeopardy! champion who holds the record for the longest winning streak (74 games) in the history of the show, will succeed Alex, for now as a “guest host.” He certainly will not replace him; I doubt anyone ever will. Mr. Jennings, who is lightening quick and highly intelligent, seems nice enough, but (in my opinion) he’s a bit smug. Still, I wish him well. However, as to whether or not he’ll have an open-ended dinner invitation in our house, we’ll just have to wait and see.

Last week, Alex walked off the set for the last time. As was his custom, his departure was both sweet and self-effacing. He gave a humble little wave and murmured his signature “So Long!” as he turned and walked backstage. I like to think he now knows the answer to the ultimate Final Jeopardy question, the one that awaits us all in the end.

All too often, the public persona of an individual doesn’t seem to align with what we discover about his/her private doppelgänger. By all accounts, the Alex we saw on television was, in fact, the real and true Alex. These days, perhaps more than ever, we don’t need heroes as much as we need honest, decent people who understand that kindness, caring, and community matter profoundly. These were Alex’s watchwords. Now, they are his legacy.

So long, Alex. Fade to black.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

We tend to think of winter as the drab season: cold, bleak, somber, lifeless. But if you look closely, you might find winter has a palette as plentiful as its three seasonal cousins. Maybe winter is not as verdant as spring, nor as lush as summer, nor as glorious as autumn, but it is every bit as artistic in its own right. In fact, winter’s thin palette may be the most wonderful of all because it makes such creative use of minimal daylight, hue, and shade to make the maximum visual impression.

There’s another dimension to winter’s colors: in a denuded world, you can see sights that are hidden by the fullness of the other three seasons. The far-off creek made visible through the leafless trees; the bright, silent stars in the night sky; the small birds making their way through sparsity. It’s as though nature’s curtain has lifted to allow us a better glimpse of more of the majesty behind it.

There’s also a soundtrack to winter: the wind sighing through bare branches; the raucous party of geese settling in for the night; the heave and creak of ice along the shore; even the hush of a heavy snowfall. Maybe, if you listen long and hard enough, you might even hear the song of sap rising in the maples, the thawing of the frozen ground, or the whisper of the brave little daffodils poking their heads above ground reminding us that this, too, shall pass.

But despite its muted colors and sounds, winter is a quiet moment, the best time of the year for dreams and contemplation. Find a good book and put another log on the fire; burrow down under the covers and take an afternoon nap; fill your home with the aroma of something savory baking in the oven. And even if, in this fretful new year, it’s still a challenge to find ways to share all that goodness with others, just enjoy the closer circle that surrounds us as we wait out the storm.

Winter may seem to be a time of impatience and waiting, but it can also be a productive time if you let it. I was thinking about all this because a few days ago, the wee wife and I took two of the grandkids to the Eastern Neck Wildlife Refuge for a hike. It was a relatively mild day, the kind of day that seems to make light of winter, if only for a few hours. The kids weren’t bogged down with hats and mittens and heavy boots; they could run ahead of us and stuff pine cones in their pockets to feed the fire pit when it came time to make s’mores. I had hoped to be able to point out an eagle’s nest, but we settled for a bright red cardinal in a thicket. And when the trail ended at a patch of beach by the river, the kids fell to making a teepee with big pieces of driftwood worn smooth by the wind and tide. We watched their imaginations at work, far away from the computer games and television shows of the digital world back home.

On the drive home, we talked about animals that hibernate, everything from bears to snakes. We played a game that awarded points for spotting silos, tractors, red barns, combines, windmills. The rules changed as we went because the final score wasn’t really all that important. What was important was the gift of winter—the time it was giving us to be together in a world full of sounds and colors all its own.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

 

Back where my people came from, Hogmanay was—and still is—serious business. Although we Scots don’t need much of an excuse to celebrate anything, the ending of one year and the beginning of a new one seems like an awfully good time to throw a week-long bash. The crescendo traditionally comes on December 31 when crowds spill onto the streets of every city and town in the country to parade by torchlight, to dance, to sing, and possibly—just possibly—to enjoy a wee dram or two of that distinctly Scottish elixir, the one we call the ‘water of life,’ all under a brilliant canopy of fireworks. It’s Canada Day, the Fourth of July, and Bastille Day all rolled into one monumental hangover.

There are as many theories about the origins of Hogmanay as there are ways to celebrate it. Some believe it derived from pagan fire celebrations surrounding the winter solstice; some say it was imported from Normandy with the invasion in 1066. Up in the Orkneys, Hogmanay is just a good excuse for men to play ‘Ba,’ a medieval type of rugby played with a large leather ball and absolutely no rules. In the Shetlands, Hogmanay spills into into another local festival called Up Helly Aa which recalls ancient Viking raids on northern Scotland by burning a replica of a longboat. And in one small highland town, Burghead, the locals even discard the Gregorian calendar and celebrate Hogmanay on January 11 by parading the “clavie”—a large barrel filled with wooden staves—through the town before setting it on fire on a nearby hilltop where it burns and smolders for days.

But for all its madness, Hogmanay celebrates the good in people and the hope for a prosperous new year. One of its most hallowed traditions is ‘first-footing’ by which one strives to be the first foot over the threshold of a home just after the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Day. A first-footer bears traditional gifts: a silver coin for prosperity, bread for food, salt for flavor, coal for warmth, and, of course, whisky for merriment. It’s as good a way as any to keep last year’s party going well into the new year.

And then there’s that song—the one everyone knows, perhaps even the most-sung song in all the world—‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Originally published in 1788 as a Scots language poem by our beloved Robert Burns, it was set to the music of an old folk tune to fondly recall days gone by. But Auld Lang Syne is more than a song; it’s a celebration of our shared bond, our larger human family. In Scotland, it’s traditionally sung in a large circle facing inward, hands clasped until the beginning of the last verse at which point everyone crosses their arms, turns out, and, still holding hands, sways in time to the music. Maudlin, maybe, but sung in good spirit or spirits, Auld Lang Syne is always a moving hymn to days gone by and the good times we’ve shared together. What could be more appropriate this year!

So for my dear friends back home, I know that seas between us may broad have roared;

For trusty friends here, I give a hand and I take a hand o’ thine;

But for this one day, let’s all tak’ a right gud willie-waught

For auld lang syne!

So say goodbye to rascal 2020 and have a very Happy Hogmanay!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

Photography is about capturing light; it always has been. Dawn is a good time to shoot; so is sunset. But especially on these cold winter days, there is an hour late in the afternoon I call the blue hour. Then, the sky takes on a cerulean hue that casts a heavenly and peaceful glow over the land. Sadly, it’s light that doesn’t linger; it’s only with us for an hour at most, often less. Catch it if you can.

As a color, cerulean is a pigment whose primary chemical constituent is cobalt stannate. It’s extremely expensive: painters put great value on it because of its hue, permanence, and opaqueness. Not me; during the blue hour, I get if for free.

Heavenly as it may be, blue is also the color of sadness. The use of ‘blue” to mean ‘sad’ is an old conceit. It may even harken back to Greek mythology, to a time when Zeus would get so angry with human foibles that he would create a tempest or make it rain for days on end. Wet, blue weather. On a hypothetical emotional spectrum, that feeling of low-pressure sadness corresponds to the color blue, perhaps the result of all the remorse humans felt for the offense that incurred the wrath of the gods in the first place.

There is, however, another school of thought that equates blue with sadness that dates back to Chaucer’s 14th Century work, “The Complaint of Mars.” In that work, Chaucer described living with “blue tears and a wounded heart,” forever consolidating the ancient link between the color blue and sadness, the very one that still holds fast today.

Colors have feelings. Red has always been the color of anger, green has its envy, and yellow has been the color of confidence and sunny abundance. But blue’s lot in life, through no fault of its own, has been to represent gloom, disappointment, depression and sadness. Poor blue!

But maybe blue is finally on the rebound. For me, the blue hour is a peaceful time, a tranquil moment on the messy palette of the day. The temperature of the day lowers, not on any actual thermometer, but certainly on my own personal emotional register. When I encounter the blue hour, I feel embraced, safe, bathed in a pool of calm, warm water. Well, maybe that’s pushing it a little, but you get the point.

But hold on! It turns out there is another, more properly scientific explanation for the blue hour. It’s a nautical term that describes the moment when the sun descends to, or even falls just below (four to eight degrees below, to be exact), the horizon and casts indirect or residual light over everything below. That only happens just before dawn or dusk and it’s a natural stage of light that is characterized by diffusion or shorter spectral wavelengths. Who knew? But be that as it may, somehow that scientific explanation dampens the emotional glow that, for me anyway, makes my blue hour such a rare jewel, such a photographer’s prize.

So now here we all stand on the cusp of a new year. There’s hope ahead: the political roil is subsiding, the pandemic has perhaps met its match, our shattered economy will soon start to rebuild, and maybe people will finally begin to address the systemic social problems that have plagued us for far too long. Maybe 2021 will be filled with long blue hours, not hours of unrelenting strife and sadness, but ones bathed in the clearer, bluer light of healing, empathy, and reconciliation.

Let’s make it so.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

 

We turned a heavenly corner yesterday. Today there will be a longer iota of daylight than there was the day before. Just as I rue the summer solstice in June when we spin toward darkness, so do I celebrate December 21—the winter solstice. Oh, I’m not fooled. I know there will be plenty of cold, dark nights ahead, but isn’t it comforting to know that with each passing day, we’re tilting closer to the sun? It’s a mental hurdle that makes winter’s receding wake just a bit more tolerable. 

To make this year’s astral events even more exciting, two days ago, Jupiter and Saturn came within 0.1 degrees of each other to form the first observable close alignment of two planets since St. Francis of Assisi died nearly 800 years ago. I suppose it’s even possible that this great conjunction of heavenly bodies bore some resemblance to the fabled guiding star the three wise men followed to Bethlehem on that silent night so long ago. I know it’s just a story, but you’ve got to admit, it’s a darned good one.

Anyway, it’s somehow comforting to know we’re on the mend. 2020 has been an awful year and I, for one, will be glad to see it in our collective rear view mirror. There’s a lot to look forward to in the year to come: the promise of a pandemic-ending vaccine, a breath of cleaner, fresher air in our nation’s capital, the restoration of old, familiar ways.  As our days lengthen again, maybe we’ll finally be able to hug a friend, share a restaurant meal, or go to the theater. Remember theaters?

But back to the winter solstice: that moment when the sun touches the Tropic of Capricorn, only to bounce off it and begin its semi-annual journey back toward the Tropic of Cancer. The shortest day, the longest night. But as hopeful as that journey sounds, it’s important to remember that this solstice also marks the official beginning of winter. I guess that makes December 21 a mixed blessing: both the onset of cold winter and the turning toward the promise of long sunny days and plenty of warmth six months hence.

The holidays are a lot like that: plenty of joy to be sure but, at the same time, some sadness, too: the memory of loved ones no longer with us; our own unmet yearnings and expectations, lingering stress. A Chinese philosopher might say this is evidence of the dualism of the universe—its yin and yang—the way seemingly opposite or contradictory forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, even interdependent in the natural world. Sometimes, it feels like a juggler’s balancing act but the truth is we can hold two seemingly opposite ideas in our minds at the same time, both true.

The term “solstice” is derived from two Latin words: “sol” (sun) and “sistere” (to stand still). This is because at the moment of solstice, the angle between the sun’s rays and the plane of the Earth’s equator (its declination) appear to stand still. Don’t worry: that’s just an illusion because as the sun’s gradual decrease moves slowly into reverse, the noontime elevation of the sun seems to stay the same for a few days before and after the actual winter solstice. For those of you keeping track, this year that moment actually occurred at 5:02 am (EST) on December 21st. 

So, there you have it. We’re once again on the road to recovery. It may take a few days, even a few months, but I believe better days are coming—longer, lighter days. In the meantime, I wish you all the joys of this most wondrous, marvelous season.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

 

No matter how hard I try, when the Christmas lights emerge from their festival slumber, they’re hopelessly tangled. How does that happen? I’m sure that when I put them to bed after their last Christmas show, I took great pains to ensure they would be ready for the following year. And yet, somehow, when they come out of their assigned spot in the cluttered holiday cabinet, they’re a Christmas mess. I can only conclude that some disgruntled elf makes it his priority business to slip in and tangle everything up just to get my holiday off on the wrong foot. Bah humbug!

Oh, well. If the holidays are about peace, love, and joy, then I can’t let some evil elf’s prank get me down every year. Watch, therefore, as I exhibit abnormal calm while I struggle to untangle four strings of lights. Better yet, watch me stand aside while the wee wife actually untangles the lights. She has oodles more patience than I do and anyway, she’s the one who will decorate the tree. You see, wee though she may be, she has high standards. I tried to decorate the tree one year and she just looked at me and said, “Let me help, honey.” Then she started over. 

Things do get tangled up sometimes. Lights, plans, elections, democracies. The trick is to know how to make things right again. To undo the wrongs that have been done and to begin anew. To not be discouraged by all the snarls and tangles but to take a big deep breath and begin the frustrating task of untangling. It takes a healthy dose of optimism, calm patience, and some visionary thinking, but in the end, the string will untangle and the tree will glow.

Without doubt, it has been a rough year. 2020 will be remembered for all its many tangles: a deadly virus, racial malaise, a contested election. It’s a year that is definitely not going gently into that long, good night. On the contrary; it’s leaving like a toddler throwing a tantrum, kicking and screaming, holding on to the door lintel for dear life because he doesn’t want to get in the car and go to Florida. Not a pretty picture for sure, but then tangles and temper tantrums never are. Better to focus on a brighter future, to a time when the string of lights lays straight and bright and the tree is adorned anew.

I’m told that the best way to untangle a string of lights is to start with the plug. Once you locate the plug, just fish it through the tangles as gently as possible because pulling too hard can result in breakage and loss. Can’t have that! Just work your way along the string patiently. Whatever you do, don’t let frustration set in lest you compound the mess, break the lights, and have to go the hardware store and buy four new sets. Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that.

Apparently, there are lots of little tricks to keep your holiday lights untangled. YouTube or Google can show you how. I only wish it were just as easy to untangle that other mess. I guess you start with the plug.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

I recently came across an anecdote featuring one of our redoubtable Founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin. It seems that while old Ben was visiting London he saw for the first time a hot air balloon floating tranquilly above the city. He watched mesmerized, but one of his companions, a jaded Brit I suppose, remarked that a balloon was nothing more than “a frivolity, a mere gewgaw, a bauble. Of what use is it?” To which Ben replied, “Then pray tell me, Sir, of what use is a newborn infant?” Touché! Game, set, and match to the American.

That day in London, Father Franklin saw a future that his companion couldn’t even begin to imagine. Balloons today, space travel tomorrow, although that concept might have been a stretch even for wise old Ben. It begs the question of what today we think of as but a gewgaw or bauble might tomorrow cure cancer or leap human knowledge forward with a kangaroo-size bound.

We’ve always lived on the brink of progress, even though we often can’t see it. In my own lifetime, a myriad of new inventions have touched and changed our lives, sometimes for worse, but more often than not for better. And as the future continues to unfold, I wonder which of today’s many fanciful little gewgaws and baubles will take our future into a new and unimaginable unknown.

It would be easy to be as jaded as Ben’s London companion. Progress can often be unsettling or difficult, sometimes even unmanageable. We yearn for old ways, for simpler times. But stasis is a slow death—just ask a dinosaur if you can find one. The trick, of course, is to distinguish between the innovations that move us all forward and the gewgaws and baubles that seem so shiny but only keep us stuck in worn-out old ruts.

The very first patent granted in the United States was for a steam-driven locomotive. It was issued on July 13, 1836 to John Ruggles. One-hundred forty years later, the US Patent Office issued its four-millionth patent. By 2011, only thirty-five years after that, the number of issued patents had doubled to eight million. This year, the United States surpassed the ten-million mark, an acceleration of new ideas, innovation, and technology that surely would have stunned even Poor Richard.

But while the pace of progress is undoubtedly astounding, its effects sometimes send mixed signals or have unintended consequences. Yes, we are healthier and living longer, more productive lives, but we are also under a lot more stress and are more vulnerable to a whole host of new infectious diseases. That’s a sad truth we’re learning every day this year and while new vaccines show promise, the tragic loss of life in 2020 casts a grim and lasting shadow over the year to come.

No wonder Ben was so mesmerized when he saw his first hot-air balloon. London at the close of the 18th Century must have seemed a wondrous city, more fantastic than anything in that new world across the ocean. People in straw baskets dangling from gigantic balloons gayly floating over the city! Sorry, friend: those delightful balloons weren’t just gewgaws and baubles; they were the newborn infants of space travel!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

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.

In case you don’t happen to practice rabbit-rabbitology, it works like this: on the first day of a new month, you must immediately say “Rabbit! Rabbit!” upon waking. If you do, you’ll have good luck throughout the month, but 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, especially this month—the last one of a year full of bad luck. Who knows? Maybe on the first day of 2021, I’ll wake up babbling a bunch of rabbits to ensure an extra-lucky new year. We’re way overdue!

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 ears? I’m surprised that PETA hasn’t done as much to protect rabbits’ feet as it has to has to safeguard all those feisty minks from the mean furriers who would make them into fashionable fur coats. The wee wife has one such coat hidden away in a closet, far from the prying eyes of any animal rights activist 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 mom!”

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’s the White Rabbit, running late as usual, who leads Alice down to Wonderland. My own two children loved Pat the Bunny while I 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. The novel was rejected seven times before Rex Collings published it in 1972. It won several major awards and is now 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 imagine those two (or three) little rabbits who are working hard to send a monthly dose of good luck to all those 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, they show up with baskets 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 in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

 

Thanksgiving—the holiday now more formally known as Black Friday Eve—is almost upon us. This year, however, a traditional Thanksgiving celebration would likely make even Norman Rockwell cringe. No grandparents or hardly any family gathered around a groaning board, just a tiny frozen turkey and only a sorry side or two. Sigh. I imagine the wee wife and I will be dining entre nous on simple fare while contemplating how to legally loot our local box store. Virtually, of course, unless we get really crazy and opt for contactless curbside pickup.

Back in the day (What day was that? Tuesday? Saturday? Who can tell the difference anymore?), Thanksgiving was a big deal. It was warm and friendly, relatively uncommercial, touch football and turkey, then the real thing—the NFL: the Detroit Lions playing somebody. That was a far cry from the first Thanksgiving, that fairytale feast when John and Goodwife Priscilla invited Squanto and his mates over for a gala dinner. (Given the history of the white settlement of this continent, I’ve grown so skeptical of this version of the story that I’m almost loathe to perpetuate it here; think of it as but a momentary literary device.) As the years rolled by, our Thanksgiving fantasies gathered strength until, as recently as just last year, a President who is best known for firing people, stunningly agreed to do something that his evil predecessor did: he pardoned some turkeys. But this year, it’s different; I’m told he may choose to slaughter the poor birds and pardon himself!

But I digress. This year, there’s an uninvited guest at our tables, one who looks like Shrek and acts even worse. Institutions as august as the CDC are pleading with us not to invite Uncle Ned and Aunt Polly and our cousins from Winnetka and, instead, stay within our own impermeable little family bubbles. For the wee wife who has eight siblings and countless nieces, nephews, and in-laws, the CDC guidelines almost amount to a death sentence which is exactly what it would be if we followed tradition and went to someone’s house with forty-three of our closest relatives. Sorry, honey, not this year.

The question then becomes, “How should we celebrate Thanksgiving this year?” I have a friend in town, a gracious restaurateur who annually provides a free feast at his fine establishment to those in need, who must be asking himself that very question. It’s a conundrum, for sure. Celebrating family and friends without either present poses a problem that even the most altruistic among us finds difficult to solve. It’s hard to pass the dinner rolls to one’s self.

Well, as the saying goes, we’ll get through this, but honestly, that’s pretty thin gruel on this year’s Thanksgiving table. Still, if we really are to slay the beast, we must respect it enough to practice delaying the gratification of even our most hallowed traditions. I’m not suggesting that we dispense with Thanksgiving all together this year, let’s just Zoom it. And when Uncle Ned spills gravy down the front of his shirt, politely look away and make the best of it, the way you always do.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. 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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com