I get this way every year about this time. Don’t get me wrong: I love this season, probably more than any of its other three siblings, but there’s an undeniable nostalgia and sadness to this time of year. Autumn is a poignant leaving, like the death of a beloved friend, or the end of a love affair, or the aches and pains and brittle bones of old age. I should know: I’ve known all these and more. Sigh.

Maybe it’s just the quality of autumnal light. The meager slant of shadow or the quickening darkness. Maybe it’s the early morning chill that sidles up onto the porch to cool my steaming cup of coffee. Maybe it’s the first leaves drifting down to cover our little patch of lawn like fallen soldiers. Then again, maybe it’s that first whiff of sweet woodsmoke, or the burn of that first sip of bedtime whisky, or the clutter and squawk of all those chatterbox geese, tired and hungry after their long flight back to our watery world. Or maybe it’s just a tide of tiny chrysanthemums drifting silently in a black pool on a quiet Sunday afternoon, slow dancing to the music of the spheres.

Or maybe it’s the telltale ticking of our inner clock, the one marking our atavistic instinct about the days to come, days when we’ll hunker down to wait out the long, frigid nights under a pile of blankets, snug in our beds, dreaming of spring’s return.

Despite all the sturm und drang of this quarrelsome year, the world keeps spinning its way through space, heedless of all the problems we’ve created since we were last at this point on our heavenly journey: a pandemic, a divided government and an ugly election, the diminution of science to a black art, the turmoil of racial and social injustice, wildfires, hurricanes and tropical storms, droughts—the indisputable tracks of our changing climate. I don’t know about you but sometimes it all just feels so overwhelming to me.

So what’s the answer? My Pollyanna nature is at an impasse. Retreat—running away— doesn’t seem to be an option because the stakes are too high and the world is too small. Denial doesn’t work either because the realities are all too real. A wait-and-see approach sounds every bit as ominous as that bell I’ve heard tolling from the White House recently. You know the one I mean; the one tolling for our democracy, the one that tolls for all of us.

So here’s what I’ve decided to do: sure, I’ll vote but that’s just the beginning because the tears of autumn won’t end when we wake up on the morning of November fourth. No matter who wins, many will lose and much healing work will need to be done, work requiring great and patient effort. I’m not sure I’ll have what it takes, but I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, maybe I’ll exercise more and eat less. Maybe I’ll practice my short game, play my pipes, finish my novel. I’ll sweep the porch, make my bed. I’ll try and do “all politics is local” one better; I’ll make my politics personal. That might sound like a paltry mantra for a guy in his own autumn, but it’s the best I can 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

Just when I thought things couldn’t get much worse this year, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died. Her death is tragedy enough; its implications for our common future are staggering.

Of Hermia, perhaps the strongest of Shakespeare’s female characters in “A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” it was said that “though she be but little, she is fierce.” In Shakespeare’s play, Hermia constantly rejects male authority figures in order to make a powerful claim on her personal sovereignty—especially in matters pertaining to love. I’ll lay matters of love aside for now, but I have no doubt that Justice Ginsburg, like Hermia, was a little-but-fierce force for good.

At any one time, there are always a few people among us who seem to walk in the light. They do good, enough good in fact to raise us all up and to push back the ever-lurking darkness. I believe Justice Ginsburg was such a person. Chief Justice John Roberts mourned her loss, calling her “a tireless and resolute champion of justice.” In a tribute aired by NPR, Ginsburg was described as “an unlikely pioneer; a diminutive and shy woman whose soft voice and large glasses hid an attitude and an intellect that was tough as nails.”

Justice Ginsburg was all that and more. She was an opera devotee who achieved almost rock star status. She never lost her sense of humor or her plain-spoken honesty. She was a serious person who did not take herself too seriously. When called out for nodding off during the 2015 State of the Union speech, she hinted that she may not have been an entirely “sober judge” during a pre-speech dinner with her Court colleagues.

Justice Ginsburg’s path to the Supreme Court was not an easy one. She had a family to raise; her husband was often in poor health. She was years ahead of her time: when she entered Harvard Law School in 1956, one of only nine women in a class of over five hundred, the dean of that institution asked her why she had taken a place that should have gone to a man.

Now that Justice Ginsburg is gone, the direction and juridical composition of the court is very much in question. As for who will succeed her, what should only be a question of intellectual honesty and legal competence will now become yet another divisive political debate, another ugly scar on our body politic.

Hermia has no lines n the final act of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream;” she simply disappears, never to appear on stage again. Her impassioned voice, her defiance of male authority, her devotion to autonomy, disappear with her. In that sudden silence, we realize our great loss. We miss Hermia’s fierceness. We look for her, we listen for her, we plead for her to return, but she is gone.

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died just as Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was beginning. She was a tzaddik, a person of great righteousness. In her final hours, her last fervent wish, dictated to her granddaughter, was that that she would not be replaced until a new president was installed. While that wish may be denied her, may the years to come and her memory be a blessing to all of us.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

One night last week, the wee wife dropped one of her favorite earrings. Doesn’t sound like a big deal, does it? Oh, but it was. We scoured the floor, looked under the bed, peered into the black hole lurking under the dresser, all to no avail. Then, in an unusual moment of mutual clarity, we decided to call off the search until morning. Maybe, in the clearer (literally and figuratively) light of day, we’d have better luck…

It has been said that Archimedes was sitting in his bathtub when he “discovered” the equation that explained what has come to be called the Archimedes Principle: that the upward buoyant force exerted on an object when it is immersed in water is equal to the weight of the fluid that body displaces. “Eureka!”—I found it!!—Archimedes purportedly yelled after he jumped out of the tub and ran naked through the streets of ancient Syracuse, thrilled to have finally understood the underlying principle of the science that has come to be called fluid mechanics. However, important as Archimedes’ principle was and still is, it’s that wonderful word—Eureka!—that speaks to me centuries later. “I found it!” Everybody’s three favorite words!

Now back to the wee wife’s lost earring. In her iconography, St. Anthony of Padua is the poor guy who’s always working overtime. Anthony is the patron saint of lost objects so, the next morning, with his divine help, the wee wife and I tore the bedroom apart again. Moving the dresser presented its own set of problems, but we did it. We lifted the rug, went through all the detritus on the floor; still no lost earring. I could hear panic beginning to creep into the wee wife’s voice, so I did what I always do when things get dicey: I hightailed it to my study because sometimes, a little space can go a long way in our tiny home. A few quiet minutes passed and then, in that tone of voice that implies wonder, relief, joy, excitement, and triumph all in the same breath, I heard her cry out her own modern version of Eureka: “Found it!”

“Where was it?” I called from my sanctum sanctorum.

“In my tennis shoe. Must have hopped in after it hit the floor.” Hardly the genesis of the next new principle of physics, but good enough for me.

Finding something that was once feared lost produces its own special kind of euphoria. Order and calm are restored and the world can resume its regular breathing. Humanity can once again plough ahead: we can climb another rung on our endless evolutionary ladder, reach another plateau, make a new watermark. We can even defy the dark gods of lost objects while simultaneously celebrating an earring’s timely rescue from the underworld, or, in our case, the shoe world. For one brief shining moment, we’re back in control and even though that feeling might not last very long, at least for an instant or two, we glimpse perfection. Even the wet footprints of a naked philosopher running through the streets of ancient Syracuse shouting “Eureka!” seems a small price to pay for the blessed relief that comes rushing in when what was once lost, now is found. Amazing grace, indeed!

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m quickly over my head in the deep end of the bathtub when it comes to any discussion of fluid mechanics. But I know relief and joy when I hear it. It’s a sound that always thrills me, especially when it comes from the sweet, wee throat of you-know-who.

“Found it!” she chirped. Thank you, St. Anthony!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

Ever since Judy Garland—sorry, I mean Dorothy—showed us there really was a place somewhere over the rainbow, we’ve marveled at those dazzling arcs of color in the sky. Actually, our fascination with rainbows is even older than Oz; Genesis old, in fact. Remember? In the aftermath of the great flood, God made a promise to Noah and his sons: “I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds in the earth and a rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant with you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life.” (Genesis 9: 12-15)

That’s the spirituality of rainbows. The science of rainbows is quite different. Think ROYGBIV: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. These prismatic colors are the result of a meteorological phenomenon caused by the reflection, refraction, and dispersion of light found in suspended droplets of water in the atmosphere. Under the right conditions, these water droplets form an arc in a section of the sky always directly opposite the sun. But guess what: as visible as they are, rainbows aren’t real; they’re fake news, mere optical illusions caused when all those droplets of water are viewed from a certain angle (about 42 degrees) relative to a light source. And therein lies the sad truth about rainbows: they aren’t real, they can’t be touched or even physically approached. Like a mirage, they hover in a space removed from us, a sublime trick of water and light that seduces us into belief. Maybe that’s where science and spirituality converge: somewhere over the rainbow.

Many cultures have rainbow legends. In Ireland, most of us know the one about a fabled pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, watched over by mischievous little green leprechauns. In Norse mythology, a rainbow is the bridge between this world and the world to come, the final crossing to our home in the sky. In Hindu culture, the rainbow is an archer’s bow that can shoot arrows of lightening while to the Chinese, it’s a crack in the sky made by stones cast by the mother goddess, Nüwa. What a fistful of fanciful legends generated by a just few tiny droplets of water suspended in the atmosphere, colored by sunlight!

But wait: there’s more! It took a physicist of the ilk of Sir Isaac Newton to postulate an interesting link between the seven colors of the rainbow and the seven notes of the Western musical scale. He imagined a subtle and gradual change in vibrations along the spectrum of visible light that bled one color into another, similar to the changes in frequency that move us along the Do-Re-Mi highway. More science, more art, more wonder. Even with all that’s going on these days, you’ve got to admit: what a wonderful, albeit sometimes illusory, world we inhabit!

So, what’s the takeaway? Why this sudden interest in a place where happy little bluebirds fly, a land that we heard of once in a lullaby? Just this: several days ago, six good friends were seated around an outdoor table on the deck at one of our favorite local restaurants. It was a lovely cool evening, the food and conversation were great when suddenly, a passing shower sent us scurrying under the eaves, napkins on our heads, holding our plates close to keep them dry. But the shower was over in a heartbeat and in its wake, a rainbow appeared. Enthralled, we fell silent and watched the sky color and clear, and in that instant, everything else—the pandemic and the politics and all the social upheaval of the day—was forgotten as six good friends stood in wonder, observing the science and the splendor above us, somewhere over the rainbow.

Why-oh-why can’t we all?

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

On a cold morning in January, a man sits his horse on the bank of a shallow river. Even astride such a tall stallion, the man is not a particularly impressive figure: not more than five and a half feet tall, slightly paunchy, beady eyes, a hawk’s beak for a nose, an enormous forehead all wedged under a receding hairline and tinted with a sallow complexion. For several minutes, he appears lost in thought, doubtful even, strange for a man with an army massed at his back. But then a shadow seems to flit across his face and in an instant, as though he had seen some holy apparition, his affect changes from doubtful to decided. He urges his horse into the stream and the front rank of his single legion, Legio XIII Gemina, steps in behind him, stirring up the muddy bottom of the river, turning it red, rebeus in Latin. The man on the horse turns to the young cup bearer at his side and murmurs something.

“What did he say?” someone asks.

“Iacta alia est.” The die is cast.

The year was 49 BC and Julius Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon, the border between Cisalpine Gaul and Italia, was a deliberate act of defiance against the Roman Republic that would launch a civil war. Ultimately victorious in that conflict, Caesar assumed control of the government of Rome, securing almost unchallenged power and influence. He gave citizenship to many residents of far-off regions of the empire, initiated land reforms, and provided support for veterans. Eventually, he was named dictator perpetud, ‘dictator for life.’ But his populist ideas and authoritarian style angered many of the Roman elites who began to conspire against him. On the Ides of March in 45 BC, only four years after he crossed the Rubicon, Caesar was assassinated on the floor of the Roman Senate; Brutus and Cassius, two of his closest associates, contributed their sharp cuts to his many mortal wounds.

Now I don’t know about you, but I purposely did not not watch either the Democratic or Republican conventions that took place during the last two weeks. This was not an intentional act of Caesar-like defiance on my part; both of the virtual conventions were just way past my bedtime. But, to be honest, there was another reason for my unconventional behavior: I’m beginning to feel politically saturated, overwhelmed by all the rhetoric and an exceedingly drawn-out process driven by dollars and fueled by vitriol. I didn’t feel—and still don’t—that I needed any more input from pundits nor was it likely that anything either of the candidates or their slew of speech-making supporters might say at their conventions would make any material difference to me or change my voting mind. Yes, I was affronted by all the egregious violations of the Hatch Act during the RNC and all those maskless faces arrayed across the White House lawn, but it didn’t surprise me; I’ve come to expect that sort of behavior from Team Trump.

So let’s just get on with the voting, whether by mail, absentee ballot, or at the polls. I don’t need to watch any presidential or vice-presidential debates, although I admit I might be tempted to watch Kamala Harris dismantle Bobblehead Pence like Caesar dismantled Pompey. I just want to cast my die.

Caesar would recognize that the word ‘convention” is derived from the Latin for ‘coming together.’ And that’s just what both parties did, one after the other, deepening the already yawning chasm that exists between the reds and the blues. I will admit that one convention was far more appealing to me—more hopeful, more empathetic, more positive—but I doubt either show changed any minds on either side. Hmmm; Maybe they were aimed at all those independent folks in the middle.

The conventions proved we’re polarized enough. It’s time to move on. Let the voting begin! Let’s cast our dies!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

Think of this as a postcard from me to you, sent from Rehoboth Beach in Delaware, the site of the wee wife’s annual family pilgrimage to the ocean. It’s summer’s annual exclamation point, just as the first falling leaves whisper autumn, the first snow flakes bespeak winter, and the long-distance v-formations of geese heading north herald spring. 

Vacation’s mark on the calendar is usually sacred but this year, it changed. Surprisingly, the change wasn’t driven by that devious little Shrek-like virus, but rather because one set of cousins mysteriously decided to go at the end of August rather than during the first two weeks of summer’s last hurrah. So when one set of plans changed, all changed and, to be honest, given all the other permutations that have occurred since Covid-19 reared its ugly little head, this particular change seems to have worked pretty well for our ever-increasing tribe. There are fewer umbrellas dotting the shoreline and more parking places in town. We could probably even get a last-minute dinner reservation if we were so inclined, but dining in at the end of a long beach day in our respective family bubbles suits me just fine. 

Despite the reduced hurly-burly on the beach and around town, the logistics of this family vacation are still staggering. A motorcade of cars the size of big rigs are crammed with food and drink, clothes, beach toys, baby accoutrement, bicycles and helmets, golf clubs, and the kitchen sink. This year, the family has spread out over five different houses, partly to observe the new rules of social distancing and partly because we couldn’t find an entire hotel to rent. I’ve lost actual count of this year’s conglomeration, but I’m pretty sure it’s north of forty. I know because I took a head count yesterday—three times. Each time I got a different number but the count was always over forty.

I’ve come to understand that “vacation” is a relative term. For a few lucky souls, it might mean abandoning routines, relaxing, reading, napping, and generally escaping the daily grind. For our family, however, it means the tempo gets turned up, the world spins a bit faster, volume increases, feelings get bruised then repaired in the blink of an eye, daily routines revolve around the moods and schedules of the kids, and dinners are more like an army mess tent than a romantic meal under the stars. Down here at the beach, by the time the stars come out, I’m ready for bed. I’d go, but dinner for the grownups is still an hour away.

I’ve learned to survive the maelstrom by sitting back and watching the show unfold like a Seinfeld episode. There’s a crazy neighbor or two, some quirky relatives and friends, and the plot is usually about absolutely nothing. If I’m ever tempted to get drawn into one of the family soap operas, some miraculous restraining impulse takes over to save me. I recline in my beach chair and pretend to sleep. Fortunately for me, nobody seems to mind. This family is as inclusive as they come and I think my status as an outlaw is secure. At least for today.

Anyway, we’re here, toes in the sand, listening to the surf, sipping a beer, chatting away, and praying for sunny weather because the alternative is unthinkable. We miss you. I think we’re having shrimp for dinner tonight, but I’m not worried. Whatever gets conjured up, I’m sure it will be like my favorite old-time candy: good and plenty. 

And as we always say to each other, “Love you.”

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with homes in Chestertown and Bethesda. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy magazine. “A Place to Stand,” a book of photographs and essays about Landon School, was published by the Chester River Press in 2015.  A collection of his essays titled “Musing Right Along” was published in May 2017; a second volume of Musings entitled “I’ll Be Right Back” was released in June 2018.  Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

 

August Wilson’s play ‘Fences’ is the sixth of ten plays in the playwright’s “Pittsburgh Cycle.” Set in the early 1950s, ’Fences’ explores themes relating to the evolving African American experience in general and to race relations in particular. It premiered at the Yale Repertory Theater in 1985 and in 1987, ‘Fences’ won both the Tony Award for Best Play and the Pulitzer Prize for Drama.

The plot revolves around Troy, a 53 year-old, blue collar head of household from Pittsburgh’s Hill District, the center of that city’s African American life. Like too many other Black men, Troy is struggling just to get by. At one time, he had been a talented baseball player in the Negro Leagues but his dreams of playing Major League baseball had been thwarted by baseball’s color ban. Troy had also served time for an accidental murder he committed during a robbery, but released from prison, he now makes his living as a trash collector.

Troy is hardly a heroic character. He’s stubborn, a drinker, a womanizer. He withholds affection from his wife and takes advantage of his sons. At one point in the play, Troy admits to his wife Rose that he has been having an affair and that his mistress, Alberta, is pregnant. When it is revealed that Alberta dies in childbirth, Troy brings the baby home and begs Rose to raise her. Rose agrees but tells Troy, “From right now, this child’s got a mother, but you are a womanless man.” Once again, Troy is fenced in.

Fences can keep people in or keep people out. The picket one in front of our little house is anchored on one end by a flowering mandevilla plant that never fails to attract both admiration and disappointment. People passing by always stop to admire the mandevilla’s bright color but when they bend to sniff it, I can tell they’re a bit disappointed because it has no discernible aroma.

The wee wife and I like our mandevilla because its tendrils trail along, around, and through the fence line, softening the rigid pickets that stand at attention, guarding our little property from the winds that blow all around us: viruses, divisive political discourse, and, like Troy’s fence in Pittsburgh, the systemic racism that continues to beset our country, just as it has since its inception.

But there’s another dimension to our fence out front: sometimes it feels like I’m on it. Many of the decisions that come my way are simple with obvious solutions: I know for whom I’ll cast my ballot; I’ll wear a mask; Black lives matter. But some decisions are more complicated, more challenging. They involve choices with subtle distinctions or no clear right or wrong answer but with plenty of potential for consequences. Decisions like these may be colorful enough, but their aroma is harder to discern.

In Wilson’s play, it takes years for Troy to build the emotional barriers that separate him from his wife and children. He is trying desperately to keep bad things out while Rose works hard to protect the good things within. But by the end of the play, the sun breaks through the clouds and there is some small measure of salvation, some inkling of redemption and reconciliation between father and sons, husband and wife. Troy even gets his own garbage truck to drive; he’s no longer just a lifter. It’s not by any means what I would call a happy ending, but it’s satisfying enough. Kind of like admiration and disappointment.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

The Coffee Rule is really quite simple: “No chore may be assigned or performed until I’ve had a morning cup of coffee.” That’s it. No fine print, no codicil in legalese, no warning about dangerous symptoms. Just one simple little rule designed to get the day off on the right foot. I came up with it one morning when my eyes were barely open and the day’s chore list was growing longer by the minute. If I didn’t create the coffee rule on the spot, I was doomed.

You see, I’m a contemplative sort. I tend to think about things for a while, to observe before I act. Like Ferdinand the bull, I want to smell the rose before I pluck it, to resist impulse and instead, make a space for action before action is required. That’s just my modus operandi and it works for me, most of the time, anyway.

The wee wife, on the other hand, is a doer: when something needs doing, she does it and with a burst of energy that makes that silly pink, drum-banging bunny look slow off the line. Between you and me, I admire her attitude: it’s how the world gets turned, but without a coffee rule to slow her pace, it would be spinning a little too fast for me.

Most of the time, she will wait patiently for me to finish my morning cup but sometimes I catch her tapping her foot or peeking into my cup to see how much coffee is left. For my part, I try not to take advantage. While I don’t exactly gulp my coffee down, neither do I linger ’til that good last drop. I’m well aware that I can only get away with so much thinking and observing; eventually I’ll have to drop into the day headfirst and do my best to keep up or get out of her way.

There’s another aspect to this. The wee wife is a planner who thinks nothing about making plans for next November. I, on the other hand, tend to take life as it comes. I’m willing to trade a little uncertainty for some spontaneity. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but come on: who knows if it’s going to rain three Thursdays hence so why plan a dinner party with our old friend Al Fresco today? She counters with, “Well, at least put it on the calendar; if we have to amend, so be it.” She’s probably right that, too. Sigh.

Fortunately, we love each other—I guess opposites really do attract—so we make our differences work. Most of the time. I’m well aware that there are days when my honey-do list grows annoyingly long and when that happens, I at least try to scratch off an item or two before noon when it’s time to invoke the ice-tea rule. The ice-tea rule is very similar to the coffee rule except it takes effect at midday, not first thing in the morning. For some reason, the ice-tea rule gets a little less traction in our house because, as we all know, time flies and there are only twenty-four hours in a day. Tap, tap, tap.

I think our friends get a kick out of watching our little show. I’m guessing we’re not the only couple who operate on different schedules or who approach timetables differently. Once upon a time, I worked for a woman who didn’t think twice about getting to the airport just before the airplane closed its doors. Drove me nuts. I’m the guy who likes to get to the airport two hours before flight time, just so I can watch all those stressed-out people running to catch their flights. Makes me feel so superior!

Be all this as it may, in my heart of hearts, I know the wee wife is right. It’s good to make a plan; it’s good to not let the chores pile up too high. We live in an old wood house and left to my own devices, I might well let the honey-do list get so long that it would be over my head and I’d be left with walls that look like Swiss cheese. On the other hand, there are still some blossoms on the rose bush worth sniffing before it’s time to trim it. Again.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

There’s a spot not far from home where the wee wife and I like to go to enjoy a little beach time with the grandkids. To get there, we wind our way along back roads, passing through fields of tall, tasseled corn or verdant soy. When we come to a “No Outlet” sign, we know we’re almost there and sure enough, in another couple of miles, the road comes to a full and sudden stop on a tiny spit of land. To the left, there’s a broad expanse of navigable creek; to the right, on the other end of a narrow cut, there’s a little sandy beach that looks out on a lovely cove and beyond, to the broad reach of the Chesapeake Bay. 

It’s a pleasant drive but at one point along the way, we pass through an eerie landscape covered with kudzu. Kudzu is a climbing, coiling, trailing perennial vine, native to parts of East and Southeast Asia. It was introduced into the United States at the Japanese pavilion during the 1876 Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. At the time, kudzu was thought to have several beneficial properties: as a food source (kudzu roots contain a starch commonly used in Japanese and Vietnamese cooking), as an herbal remedy when brewed in a tea, or even as a fibrous plant that could be turned into paper or clothing. But alas; when more than a million acres of kudzu was planted throughout the south, it quickly turned into a noxious weed that caused severe ecological damage by outcompeting native flora for light. Kudzu grows over trees, shading their foliage, eventually choking them to death and has become such a problem that some southern cities have used herds of goats and llamas to graze on the roots of the plant to stop, or at least limit, its malicious spread.

Now kudzu is here in Maryland and working its way northward, another likely manifestation of the damage caused by climate change. But despite its noxious nature, I admit I find a certain beauty in kudzu: left unchecked, it creates a haunted forest full of fantastic shapes and textures, a seemingly serene world that belies the vine’s evil intent. Soon enough, all that kudzu will cover and destroy all the surrounding host trees and plants. Nothing will be left. It makes me think of Robert Frost’s poem Fire and Ice: “Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice.” I’m beginning to think maybe it’s neither; maybe the world just ends in kudzu.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  Kudzu is just a weed and like any weed, it can be controlled, even eradicated. Scientists and agronomists know what to do: kill the root crown (a fibrous knob of tissue that sits atop the vine’s roots) and the plant can’t propagate. Close mowing works; so does heavy grazing. (Remember those goats and llamas?) The point is there’s a relatively simple solution to the kudzu problem—kind of like wearing a mask, washing our hands, and practicing social distancing. All it takes is effective leadership and a concerted effort. I know; easy enough to say…

But if that sounds too complicated, maybe we could all go to the polls or mail in our ballots and vote all that kudzu away. 

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home 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

 

Masks are nothing new in American culture. I got my first dose of masks when I spent Saturday mornings with the Lone Ranger. Of course, his mask was different from the ones we see sprouting up today, more a minimalist disguise than the masks being worn today in a responsible and sensible effort to quell the spread of Covid-19. Still, the Lone Ranger’s mask seemed pretty cool to this kid and countless others who believed it would somehow protect him from discovery or harm or both. Years later, that little black mask has become an enduring American icon and is probably on display somewhere in the Smithsonian.  

The Lone Ranger wore his mask for a good reason. In case you’ve forgotten, the Lone Ranger’s name was John Reid and he was the sole survivor of an ambush by outlaws that killed five of his fellow Texas Rangers, including his older brother, Daniel. Wounded in the attack, Reid the younger was found by a Native American named Tonto who nursed him back to health and subsequently became his lifelong companion. To avenge his older brother’s death, John Reid donned a black mask made from the fabric of Daniel’s bullet-ridden vest, mounted a stallion Silver, and with a “Hi-Ho, Silver, away!” and Tonto at his side, rode off into Saturday morning history to the stirring strains of Gioachino Rossini’s William Tell Overture. His mission was to aid those in need, fight evil, and establish justice, a pretty simple credo even in those long-gone days of innocence.

But back to masks. The ones we’re being encouraged—even ordered—to wear today are not meant to disguise but to protect both the wearer and anyone with whom he/she comes into contact. That seems perfectly sensible to me, nothing more than a straight-forward battle plan in the war against a very nasty virus full of deadly intent. And yet some folks rile at the request to don a mask, believing it to be either an inconvenient infringement on their liberty or an admission of personal weakness. I guess these folks would rather see the infection rate rise and the death toll mount. I bet the Lone Ranger and Tonto would be appalled. What simpler way to aid those in need, fight evil, and even establish a measure of justice? Just wear a mask! You don’t even have to shoot any bad guys.

There is another and darker side to this; I guess there always is these days. For some, mask wearing has taken on a measure of acute political significance. The good Dr. Anthony Fauci may not be much of a first-ball pitcher, but he’s a selfless scientist who has had the common good at heart for decades, yet some people vilify him just because he advises us to wear masks. Somehow his sensible advice has been perverted by a lunatic fringe into something akin to political apostasy. How sad! Dr. Fauci is no black-hatted outlaw. He deserves the Nobel Prize, not derision and death threats. 

But let’s lighten the load and leave the politics of masks aside, if only for this short paragraph. The wee wife—God bless her!—has embraced the wearing of masks not only for reasons pertaining to good health and personal safety, but also as a creative fashion statement. Fabric, color, pattern, and design: the elements of her mask must not only form a formidable barrier against any barrage of incoming or outgoing droplets, but it must also complement her outfit in the process.  

I’m certain Ke-mo-sah-bee would agree.

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