Wyoming really only has two seasons: winter and summer. Before climate change, we would step off the plane from our summer vacation in August and be greeted by a snowstorm. Shivering in our summer clothes, we’d dash from the airport to the car, grateful for the sweaters or light jackets tucked into our bags. A day later, the snow would melt, and summer would return for just another week or two.

Halloween was always a bundled-up affair, costumes layered over long underwear, bulky sweaters, or a coat disguised as a cape. Snow was often already on the ground, but it never stopped us from trick-or-treating for hours in a big pack of friends while our parents stayed home, handing out candy.

Fall also meant homecoming, with its crisp air, outdoor parties, and giant mums pinned proudly to winter coats at the University of Wyoming game.

In Southern California, fall feels entirely different. Outdoor swimming requires heated pools, and while the beach is breathtaking on a sunny day, the Pacific stays icy, too cold for a real swim. Fall there doesn’t bite at your cheeks or dust your yard with snow, but the beauty of the season still lingers in the light, the air, and the way the year quietly turns.

Restaurants have heaters or fire pits for Al Fresco dining. Apple picking is a weekend favorite and wine festivals celebrate California Wine Month. Miramar Naval Air Station, now Marine Corps Air Station hosts a spectacular air show in the Fall. As members of the San Diego Zoo, Halloween activities were a great family activity.

In late September the Santa Anna winds would swoop in, bringing strong gusts and extreme dryness to an otherwise mildly humid San Diego. I learned that the wind can make people feel agitated due to a combination of physical and psychological factors caused by an increase in positive ions in the air. The winds also exacerbates allergy and asthma symptoms potentially causing more irritation.

The Trade Winds in Hawaii are less intense in the Fall. Temperatures drop to the low 80’s during the day but the ocean temperatures are at their warmest, perfect for swimming. For most of Hawaii, there are just two seasons: “summer,” between May and October and “winter,” between October and April. We celebrated Fall with outdoor BBQ’s and potlucks for the weekly NFL games very early every Sunday morning. The shorter days were celebrated with crazy sunsets and incredible star gazing.

And then there is fall in Maryland, which tastes like oysters; steamed, fried, or raw on the half shell. It’s Navy homecoming football games in Annapolis, haunted houses that make you scream and laugh at the same time, and evenings spent wandering through straw mazes under a crisp sky. The heavy summer humidity finally lifts, leaving the air cool and comfortable. Everywhere you turn, there’s pumpkin spice: lattes, candles, and desserts signaling that autumn has fully arrived.

From Wyoming snow to California and Hawaiian sun to Maryland oysters, fall shows up differently in every place I’ve lived, but always with the same promise: a season of change, of gathering, and of memory-making. Wherever I am, fall is still the best.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Congratulations to Ravens fans on last week’s victory over the Cleveland Browns. For this week’s Flashback Photo, an earlier football team takes the field. The 1921 Chestertown High School squad in this image looks like a daunting opponent. With their steely gazes and bulky padding under their jerseys, they surely must have intimidated all their rivals. Image courtesy of the Historical Society of Kent County. 

If you have local team photos from other years that you’d like to share, please send them to [email protected].

The weather was perfect, but the cars were better.  There were dozens of them, ranging from an extremely rare 1913 National to Porsche 911s fresh off the showroom floor.  Where were these spectacular cars?  At the Oxford Community Center awaiting the checkered flag marking the start of the annual Oxford Road Rally.

This Spy was sent to observe the start of the rally.  A 1970s Trabant, an East German car built by communists, had been spotted at the OCC earlier in the month, at the Cars N’ Coffee event. 

Cars lined up early for the race, providing spectators with an opportunity to see some of the finest automobiles on the Eastern Shore. I was thrilled to see a 1940 Packard 110.

And a 1954 Buick Eight Super woody station wagon, restored to perfection.  

This spy admires the courage of the owners entering these museum-quality cars in a road race.

Among the more remarkable entries was a 1953 Jaguar XK 120 race car.  Look at that windshield.

Have you ever seen the 1913 National?  The Smithsonian Institution doesn’t have one, but, last Saturday one was parked in front of the OCC and participated proudly in the rally.

More modern cars at the rally included an early Dodge Viper. The car boasts a 10-cyclindar engine that is sometimes described as sounding like a milk truck.

And I always love seeing Ford GTs.  A red one looked ready for this year’s Le Mans.

At 9:00 a.m. Oxford police led the cars out of the OCC.  The race was on!

The race was a fantastic success.  This Spy recommends that anyone with a sports or classic car participate in next year’s rally.  Fun is guaranteed.

I don’t know where my parents first heard the phrase, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Maybe it was from Thumper in Bambi, but it was repeated often in our house. After saying Grace at dinner, we would take turns going around the table, sharing something kind about a sibling or something wonderful that happened to us that day. Those small rituals left a deep imprint on me, teaching me that kindness wasn’t just a nice idea, it was a practice.

At church on Sundays, we prayed for our sister church far away and for people less fortunate or in pain. Respect and compassion were steady themes in my childhood, woven into ordinary life.

I grew up in Wyoming, where my friends came from many different religious backgrounds; Catholic, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Mormon, and Jewish. One Christmas, our dinner table conversation turned to Hanukkah versus Christmas. My parents were very clear about the importance of respecting all beliefs without judgement, reminding us that faith takes many forms. At first, we felt sorry for the Jewish kids who didn’t get a visit from Santa, until we learned about the eight nights of gifts. Suddenly, their holiday sounded just as magical as ours, and I began to realize that difference didn’t have to mean less-than.

I was very young when John F. Kennedy was elected president. I remember it being a really big deal that he was Catholic. At that time, it seemed important to know a person’s religion. I had already heard my parents talk about JFK, how he was a decorated veteran, how his faith set him apart, and how not everyone agreed with his policies. My parents didn’t either, not completely. But on the whole, they respected him. That was their way. Respect didn’t require agreement; it required seeing the whole of a person. 

When Kennedy was assassinated, our dinner table conversation shifted from disbelief to anger to pure sadness. My father remarked about Walter Cronkite showing his emotions on air, something so unusual that it struck him deeply. As Americans we were stunned about this brutal murder of a good man, a husband and a father.  How could this happen here in the best country in the world? That night, grief sat at our table alongside us.

Those early lessons have stayed with me  and have shaped how I feel about the world this past week. They taught me that kindness is not weakness, that differences are not threats, and that respect is one of the strongest forms of love we can offer. And I find myself returning to those childhood lessons around the dinner table in Wyoming when hatred seems to cause so much misery and division. 

What my parents gave me was more than a set of family rules, it was a compass. And it still points me toward compassion, no matter which way the world seems to be turning.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Fred Bonnett Image Courtesy of Jan Bonnett Gavin. 

We’re flashing back to the 50s this week. In this January 1957 photograph, Fred Bonnett of Chestertown is celebrating his bar mitzvah, the Jewish ceremony marking a 13 year old’s coming-of-age. Bonnett’s  Department Store, founded by Fred’s grandparents Benjamin L. Bonnett and Yetta Dahne Bonnett, was a mainstay of Chestertown’s business district for much of the 20th century. An ad in the Chestertown Transcript of May 2, 1925 boasts of “a complete line of Ladies Suits and Spring Coats, Men’s and Boys’ Suits and Coats, Men’s and Boys’ under Garments, Ladies’, Men’s and Boys’ Shoes” and “Bed spreads, sheetings and many other useful articles”

Stories from the Bonnett family’s experience in Kent County will be featured along with other families’ stories in the Historical Society’s upcoming exhibit, On New Shores: A History of Jewish Lives in Kent County. An reception celebrating the exhibit opening will be held from 5 -7 p.m. on October 3 at the Bordley History Center, followed by two more events that weekend. At 2 p.m. on Saturday, October 4, Susan Hollins will present a piano concert, Jewish Composers of the Immigration Era, at Emmanuel Episcopal Church, and on Sunday, October 5, a panel discussion about the exhibit and related topics will take place at Kent Cultural Alliance at 2 p.m. All are welcome! Image Courtesy of Jan Bonnett Gavin. 

I am not the same person I was two months ago, when I first began walking the Main Loop at Johns Hopkins as a Care Partner for my husband. What was meant to be a routine morning of outpatient evaluations quickly shifted. Instead of heading home, we found ourselves escorted by the head of Hepatology, first to the hepatology unit, and then through the doors of the first of three Intensive Care units. 

Since Covid, I hadn’t ventured beyond Annapolis, so even the drive itself felt daunting. By the time we arrived, the maze of city traffic and the stress of finding parking at the hospital added another layer to an already overwhelming day.

I quickly learned the trick of taking a photo of the parking level displayed on the garage walls to find my way back to my car. Luckily, the security guards were helpful when I was trying to find my way to whichever building my husband was in.

I have had days of feeling sorry for myself. This journey has been both a mental and physical challenge. Most nights I’ve slept in a chair, awakened again and again by nurses checking vitals or by medical teams making split-second decisions about my husband’s care, decisions that sometimes included another middle-of-the-night move to yet another ICU.

I am weary of the food court, endlessly searching for something healthy to eat. One day was unexpectedly brightened when I discovered a sandwich that, to my delight, included arugula.

In many ways, I’ve become invisible here, an unnoticed part of the hospital’s landscape. The only people who consistently acknowledge me are the security guard at the outpatient visitors’ entrance and the woman who makes my coffee every morning.

In the early days of our stay, I lived in a constant state of fear. Each time I opened my husband’s chart, I turned to Google to decipher the unfamiliar medical terms. Almost every definition pointed to something critical or life-threatening. My poor daughter, Jenny, became my sounding board and confidante, shouldering my fears while also managing everything at home.

In my search for peace, I discovered a hidden sanctuary: a koi pond tucked away in a tiny garden. It has become my refuge, a place I visit each day to regain my calm and steady my mind.

I’ve read three books, knit ten mittens, and filled quiet hours with my small watercolor set. Matt and I pass the time together with games; gin rummy, double solitaire, Mancala, and Scrabble, finding small moments of normalcy amid the upheaval.

I found an app that tracks my steps along the Main Loop, and it’s gratifying to see how my morning and afternoon walking meditations are strengthening me, mentally as well as physically.

Sometimes, as I walk, I make eye contact with someone wandering the halls just as I did in those first weeks. My heart aches for them. One afternoon, I overheard a woman say to her partner, “Today was a horrible day, but ice cream will make it all better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there isn’t any ice cream at Johns Hopkins; ice cream is for those few hours spent at home doing laundry and watching “Housewives.”

This journey has tested me in ways I never could have imagined, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have felt invisible, exhausted, and afraid, yet I have also discovered resilience I didn’t know I possessed. In the midst of sterile hallways and sleepless nights, I’ve found solace in a koi pond, comfort in simple games, and kindness in unexpected places. Though this chapter is not one I would have chosen and is far from over, it has changed me profoundly, reminding me that even in the hardest seasons, there can still be moments of grace, connection, and quiet strength.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Image courtesy of Historical Society of Kent County.

This undated photo of downtown Massey, Maryland from the turn of the 20th century reveals a peaceful downtown with early automobiles on a still-unpaved central thoroughfare, towering trees, and classic Eastern Shore woodframe buildings.

Zoom in to find details that are hard to discern, like two white-clad figures standing in front of the post office. Another, in the center of the frame but almost undetectable and even more ghostly, is standing in or perhaps crossing the street. This form, possibly a young boy caught in motion and blurred in the long exposure needed for photographs of the era, manages to bring the image to life more acutely despite being so hard to make out, perhaps because he is so clearly an unposed and unintended subject.

Share your memories of Massey in the comments below or by emailing [email protected].

Kent County students went back to school this week. As students and teachers and parents adjust to the school-year routine and enjoy the new shoes, fresh clean notebooks, and finely sharpened pencils, we share a Flashback photo from a school year in the past. In this undated image, four school-age girls appear in front of a science-themed classroom bulletin board. They all appear to be studiously focused on their reading, unaware of the camera lens.

If you recognize this classroom, or know any of the students pictured, please let us know in the comments below, or by emailing [email protected]. Happy first week of school to all the students and teachers in Kent County schools! Image courtesy of the Historical Society of Kent County.

This morning, when The Last Train to Clarksville by The Monkees came on Pandora, a flood of memories came rushing back from the days of my Monkees obsession.

In July of 1967, my younger brother and I spent a month with my aunt, splitting our time between Boston, Biddeford Pool in Maine, and New York City. While in Boston, my aunt and uncle surprised us with tickets to see The Monkees in concert at the Boston Garden, a dream come true for my eleven-year-old self.

My grandmother, ever elegant, insisted that I be properly dressed for such an important occasion. She took me to Jordan Marsh, where I chose a babydoll-style dress with tiny puffed sleeves, designed by Betsey Johnson long before she became the iconic name she is today. With shiny new shoes to match, I felt like the most glamorous fan in the world, ready for the biggest night of my young life.

That same summer, The Jimi Hendrix Experience had briefly been added to The Monkees’ U.S. tour. Fresh from his electrifying debut at the Monterey Pop Festival just weeks before, Hendrix seemed an odd match for a band adored by preteens. Night after night, Hendrix endured waves of boos and shouts for Davy Jones. The mismatch became clear, and by July 17, 1967, Hendrix left the tour. Newspapers spun the story, claiming groups like the Daughters of the American Revolution had banned him for being “too erotic” for the Monkees’ young audience. The truth was simpler, two very different worlds had collided, and neither one belonged on the other’s stage.

When I took my seat at the Boston Garden on July 22, Hendrix was already gone. At eleven, I wouldn’t have understood his music anyway, but how I wish now that I could say I’d seen him perform that night. Instead, I squealed with delight as my idols, The Monkees, took the stage. For me, it was pure magic, music, youth, and the thrill of being part of something bigger than myself.

Looking back, it was one of those moments that defined an era: a girl in her Betsey Johnson dress, clutching childhood dreams in a world where pop idols and rock revolutionaries were, for a brief and strange time, part of the same story.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.