We’ve had a string of foggy days over here on the Eastern Shore. Sure, I could tell you that fog is simply an aerosol of small water droplets at or near ground level sufficiently dense enough to reduce horizontal visibility to less than one-thousand meters, or give you all the technical names for the various types of fog, but that would only reduce the phenomenon of fog to mere science. But I not going to do that because to me, fog is more art than science. Of all of Mother Nature’s wondrous weather wizardry, fog is a state of mind, a stupendous atmospheric work of art than has the power to transform the mundane into the marvelous. It’s a primed canvas worthy of a master, or in all fairness to Mother Nature, a mistress. It absorbs her brush strokes, removes all the extraneous material—even sound!—and leaves us spellbound by the simplicity of a black-and-white world.

If you had happened to be in Chestertown last weekend during our town’s annual celebration of all things Dickensian, you would have appreciated fog all the more. A boy riding one of those ridiculously tall Victorian bicycles suddenly appearing and then disappearing around a corner; the ghostly sound of a horse-drawn cart all but invisible as it goes clip-clopping down the street; the wail of bagpipes and the reverberations of big tenor and bass drums wafting through smoke-like wisps of fog; the aroma of seasoned logs blazing in fire pits, casting flickering shadows on passers-by, the women dressed in hoop skirts and bonnets, the men wearing top hats and morning coats; the tap of their walking sticks. Had there been no fog, it would have been transcendent enough, but with the fog, it is was…perfect! Whoever it was who imported and doled out all that pea-soup fog deserves a medal for dramatic effect!

Don’t get me wrong: there’s nothing wrong with a string of sunny, warm days, or rain when we need it, or a silent midnight snowfall. But to me, fog trumps them all. It’s an ethereal phenomenon that allows us to believe that we really do exist in a make-believe world, one in which only a thin veil of fog separates us from whatever it is that lies on the other side of this reality. It is what allows us to glimpse dimly in the mirror today, what we shall see in splendor someday. 

Going over the fog-shrouded Bay Bridge yesterday—yes, I know; sad—I had the feeling I was suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. I could see neither the water below, nor the super-structure of the bridge above. Even the roadway was all but invisible. It was an eerie, spooky feeling, but not an unpleasant one, maybe because my fellow travelers were all going a notch slower than they usually do. Later in the day, back in the hurly-burly of the big city, we had reason to go through an old and once-familiar neighborhood now smothered in dense fog. Streetlights made little halos that illuminated small pockets of light in the inky, dripping darkness. Once I knew these streets, but last night, I was a bit disoriented; I couldn’t find my bearings. Again, I wasn’t so much threatened by what Carl Sandburg described as “the fog (that) comes on little cat’s feet,” as I was enthralled by the phenomenon. I took my time and arrived home safe and sound.

So please don’t worry; 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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

Dear Kat,

Today is our 8th wedding anniversary. If we were dogs, we’d be celebrating 56 tail-wagging years together, but we’re simply humans, so we’ll have to settle for 8. They’ve been wonderful years, and in this season of gratitude, I’m more than grateful for our time together.

Of all the lessons I’ve learned in our eight married years, none is more potent that the power of family. You know my story, how I grew up as the surprise addition in my own quiet and independent family, and how that fact has shaped much of who I am. But that’s old news now; not forgotten, just tucked away in the savings account within my own bank of memories. The family I married into—your family—is much different; boisterous, expressive, accepting, loving. Five Calamity Janes and four crazy Tomcats (two now sadly gone), all ruled over by a grand matriarch who still watches over us all from heaven. And then there are the other “outlaws:” my new brothers and sisters, all (more or less) my own age, all friends and full members of the Shenanigans Club.

And of course, there are the next generations, the ones rising up through the ranks, the ones who call us Kiki and Geep. I have to admit that I’ve lost count, but I think when all is said and done, we’re somewhere north of fifty these days. I never imagined myself in such a social sea, but even when I need to cling to my own little island for a moment of peas and carrots, I’m allowed to do just that without rancor or judgement. By now, you know I could never stay away too long because I would surely suffer from a bad case of FOMO. I would never be able to miss out on all the fun.

I’ve also learned that you have more spunk than the Energizer Bunny, that little, pink drum-banging rabbit who outlasts everyone at the party. Sometimes, I just sit back and watch you work the room, gayly chatting with everyone, finding out where they went to high school and at what point your gene pools undoubtedly overlap. It’s still a mystery to me how anyone can be so tirelessly “on” all the time, but I do admire your stamina and your ability to forge new connections and friendships. I admit there are times when my survival instinct kicks in and I give you that “it’s time to go” look which really means you now have forty-five overtime minutes of chat to go before we finally say, “Good night.” 

We arrived in Chestertown almost twelve years ago, and, yes, I know it came as a bit of a shock and a surprise when I decided to plant my flag here. You had dreams of a beach house, but you rose to the occasion and have made our front porch the talk of the town. Literally! And while I was fortunate enough to encounter a few friends from former phases of my life, it took you a while to find your girl posse. But just look at you know! Friends galore and a whole new universe to explore and entertain. Think of all the boxwood trees you’ve made!

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. They say marriage is a roller coaster: you know, “for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,” all the ups and downs of two separate souls trying to make a go of it in this crazy world. Well, that may or may not be true, but this I do know: when I married you eight years ago today, I had no idea how lucky I was, or how you would change my life for better.  Thank you!

I’m not going anywhere, but as you know by now, I’ll be right back.

Yours,

Jamie

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

(This week, with our esteemed Publisher’s permission, I’m taking you back to my Musing on that first pandemic Thanksgiving, 2019. Thank goodness; how times have changed!)

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 that my 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 and relatively uncommercial. There was some touch football and turkey, then the real thing—the NFL: the Detroit Lions playing somebody better than them. (Author’s insert: but not this year—the Lions are roaring!) 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. (Author’s insert: 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 on, our Thanksgiving fantasies gathered strength, so much so that in 1947, President Truman started a new Thanksgiving tradition by pardoning a turkey. His successors have since pardoned some other turkeys, but, just like Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.

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, Aunt Polly and our cousins from Winnetka, and, instead, stay within our own impermeable little family bubbles. For my 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, maybe next year.

So the question now becomes, “How should we celebrate Thanksgiving this year?” I have a friend in town, a gracious restauranteur who annually provides a free feast at his fine dining 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 COVID 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.

(Author’s insert: Happy 2023 Thanksgiving to all!)

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

Dorothy was right: there’s no place like home. I say this on the heels of a weekend jaunt to Bethany Beach with four good friends and a few dozen oysters. We all had a marvelous time; well, maybe not the oysters, but they did their duty and we thanked them for their service.

My wife and I were only away for two nights, but maybe the best part of being away is coming back home. Coming home always feels good to me. I’m not really talking about the structure of our house, although I like that well enough—the front porch, the backyard, the snug rooms, the comfy furniture, the art on the walls, the knickknacks on every shelf and table, all the clutter and dust, along with that compendium of never-ending chores and and repairs and responsibilities that are part and parcel of caring for, and living in, an old wood house. 

No; I’m talking about—actually, writing about—something else: home. “Home” is a concept, a state of mind that goes far beyond the walls and bones of this old house. It’s the feeling of belonging that comes with living in this town and being part of a community that is so much more than a collection of houses and shops and businesses and streets. To me, the word “home” implies a sense of family, of caring, of shelter from the storm. I think that’s what Dorothy meant when she said, “there’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.” Oz was just a dream or maybe a bump on her head, but home was very real.

You can buy a house, but you have to make a home. I know this because that’s what my wife does. Real estate is her profession, but home-making is her art. Somehow, she fills the spaces of this house with all the intangibles that make it our home. I never expected or imagined that I would find a place I love as much as I love our home. It’s the stage on which we live the ups and downs of our life together, sharing it with friends and family, filling it with love and memories or enough smoke to set off the fire alarm, but that little episode is another story for another day. 

I’ve lived in many houses; a few of them were also homes. I realize how fortunate I am. There is far too much pain and suffering in this world, yet here I am, rhapsodizing about the safety and sanctity of home. Actually, about homes, plural. My wife and I are doubly blessed to have two houses—both homes. It doesn’t seem fair, yet there it is. What is my responsibility in this? I mull that over constantly and never come up with a good-enough answer. Maybe William Faulkner had something like that in mind when he wrote, “how often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”

And then there’s this: life can take you to unexpected places, but love always brings you home.

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

I’m not sure if such a word exists, but if it did, you could call me an autumnophile. I love everything about this season: the flaming trees, the chill that haunts us in the morning, the hint of wood smoke that scents the afternoon breeze, the stars that twinkle like gems in the nighttime sky. A hearty beef stew supplants a light summer salad; red, not white, wine becomes the pour of choice. (Confession: I stick with rosé; sorry, can’t help it.) My shorts and flip-flops are stowed away; sweaters and long pants, socks and shoes are the order of the day now. I didn’t even mind setting the clock back an hour a couple of days ago; now it gets darker earlier, but so what? The fire pit has reemerged from its annual estivation and now we can sit on the porch at 4:30 and watch the sparks drift up into the evening sky.

So what’s wrong with this picture? Just one thing: leaves. All summer long, I’m grateful for the shade the sycamore in front of our house provides, and I always admire our neighbor’s river birch that gracefully hovers over the backyard. But come autumn, if I had an ax, I’d chop them both down. Their leaves rain down in torrents. As soon as they’re raked and bagged and set out by the curb, the wind shifts and the yard is full again. If there’s a more Sisyphean task than raking leaves, you’ll have to prove it to me. Honest to God, I think I’d rather push a stone uphill all day long!

I’ll grant you this: falling leaves may well be central to autumn’s glory, but the endless raking and bagging of the brittle little devils gets under my skin. Literally. I know a lot of people who suffer from leaf-mold allergies, and I’m sure this season must send them running to the desert for relief. Or releaf. Ha! See what I did there?

I’m an optimist by nature so I’m always looking for the bright inner lining of problems. That’s mighty hard when it comes to dealing with deciduous tress, but I think I may have found the answer: child labor. Kids just can’t resist jumping into leaf piles so doesn’t it follow that they should be the ones to build them? I’m even not averse to paying a minimum wage—say a dollar an hour—to little rakers just so they can join the work force, pay their fair share of taxes, and become productive members of society. They’ve been on the dole long enough by the time they’re three. Let’s make kindergarten a worker’s paradise! Who’s with me?

I imagine the Democrats among you will object to my plan because you think it’s unwoke and exploitive. You Republicans will resist because rich kids shouldn’t have to pay taxes. But look at it this way: since it’s getting darker earlier, let’s tire the little monsters out and get them to bed so we can sit on the porch sooner, sipping a glass of red (or rosé) wine, listening to the crackle of dry logs, smelling the aroma of aged cherry, and watching the sparks from the fire pit drift up, up and away like prayers.  

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

There were fifteen of us around the lunch table on Saturday, everyone chatting away. Then suddenly the table went silent. A friend who was seated across the table from me glanced at his watch; “Seven minutes exactly,” he said.

“What about seven minutes?” I asked.

“Don’t you know? After seven minutes, there is always a lull in the conversation.”

I looked at my friend; he seemed perfectly serious. “Check it out,” he said.

So I did. Know what? He’s right!

It’s a phenomenon known as the “awkward pause,” and it almost always comes at the seven minute mark of any given conversation. It’s like a rest note in music, a momentary lull that allows speakers and listeners time to regather their thoughts, to come up for air, as it were.
It appears the awkward pause has been there all along, so how have I lived all these years and never heard of it or noticed it before. Makes me wonder: what other little quirks of life have I been missing?

It seems the seven minute pause makes many people uncomfortable. Extroverts, who often prefer that every moment be filled to the brim with conversation, may be particularly uneasy. At times, the unpleasant feeling can be too much for some of those types, and so they just decide to end the conversation abruptly. Or maybe this happens: the sudden lull or silence in a conversation silence triggers commentary on the weather just to fill all that dead air time. Yes, silence is deemed so awful that we compare it to death!

I’ll be honest: I am comfortable with silence. It’s all-too-often in short supply around my house, so when I find some a corner of stillness, I go and sit in it. It usually doesn’t last very long, but for me, a little pause goes a long way, so all that talk about the weather be damned. We’ll find something better to talk about soon enough.

Let’s just assume that awkward pauses have always been a part of life. They might even actually serve a more powerful purpose than most of us realize. What if there were no silence? What if every conversation we entered into never ended, or every question we asked was followed by an immediate answer? Would there ever be time to think deeply, become introspective, or form clear connections? I bet each one of us can remember one nerdy classmate whose hand shot up instantly whenever the teacher asked a question. In response, the rest of us just rolled our eyes and checked out, allowing him or her to be the know-it-all. Think of all the opportunities for reflection and deliberation we missed. Then again, think of all the inane answers or gobbledegook we might have spouted.

Here’s a theory about the seven minute pause: it’s hardwired in us. Back when our ancestors were hunter/gatherers, they had to pause every so often to make sure they weren’t the ones being hunted or gathered. It was a survival instinct. Now, a full million eons later, if all that remains of that instinct is an awkward pause in the conversation, maybe it was worth the paleontological wait.

But wait: there’s another strange plot twist in this story. Some folks out on the fringe of the awkward pause theory believe it usually comes at around 20 minutes past the hour. Proponents of this belief say it happens out of respect for Abraham Lincoln who was shot at approximately 10:13 pm and died at 7:22 am the next morning. OK; I think that’s a little farfetched, but who knows what really happens in the twilight zone.

But this I do know: when that awkward pause does rear its ugly little head, there’s always someone in the conversation who is making some outrageous and overly loud claim, and when everyone else clams up, that person is the one who has the last word. Good timing or bad? You decide.

Alright, I’ve been at this long enough, and you and I both could benefit from a moment of silence. We’ll leave it at that.

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

 

 

We may be a little town, but we have a huge heart. 

Every year since 2001, on the last weekend of October, Chestertown celebrates tall ships and bluegrass music and neighborliness. We call it “Downrigging.” This year, the weather looks like it will be a spectacular backdrop to the weekend’s festivities so c’mon over!

Downrigging benefits The Sultana Educational Foundation. It’s a fully immersive cultural experience that showcases some of the region’s most graceful sailing vessels, wonderful music and good food, and plenty of family activities. The action takes place in town and along our historic waterfront. In the evenings, there are fireworks and the ships are aglow with lights that create a magical and mesmerizing effect, the stuff of memories. Coinciding with the return of our avian friends from the Canadian tundra fields and with fall colors at their peak, Downrigging is the town’s signature event with a worthy purpose: promoting the Chesapeake Bay’s historic, cultural, and environmental resources, our common and irreplaceable treasures.

This year’s event features seven graceful tall ships: Chestertown’s very own “Sultana;” the “Ajmeerwald” out of Bivalve, New Jersey; the “Kalmar Nickel” out of Wilmington, Delaware; “Lynx” out of Nantucket, Massachusetts; The “Maryland Dove” out of St. Mary’s City, Maryland; “Pride of Baltimore II” from Baltimore; “Sigsbee” also out of Baltimore; and “Virginia” out of Norfolk, Virginia. There are tours and public cruises, as well as a majestic parade.

In addition to the tall ships who are rightfully the centerpieces of the weekend, there is a Music Village where visitors can enjoy some toe-tapping bluegrass music. This year, there are ten different groups to entertain visitors and plenty of local food and beverages, too. Did I mention oysters? There will be oysters!

Want more? Well, away from the waterfront, there are several book talks featuring works by local and regional authors, art exhibitions, history lectures, nature walks, knot tying, and exhibitions of lovingly restored wooden boats, as well as a display of models made by local craftsmen. There’s even a Halloween parade!

Downrigging doesn’t just happen. It takes plenty of behind-the-scenes planing and effort, generous sponsors, hard-working volunteers, and dedicated event staff. It’s a community working together to bring lots of visitors to town; it binds residents and businesses together; it reminds us what is most precious: our common good fortune. Like I said, we’re a little town with a big heart.

But here’s what I enjoy most about Downrigging: the friends who come to rest on our front porch; the people who pass by and stop to chat or just admire our small historic home; the stillness of late evening when the day’s frenzy is past, or the early morning sunlight that filters through the elms and maples ablaze with fall color. The single kayak paddler moving silently through the morning mist that drifts across the surface of the river. Moonlight dancing on the water.

In other words, I like the poetry of Downrigging. Don’t get me wrong: the crescendo of the days is something to behold, but the peace that falls early in the morning or late in the evening surrounds all the buzzing activity, cushioning it, giving context to why we love our little town with a big heart.

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

 

My alarm wakes me gently a little before 6. I silence it quickly so as not to disturb my wife who is sleeping peacefully next to me. I hear her gentle breathing, I see her hair spilling across the pillow. I rise, put on a warm bathrobe and pad quietly downstairs.

Meanwhile…

The house is pleasantly warm and quiet. The only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in a corner of the living room. I turn on the coffee pot and the little toaster oven to warm an almond croissant. I open my computer and begin to write.

Meanwhile…

After an hour, I go back upstairs. I brush my teeth, shower, shave, comb my hair. In the pre-dawn darkness, I dress for work, fumbling with my necktie, tying my shoes, smoothing the wrinkles in my blue blazer. I place a gentle kiss on my wife’s forehead (she’s still sleeping), and head off to work.

Meanwhile…

My commute is simple. I make a few turns in a quiet neighborhood full of lovely homes, manicured lawns, elegant, shiny cars in driveways, pumpkins on porches, a skeleton or two. A woman is walking her dog; two kids with goofy helmets are riding their bikes to the neighborhood elementary school. As I drive onto campus, the guard in the booth waves a friendly hello. Now, the sky is impossibly blue. The maples and elms that dot the landscape are turning to red and gold. The playing fields are a verdant green. Not for the first time, I think how lucky theses students are to come to a place like this to learn. How lucky I am.

Meanwhile…

My day is full of conferences: students coming in to talk about their college applications, or show me a draft of an essay, or ask a question. Each one is polite, each one wears a coat and tie, each one has a long and productive life stretching out in front of him: college, a career, someday a family and a home of his own. Reasonable expectations for good health, satisfying relationships, travel, productive lives of accomplishment and service. Responsibilities, but also  opportunities, all these things simply taken for granted.

Meanwhile…

In the afternoon, I leave the office and walk over to one of the soccer fields to watch my grandson play his first soccer game. His mother is there and his little sister, too. In a few minutes, my wife arrives with another little brother and there we all are, sitting on bleachers in the warm October sun, watching little boys chase a soccer ball on green, green grass. Not a care in the world.

Meanwhile…

Back home, my wife and I pour a glass of wine, sit on the porch, chat and review our respective days. We decide on what to have for dinner. The refrigerator is well-stocked and the freezer is full; we have plenty of choices. 

Meanwhile…

Half a world away, a rocket streaks across the sky. An apartment building collapses into rubble. A man is carrying the broken body of a child, his face and hands are covered with dust and smeared with blood. A mother and father are saying goodbye to two of their sons, young men who have been called to duty to fight for their country. They weep and hug each other and say silent prayers. There is death and destruction everywhere. No one is safe, nothing is spared. And this is only the beginning; the days ahead will be worse, much worse, unspeakably worse.

And I feel horribly guilty. I feel powerless. I want to do something, but I have no idea what to do. So I weep for all the innocent civilians who are caught up in this barbarism without food or water or electricity or shelter; for all those who have already died, and all the soldiers who will die in the days to come; for all the hostages sitting in darkness and despair, waiting.

Meanwhile…

I go to sleep in a warm, soft bed next to a loving wife. Here and half a world away, tomorrow is another day.

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.
His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

 

Every day, I get a little older. Age accumulates like a dripping faucet; before you know it, the sink is overflowing. And in that torrent, I find that most of my frustrations aren’t with the advancing years per se, but with the little things I encounter along the way.

These early mornings, my fingers fumble with my collar button as I struggle to put on my necktie. (That’s another story for another day.)  The pants that fit yesterday seem tighter today. My shoelaces seem to get farther and farther away. I have a little pain here and a little ache there. It’s one thing after another, nothing very big at the time, but rather an accumulation of all the little things that leave me either frustrated, exhausted, or ready for a glass of wine by noon.

It didn’t use to be like this. I could usually take things in stride, but now, not only is my stride shorter, so is my fuse. I struggle to keep my equilibrium, my pot from boiling over. I don’t mean to imply you should cross the street if you see me coming, but I am aware that my usual pleasant mien might be getting a little more mean these days.

So, what’s the antidote? It seems reasonable to me that if it’s the little things that are causing the problem, maybe the solution lies in other little things. The play of light on water, for example; or a grandchild’s laughter; or a quiet moment on the porch or even a goodnight kiss from my wife. These little things are like money in the bank: they accumulate with interest.

The difference between the little things that frustrate me and the little things that restore me is gratitude. One of my grandkids recently performed a song in school titled “Gratitude is Attitude.” It was performed with lots of moving body parts, but its meaning made as much  sense to me as it did to my kindergarten thespian: we can find joy in almost anything, so why let the little things get you down? Maybe I knew how to do that once upon a time, but I must have forgotten how somewhere along the way. Now, when the frustration begins to build, I don’t stop, drop, and roll, but I do refocus and think about all the joy that infuses my life. I breathe. I take stock of all the things for which I’m grateful. I’d like to tell you that works all the time, but the truth is it doesn’t. But it helps.

I once had a dear friend who told me, “getting old is not for sissies.” Sadly, he’s gone now, but how right he was! But the ‘gratitude is attitude’ mantra can help. I realize we’ve all drawn different lots in life, and that the little things that frustrate me are nothing in comparison to others who face far greater challenges. I bow to people who are called to climb higher mountains than the ones in front of me. Still, whether I’m climbing a hill or a mountain, the summit comes quicker if I stop and enjoy the view along the way.

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

There’s a new syndrome lurking out there: Shiny Object Syndrome, or, appropriately enough, SOS. SOS manifests as a continual state of distraction, brought on by the belief that there is always something new worth pursuing. To make things worse, the onset of SOS usually comes at the expense of something already planned or underway. Sound familiar?

Crows and magpies apparently suffer from Shiny Object Syndrome. So do some people I know.  One moment these good people are zigging, and then all of a sudden, they’re zagging, distracted by some bright, new shiny object. They just can’t help themselves. SOS is even worse among people who are susceptible to another acronym: FOMO, Fear Of Missing Out. SOS hits the FOMO population hard because that next shiny object in the road is sure to cloud their judgement and cause them to lose focus lest they miss the next big opportunity. Trust me on this

There’s another troublesome aspect of Shiny Object Syndrome: it often causes people to become fixated on something small and shiny, and, in the process, to lose sight of the bigger picture. Sufferers pounce on a new trend or idea and suddenly they’re off on another tangent. Nothing can stop them, at least until they encounter the next shiny object in their path. And on and on we go…

And therein lies the rub: there is always a next shiny object. My favorite poet, Robert Frost, knew this all-too-well. Consider his short masterpiece, “Nothing Gold Can Stay:”

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

It’s a sad truth: tarnish is inevitable, and moreover, something new, a brighter and shinier object, is sure come along to captivate us. Let’s be honest: it’s harder and harder to stay on track in a world that spins as fast as this one. Sigh.

I tend to be a one-thing-at-a-time kind of guy. Some people may find that boring, but I know no other way of living. I’m by nature suspicious of shiny objects, maybe, because like Mr. Frost, I’ve learned that nothing gold can stay. I guess I’d never make it in a murder of crows.

Is there a cure for SOS? If there were, I’d corner the market. However, short of a cure, there  may be an alternative way of thinking about those meddlesome shiny objects. For example, maybe instead of chasing after them, we could stop and consider refocusing our attention on the here and now, and remember why we picked up our current shiny object in the first place. OK; so maybe our current object is a bit tarnished, but that doesn’t mean we should automatically discard it for something shinier. Maybe a little polish and recommitment is all it needs.

All this isn’t to say that I am anti-change. Change is fine as long as it’s appropriate change. I’m just not convinced that all shiny objects are worth their apparent weight in gold. So before you decide to pick up the next one you see, stop and consider the one you’re already holding in your hand. Maybe you already found your shiny object.

Don’t be a crow.

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. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.