Some people say it is playing 18 holes of golf, others say spending the day in a blind when the geese aren’t flying. But for me it is a quiet sail on a warm day across a long stretch of water barely ruffled by the wind that makes two people open up to one another and tell each other things they would never say in any other setting. 

One of these sails occurred with my father who passed more than twenty years ago. He was neither a boater nor someone who liked the water. So, one dry summer late in August when the sea nettles were as thick as Jello in the Bay’s shallows, he said to my astonishment that he wanted to do the Crab Alley to Saint Michaels run I had been talking about around the office.  

Our boat then was a 16 foot Hobie catamaran. This particular trip started at the public landing on Crab Alley Creek on Kent Island, out Crab Alley Bay, across the Eastern Bay and up the Miles River to St. Michaels for lunch at its iconic restaurant, the Crab Claw, next door to the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. If the winds hold up in the afternoon, a Hobie can sail the twelve miles back to the public landing by five in the afternoon which we were always able to do.

At the time of the sail, my father and I were practicing law together, something we did for fifteen years in a classic father-son business relationship. Still years away from retirement, he was enjoying all that he had accomplished. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else but come to the office each day to make sure everything was being done the way he wanted it. I, on the other hand, was at the beginning of my career and, with the supreme confidence of youthful denseness, wanted to change most everything. We were in the heated argument stage, each trying to convince the other of the rightness of his position through intense force of will, and each exasperated and profoundly disturbed by the shortsightedness of the other. 

This relationship is described frequently in management journals, my favorite being a book by Thomas Watson, Jr. In Father, Son & Company, he writes about IBM and his travails with his father who founded the organization. Our small firm was hardly an IBM, but there were distinct similarities in the way the Watson and McGuiness males treated one another.

Tom Junior fought day in and day out with his father. He thought the future of computers was in transistors. His father felt just as strongly that the punch card would continue to be the key to success.  Since the 1930’s, it had made IBM one of the largest and most successful organizations in the world. Just because it was the Fifties, there was no need to change something that had been so reliable and that had created so much wealth.  

There is a picture of these two titans shaking hands on the day Tom Senior retired and handed the reins of his beloved company to this hothead who didn’t have the maturity to leave well enough alone and would no doubt go on to ruin it. A man who has only a few months to live, Senior has a look of resignation, knowing full well this kid is going to change everything that he had worked so hard to build.

When my father and I had our sail that quiet day in August, we were still five years away from the passing of the mantle, a process that would begin three years later at a fateful annual meeting of one of our association clients.  

At that time, he was the president of an industry trade association, and I was the number two.  A few months before that meeting, this association had been involved in defeating a major piece of legislation in Congress that had a provision in it our members found abhorrent. Our involvement in the debate had resurrected a long running argument about the organization’s appropriate public profile. He prided himself on keeping things low key to avoid as much controversy as possible. The last thing he wanted, particularly at this point in his career, was the organization to be attacked publicly by anyone for any reason.  

I, on the other hand, thought a political organization could be more effective by making one’s presence known and that a bit of controversy, in addition to making life interesting, was useful in drawing attention to one’s arguments. At the same time, I was being told by our members that they were tired of hearing policymakers at our meetings who mirrored their own views. They wanted the discussions broadened and new perspectives brought in. So, to add a little spice to this session, I had invited the prime sponsor of the legislation we had helped defeat to be a part of our panel of Congressional speakers. Much to everyone’s surprise, he accepted. 

On a Friday afternoon in Williamsburg, Virginia, before an audience of senior corporate executives, the congressman opened his presentation by saying that the reason he had accepted the invitation was that an important message needed to be delivered. “Make no mistake about it,” he solemnly intoned, “your organization was primarily responsible for the defeat of my bill.” 

No one likes to tell someone else their true feelings about something the other holds dear, and this penchant is pronounced when people deal one-on-one with powerful politicians. Members of Congress are routinely lobbied by sycophantic business representatives who tell them that the legislation they are sponsoring is wonderful and that they are very sorry that their retrograde, staff driven, out of control business associations (to whom they faithfully pay their dues and serve on their boards) are giving them such a hard time.  

Some politicians actually believe that companies are grateful to policymakers who saddle them with enormous legal liability. Perhaps, for that reason, the congressman expected that his charge against us, that we defeated a bill that he had written, would so shock the membership that they would immediately launch impeachment proceedings against my father and me. This is absolutely great, I thought. Here we are being given credit for something that few groups could ever hope to accomplish—primary responsibility for an action taken by Congress—and not only that, the sponsor of the bill was the one presenting the award.  

But the glow quickly faded. The Congressman shifted from an attack on the association to an attack on the executives sitting in the room who were headquartered in his home state, many of whom he knew personally. “What are you doing in this room,” he would say, calling out each one by name. “I’m sure you’re not contributing to an organization like this.” 

Exhausting that pool, he then turned to me, accusing me of unethical conduct and intoning that my license to practice law should be revoked. What had been exhilarating was now headed into the abyss. The audience knew full well that it was the pot calling the kettle black, but his repeated personal attacks were beginning to raise questions as to whether there wasn’t at least some truth in what he was saying. 

The congressman harangued the group like an instructor in a reeducation camp, repeatedly referring to a fact sheet that I had developed on blank paper describing various aspects of the bill. One of its points had been picked up by the legislation’s opponents during the House floor debate and used as the principal argument against it. This blank format was in keeping with my father’s no identity, low profile approach which the two of us had battled over for years. I couldn’t believe sinister motives were now being assigned to my use of it. Even more puzzling was the fact that the congressman said repeatedly that the language I had used in the fact sheet was an egregious misrepresentation of his bill. 

This harangue went on for 45 of the most painful minutes of my life.  Squirming in their chairs, no one was willing to look in my direction. My father was pacing back and forth in the back of the room muttering violently to himself, his worst fears realized.  

Earlier that day, I had proudly recounted our accomplishments to these very same people, and they had seemed so very, very appreciative of what we had done. From the high of that morning, I was now looking at the gates of hell. Growing up in Washington, DC, I had watched the oft repeated ritual of those in the wrong place at the wrong time being dismembered for misdeeds that weren’t sins at all, and now I couldn’t believe that it was happening to me, right in front of the very people with whom I wanted to build my career.  

Eventually, it hit me that I was completely on my own. No one was going to come to my rescue, not my father, not the moderator who at this point was looking for a way to slide off the riser, nor any of those people who usually stand up in a group setting like this to make long-winded points.  

With nothing left to lose, I rose from my chair in the back of the room and moved rapidly to the dais, loudly interrupting the congressman on my way forward, saying that it was time to bring a little bit of truth, common sense, and decency into this discussion. Yes, this sounds remarkably lame in the retelling, but it shocked the room and caused the congressman to freeze momentarily in disbelief at my indiscretion.  

Once on the stage, I yanked the fact sheet out of his hand, reading aloud the passage he found so offensive. “Yes, I wrote that. Yes, I gave it to everyone I could in Congress. But what you’ve neglected to tell the audience, Mr. Chairman, is that there are quotation marks at the beginning and end of the sentence you find so egregious. The reason for those quotation marks is that this sentence comes directly from your bill. You wrote those words, Mr. Chairman, and if those words were the cause of your bill being defeated, then you have no one to blame but yourself.” 

With that I shoved the fact sheet back into his hands, turned my back to him and walked to my seat, very slowly. As I did, I could feel the mood of the room swing fiercely to my side. People pounded their fists. Tables were slapped. I was patted on my arms, back and legs as I worked down the row back to my seat. I was Rocky. I wanted to bow in four directions and drink in the cheers. 

The Congressman tried to continue his hectoring for a few more minutes, but his colleagues on the panel had grown weary of his act and tugged on his sleeve. It was over, and they soon left the room. 

After the meeting had recessed for the day, I knocked on the door of my parents’ room in the hotel. My mother let me in without, uncharacteristically, saying a word, just nodding in my father’s direction.

He was slumped in a heavy chair that he had turned to the resort’s elegant small window. Staring out at the peaceful golf course, the geese walking across the lawn, and the trees just beginning to bud, he looked as if the world had crashed in around him. The bill would become law without the offending provision, but the association’s name would be on everything we touched. Our profile had been raised permanently, and there were members of Congress who would try to squash us whenever they got the opportunity.  

As I stood there beside him, he wouldn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence. I told the back of his head not to worry, the whole thing had worked out fine and that for once no one had fallen asleep during the afternoon meeting. He turned and glared at me, and said, acid dripping, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

But that was all to come. By some unspoken agreement that August day in 1982, all the usual mind games we played on each other had been suspended.  

As we glided out of Crab Alley Bay, he sat looking across the water towards the narrow strip of trees in the distance that marks Tilghman Point at the mouth of the Miles River. Instead of his usual golf hat from an expensive resort, he was wearing a black billed Winchester Rifles cap that he’d bought at a convenience store where we had stopped for ice that morning. He’d never owned a gun in his life.

We talked about our experiences growing up and what had happened to relatives and people we knew. As the morning wore on, we started thinking about those points you reach in life when the fog lifts. It reveals an attractive channel, and turning towards it, an irreversible journey begins taking you thousands of miles in a direction you had never anticipated. Had the fog not lifted just at that moment, you would have chosen another course with an altogether different set of experiences. We had never talked like this before. 

When we got to St. Michaels, we tacked the Hobie through the harbor in the light wind to the dingy dock at the Maritime Museum and then walked over to the picnic tables on the Crab Claw’s deck. It was a day that comes as summer is ending, when the sky is less intense, the green leaves are losing their luster, and the crickets trill their high register symphony. 

We watched a small seaplane land on the Miles and taxi towards the Crab Claw as we ate. The pilot shut down its engine as he neared us, passed a long wooden oar through a side window, and paddled the last few feet to tie up directly in front of our table. We smiled at each other and shook our heads, thinking how foreign this pleasant place was to the universe we normally inhabited. 

At the time I was stumbling my way through a book Nigel Calder wrote called Einstein’s Universe. It said on the dust jacket, “Relativity Made Plain” which is a bit of a reach. As part of his discussion of the theories Einstein formulated replacing Newtonian concepts of gravity with ones involving time and space, he provides a description of how two bodies influence one another. 

Moons and planets are falling freely, travelling as straight as they can through curved space. A massive body, he says, “distorts time and space around it and those distortions guide the movements of other objects in its vicinity.” He goes on to explain that a massive body bends space to such an extent that a smaller object falling freely at the right speed goes right around the massive body and back to its starting point.  

Calder’s explanation summed up our relationship at the time. Two bodies falling freely in space, but my father’s being so massive that I was trapped in his orbit. He would move inexorably forward, while I could only move through the space that curved around him.  

On that day in August as I picked through a pile of steamed crabs and he ordered a second helping of crab cakes, relativity changed. We were both falling freely, neither one curving the other’s space.  At least that’s how I felt. Maybe it was just because he was on my boat going where I wanted to go and only I knew how to sail it. He was riding in my car, and I would be driving him home. If he didn’t like what I was doing, he would have to call my mother, and she was not going to drive all the way to the Eastern Shore to pick him up. So maybe, for a change, he was having to orbit around me just to survive the day. Except that he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself and always spoke afterwards about what an enjoyable day it was. In any event, it was the first time in my life of 35 years that I saw my father as neither a parent, an employer, nor someone in my way, but just another confused human being grappling with life. 

A few days after we returned to the office, the relationship reverted to its normal state. Five years later, the mantle was passed, albeit reluctantly. And one August afternoon fourteen years later as he sat in the family room of our house, the two of us looked directly at one another, staring into each other’s eyes for a long time, saying no words because we didn’t need to. A feeling was being exchanged that he did not have long to live and that he wanted to make his peace with me and I with him. It would not be until the following August that I would watch those eyes burn brightly for a brief moment as he saw a new course that would take him forever in a new direction, and then dim as he took it.  

Today, I live in St. Michaels on that same harbor, and I can see the roof of the Crab Claw from our home. Now and then when the intensity of the August heat breaks, I like to sit on our deck and imagine the Hobie with its two figures aboard working its way over to the dingy dock where we had tied up so long ago, and then try to bring back that feeling. In all our years together, it was one of the few times neither of us wanted anything from the other. For a brief moment in time and space, we were just two guys, at peace. 

Jeff McGuiness was the senior partner of a public policy law firm based in Washington, DC, and founder of HR Policy Association. A fine arts major in college who served as a photographer in the Air Force during the Vietnam War Era, he has picked up where he left off 50 years ago with Bay Photographic Works. He lives in St. Michaels, MD.

It is hard to think of another Mid-Shore company in recent history that has made more cultural and strategic changes in how they conduct their business than Qlarant, headquartered in Talbot County. In this case, Qlarant, which had been operating its nonprofit businesses since 1973, made the bold move over five years ago to consolidate those free-standing entities and bring its entire workforce under one name to offer their solutions for fraud, waste & abuse, quality improvement,  and data sciences & technology management.

This major change in corporate culture and team building was bearing significant results with Qlarant’s growth, at least before the entire world changed in the face of an international pandemic in March 2020. By its 2nd quarter, everything had changed for Qlarant and their clients. And watching all of this unfold was Ron Forsythe, Qlarant’s president, and CEO, who had carefully planned and the company’s organizational change, and in what seemed to him like a New York minute, everything not only changed but stayed changed for the next eighteen months.

The good news for Qlarant was that they had always planned for a crisis situation. As Ron notes in the Spy’s latest interview with him last week, the company’s 500 plus employees quickly pivoted to those “Plan B” playbooks. And even under these unprecedented conditions, Forsythe notes that revenue grew by six percent in 2020.

But as America has started to move into a new post-COVID era, Ron highlights a new set of challenges for him and his colleagues. Questions like which employees should be allowed to continue to work at home, how to manage and build relations with customers in the future, and most importantly for any CEO, how does one keep and grow corporate culture.

This video is approximately six minutes in length. For more information about Qlarant please go here.

One of the most significant additions to Chestertown life might arrive just in time for Christmas—the new 60,000 sq. ft. Kent County Family YMCA complex.

The top-of-the-line facility will fundamentally change health and fitness options in Kent County by offering a broad spectrum of programs and services, from competitive swimming and children’s swimming instruction in the 6-lane pool, to activities in two full-size gymnasiums, and an elevated walking track (10.8 loops for a mile).

Along with continuing an enhanced summer camp program and other youth-oriented services, the Y will address chronic issues in an aging demographic with programs like “Rock Steady” non-combative boxing for people with Parkinson’s Disease, and their “LiveSTRONG” program, program for cancer survivors of any stage, as well as Enhance Fitness which is targeted to seniors to aid in fall prevention and arthritis relief through regular movement.

The Spy was recently given a tour of the new YMCA site under construction and sat down with Y Executive Director Erica Osterhout to talk about the YMCA experience.

Osterhout, formerly the Program Director at Kent Athletic and Wellness Center on High Street when the facility transitioned into the YMCA, will continue as Executive Director at the new complex. In the meantime, the facility on High will continue to provide its fitness programs, gym, and workout areas until the new facility is open.

Osterhout emphasized the YMCA’s commitment to reach out to all the community.

“We’re really eager for the partnership with Kent County public schools specifically and all organizations including, corporate wellness incentives. There’s a lot we can do with local businesses. This is a vital part of living,” she says.

The Kent County Family YMCA, one of 11 facilities comprising the YMCA of the Chesapeake family along the Eastern Shore—Maryland and Virginia—prides itself on inclusion and that “no one will be turned away.

Annual fundraising efforts help underwrite individuals who might be financially challenged, and Osterhout is quick to point out an added benefit to membership—members may use any of the participating facilities in the US.

If you drive by the construction site near Dixon Valve, you will realize this new facility is much more than a gym. It’s what makes for a healthy community. And there’s no joining fee in June!

This video is approximately six minutes in length. For more about the Kent County Family YMCA, go here. For YMCA of the Chesapeake, go here.

 

Every artist has a creative odyssey shaped by doubt, exploration, and discovery, and what seems like eternal transition, sometimes even from genre to genre.

For Chestertown artist Faith Wilson, an early impulse to create found a place in weaving, carding, spinning, and dying homegrown wool. Inspired by two years traveling Europe and visiting some famous French tapestry studios, Wilson thought she’d discovered her creative path and set out to make tapestry jackets under her “Circe” brand.

But her interests began to change when she discovered painting, starting with small jobs like helping paint theatre sets with local artist Jack Schroeder.

Continuing to experiment with forms, Faith, with her sister, ceramic artist Marilee Schumann, opened a studio and gallery at the old granary building on Washington Avenue. It was there she met a visiting artist who painted on canvas. She loved the texture of the material and the fact that it was raw, unstretched.

She thought, “These might work well as floor coverings” and went about perfecting a form all her own. She never looked back, and the last 20 years have been a whirlwind of exhibits at elite galleries and shows like the American Craft Council, Visionary Art Museum, Washington Craft Show, and the Smithsonian. For five years, her work has been offered at the cooperative artists’ gallery, Create, while continuing to fulfill custom orders for clients throughout the country.

Working with her own stencils, Wilson’s dimensional technique of multiple overlays reveals a constellation of motifs, some abstract, others a kind of luminous and reimagined folk art. For example, her recurring blackbirds show up in entirely different contexts throughout her catalogue.

If you are like some of us, shy of using them for their purpose—as utilitarian floor coverings—your walls will brighten with her vision. Then again, a floor is just another surface.

“These are meant to be walked on, have tables and chairs on them, or in the kitchen or hallway,” she says.

The Spy recently visited Faith’s studio on Cannon Street to talk about her journey. While she demurs from considering herself an “artist” while self-identifying as more of a craftswoman, the contrast in words is eclipsed by the created wonder of her work.

 

This video is approximately seven minutes long. For more about Faith Wilson’s art and her gallery please go here.