On Saturday evening, ten good friends gathered at a friend’s farm for dinner. The weather was spectacular—cool and dry with just a hint of autumn in the air—and the soft light spilling across the fields was nothing short of divine. The hosts were their usual generous selves, but of course we all brought something to share: a bottle (or two) of wine, some crazy-good fig appetizers, crab dip, a baguette, mixed nuts. Andy brought a nosegay of flowers—pastel shades of blush and purple with just enough white for contrast—that she bought earlier in the day at the farmers market. We oohed and aahed, but no one knew what kind of flowers they were. I thought they looked like docile thistles, if there is such a thing. But no one knew exactly what they were so we did what one does these days and asked Siri. We sent her a picture, and she responded right away: “Those are globe amaranths, dummy.” Asked and answered.

Well, not quite. There was a bit more research to do. Turns out that Globe Amaranths (Gomphrena globosa) is a heat-loving annual flower native to Central America, known for its showy clover-like blossoms that bloom continuously through summer until the first frost. (Wait; there is frost in Central America? But I digress…) The plant is valued by gardeners because it’s easy to grow, drought-tolerant, and attractive to pollinators. They thrive in full sun, adapt to most types of soil, are disease and pest resistant, and don’t require much fertilization. Best of all, if you cut the blooms for display on your table, you’ll encourage more growth. What’s not to like?

That got me to thinking: I’d like to be a globe amaranth: I’m easy to grow (especially in girth), drought-tolerant (have I told you about “Wineless Wednesdays”?), and attractive to pollinators, or at least to one certain little pollinator who shall remain nameless. I thrive in full sun, I think I’m pretty adaptive. So far I’ve been disease-resistant (knock on wood!), and require only minimal fertilization, preferably in the form of rosé wine. OK, so maybe you can’t cut me and put me on your dining room table, but otherwise, you can encourage a lot of new growth in me with minimal effort. Just give me a good book and I’m off to the races.

I wish life were that simple, but, of course, it isn’t. Human beings are a lot more complicated than a posy of globe amaranths. Many of us require a lot more pruning, better soil, perfect growing conditions, and a lot more fertilization. Now I realize that anthropomorphism is the attribution of human form, identity, character, or attributes to non-human entities. Even though it’s considered to be an innate tendency of human psychology, I think it’s relatively harmless, even if it’s a little self-centered. Think about it: maybe a globe amaranth blossom is perfectly content to be a flower; after all, why would it want to put up with all our human nonsense when it can thrive all on its own?

And remember this: globe amaranths come from Central America. Walls don’t seem to impede their spread or diminish their beauty. Thank goodness!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

My friend the Dockmaster is descended from a long line of skilled Swedish woodworkers and furniture makers. He, however, became an electrical engineer, but continues to practice the considerable skills imparted to him by his ancestors and his neighbors in a small town in Upstate New York. One neighbor in particular, the grandfather of a boyhood friend, was a man named Gottlieb (Swedish for “Beloved by God”) Peterson, a highly skilled woodworker, particularly adept in the art of pattern making. (A pattern maker creates exact wooden replicas of metal parts and gears needed for large machines. The patterns are used to make impressions in special casting sand; molten metal is then poured into the open impression to make the actual part.)  Although he probably didn’t realize it at the time, old Mr. Peterson had a profound effect on the arc of my friend’s life.

Is this going somewhere? Be patient!

Mr. Peterson believed in the importance of doing any task to the best of one’s ability. To that end, he kept a poster on the wall of his pattern-making shop listing “Twelve Things to Remember.” (These twelve “things”—or so the story goes—were originally attributed to Marshall Field of Chicago department store fame in 1889.)  Years later, when my friend Dockmaster had an office of his own, he kept a copy of Mr. Peterson’s “twelve things” on his wall—maybe as a remembrance, maybe as a guide. Dockmaster recently showed me a copy of those long-ago “things” and I was gobsmacked. They are as true today as they were then, and so now, I want to share them with you. Here goes:

1. The Value of Time.
2. The Success of Perseverance.
3. The Dignity of Working.
4. The Pleasure of Simplicity.
5. The Worth of Character.
6. The Power of Kindness.
7. The Influence of Example.
8. The Obligation of Duty.
9. The Wisdom of Economy.
10. The Virtue of Patience.
11. The Improvement of Talent.
12. The Joy of Originating.

Now read the list again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if each of us could practice all these skills, or even a modicum of some of these skills? What a better world we could create! What better people we would become!

We live in an age that seems to have devalued, or even erased most, if not all, of the items on Mr. Peterson’s list. We  power through our days, addicted to our devices, mesmerized by technology, dazzled by gold. Far too many of us live in a culture of excess that disregards all ethical considerations. We’re insensitive to all the beauty and diversity that surrounds us. Empathy, kindness, and respect have been marginalized. We’ve even swallowed Gordon Gekko’s “Greed is good!” repast, and now far too many of us believe that greed is not only good, but also necessary for progress and prosperity. (We’re even willing to overlook the fact that the “Greed is Good” philosophy was first espoused by Ivan Boesky, a notorious Wall Street inside trader!) Now, Mr. Gekko’s warped vision has been hammered into the platform of a once-great political party that currently controls two—maybe even three—branches of our government. How desperately sad!

I had dinner last night with three good friends, and I asked them how should we resist all the current abuses of power taking that are taking place in America every day. What pattern could we make to create the right tool for the job? None of my friends had a good answer, nor do I. So, I went home and reread Mr. Peterson’s (or Mr. Field’s) list, trying hard to believe we’re still capable of remembering what is good, true, and timeless. We can do better.

Can’t we?

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

We had house guests over weekend, and although the guests were family, that nevertheless meant there were lots of pre- and post-visit chores on my “to do” list. Like mowing the lawn, watering the garden, helping to clean the house, overseeing the process of touching up the porch furniture with a little fresh paint, borrowing a pickup truck, unloading, and spreading 1,500 pounds of pea gravel along the side of the house (albeit with help from two angelic neighbors who took pity on my wife and me and came by with shovel and rake), watching said wife slice three cantaloupes and two dozen tomatoes while baking banana bread and cooking scrapple, picking crabs, buying beer, setting up tables for an afternoon garden party, and shucking corn. Four dozen ears of corn.

Of all those chores—and all the others on life’s “to do” list—I have to say that shucking corn is one of the better ones. Hamlet would have understood this: there is something inherently satisfying about shuffling the soul of an ear of corn from its mortal coil, freeing it from the chaos and confusion of human existence, releasing it from its earthly burden. All the beauty and goodness of an ear of corn is inside its ungainly husk, so one has to shuck it to truly bring it to life, and as the primary shucker this past weekend, I was the one designated by my little general to do the shuffling that freed all forty-eight ears of corn from their silky green mortal coil.

There is immense satisfaction in shucking corn. It can be conversational or silent. It can be done on the porch while greeting the day and the passers-by with a smile and a “Good morning!” It’s systematic: grab a husked ear from the sack, remove the tassel, strip the leaves and brush off the silk. Now build another stack, a yellow and white pyramid that one of Pharaoh’s architects would stop to admire. And all this is but a prelude to the crescendo when a steaming platter hits the table and the fun really begins. Please pass the butter and salt.

I like to find the deeper meaning inherent in mundane chores, and shucking corn provided me with a lot of good food for thought. An unshucked ear of corn is a clumsy nuisance, but once all those lovely kernels are released to the light, all their hidden beauty and goodness is made manifest. Once an ear of corn is shucked and freed from this mortal coil, it is resurrected into something glorious to be consumed and enjoyed, all part of the celestial cycle of life.

Which leads to this: over the weekend, we lost two good men. I want to name them here: Bernie Goodrich and Taylor Buckley. Both were aged and had lived good, full lives, and at the end, they both passed peacefully, surrounded by those who loved them. I will remember each  of them fondly. They are each now rid of their mortal coil, free to dream of what may come, “to be or not to be.” 

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

Who doesn’t like surprises? Well, pleasant surprises, anyway. As a noun, a surprise is just something unexpected or astonishing, like a crocodile in the swimming pool. As a verb, surprise might cause someone to feel mild astonishment or shock, as in “I was surprised there was a crocodile in the swimming pool.” Don’t worry; I survived to tell this tale…

One of the most wonderful elements of life on the Eastern Shore is that it’s full of surprises. For example, we’ve had several consecutive days of sweltering weather, then—surprise!—all of a sudden, a cool front reared its welcome head, and life as we knew it could resume on the porch just in time for a gathering of friends on the First Friday of August. That was a very sweet surprise indeed, all the more so because it came just in time to make our monthly party a more comfortable and fun event. 

Sometimes, I am beyond surprised; I’m flabbergasted. For example, I like to think my vocabulary is pretty extensive, but then I encounter a new word and I’m surprised, amazed, flabbergasted. This week’s new word was “bildungsroman.” (Raise your hand if you know it.) A bildungsroman is a novel dealing with a person’s formative years or spiritual awakening—a coming of age story. Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations” is a classic example of a bildungsroman. In it, an orphan boy named Pip navigates the complexities of social class and personal growth in 19th Century England. A hundred years later, J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” introduced my generation to another poster boy for bildungsroman: Holden Caulfield. Holden’s coming of age story had just enough sensationalism thrown in to keep us awake in English class: every copy of the book I ever saw fell open to the page when Holden encounters the prostitute. That nothing happens is almost superfluous; the word “prostitute” was enough to make each of us fantasize about our own personal bildungsroman.

I have come to the conclusion that there is no proscribed schedule for an individual’s bildungsroman. We tend to think of that time of life as roughly equivalent to adolescence, but experience has taught me otherwise. One can come of age at almost anytime. Sooner is probably better than later, but later is better than never. I have known a few people who have never come of age and they strike me as somewhat lost at sea. 

We know that coming of age can be painful, but it’s as much a part of the cycle of life as birth and death. I’ve mulled over my own bildungsroman countless times, and have come to another conclusion: that my own coming of age began sometime in my mid-forties when I signed on to be a college counselor, teacher, and coach at an all-boys school in the Washington suburbs. It was a demanding crucible at times, but when I retired after twenty-two years of coming of age, I felt I was on the other side of my life. The better side.

But here’s the rub: having finally come of age, I’m now much more painfully aware of the gallop of time. I wish there were more of it. Having lived through my own bildungsroman, I feel I deserve a few more years of relative wisdom. But surprise! There’s a crocodile in the pool, and just like the one in “Peter Pan”—the bildungsroman of a boy who never came of age—this crocodile has swallowed a clock. Tick, tock…..

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

Long ago, in Arthurian times, Avalon was a mist-shrouded island, a place of healing and magic where Arthur’s sword Excalibur was created and where the great king was taken to recover from the grave wounds he suffered at the Battle of Camlaan. It is as much a symbol of Arthurian mythology as Camelot or Merlin or Lancelot and all the other knights of the Round Table. There are even those who still believe Arthur never truly died, but will someday return in splendor—Britain’s eternal monarch, its “once and future king.”

Today, Avalon’s precise location is well known, although a bit more mundane. It’s on a barrier island just off Exit 13 of the Garden State Parkway. I know this because that’s where I am this morning, visiting friends who annually vacation on this seven-mile long island that stretches from Stone Harbor to the eponymous town of Avalon, New Jersey. I haven’t encountered Arthur yet, but I’m on the lookout.

My wife loves the beach. Any beach. She can sit for hours with her toes in the sand, chatting with her friends or family. I don’t how she does it. I run out of words in a matter of minutes, but am perfectly content to watch the waves and the human beach scene while keeping an eye out for someone—anyone!—vaguely regal.

This is the first time I’ve been to this little corner of the world, the “Jersey Shore.” We’re more Delaware Beach people. The two seasides are similar, but there are subtle differences: this Jersey beach seems wider, the bordering dunes higher, and the houses newer. In fact, every house here looks brand new, as though some precocious kid has been playing with an infinite set of Lego’s and decided to build an entire beach town over night. There are no shanties here, only palaces worthy of a once-and-future king.

Trust me: I’m not complaining. In fact, just the opposite. Yesterday, I had to run into town for some essential supplies I forgot to pack, and all the shops were open and there were parking spaces galore. That never happens in Rehoboth except on Christmas Day when I don’t need to buy a t-shirt. 

Anyway, our specie’s summer obsession with the beach must have its roots not in legend, but in some atavistic craving having to do with our single-cell ancestors who emerged out the primordial muck eons ago. I am a confirmed Darwinian, but it still boggles my mind how some creature crawled out of the surf with legs and lungs, spawning all this wondrous diversity that is life as we know it today. Just think about it: how could a rhinoceros and a butterfly have a common ancestor unless Avalon was, and still is, such a magical place.

“Avalon” derives from a Welsh word that relates to fruit trees, specifically to apple trees. Hence, Arthur’s Avalon might once have been an island of apple trees. There is no concrete evidence of this, but it’s not a long leap from that etymology to the Garden of Eden, another fabulous location shrouded in legend and the mists of time. As far as I know, there were no snakes on Arthur’s Avalon and I doubt there are any on this bustling island, but you never know. For now, I’m content to sit on Avalon’s wide, sandy beach, watching and waiting for the return of our own once-and-future king.

Well, maybe not a king.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

You may recall that for the last ten days, my wife and I were on grandparent duty: four bundles of joy and energy, ages five to twelve, each with different personalities, different appetites, different schedules, and different bedtimes. Their parents were away on a delayed anniversary trip to Greece thanks to COVID, so we got the call to come in from the bullpen and supervise Camp Runamok. Then yesterday, the kids’ parents returned home refreshed, and now our lives are getting back to normal, whatever that means.

And just when I was beginning to get the hang of it. By Day 10, I could unload one of the two dishwashers and know where to put away all the plates, cups, glasses, and cutlery. I had finally figured out where all the various pots and pans lived, how to navigate each of three televisions, how to turn on and off the lights that were on out-of-the-way switches, how to master the coffee pot and the gas grill on the porch, how to manipulate the pool’s feisty cover (although the “waterfall’ setting on the wireless remote still puzzles me), even how to load and turn on the washing machines and dryers which have more control settings than a SpaceX rocket. The entire experience was somewhere between overwhelming and exhilarating, but never dull or boring. I admit that last night, after we were relieved of duty, my wife and I did go out to enjoy a just-the-two-of-us-dinner, during which we relived each and every moment of our time with the kids. And now, this morning, we’re back in our own relatively quiet routines, back to normal, whatever that is.

I’m sure you’ll agree that not much is normal these days. Life seems more and more like an out-of-control rollercoaster hurtling toward disaster. Every day brings a new conundrum, another shock-to-the-system headline, some new animus. Once, I might have chafed at being “back to normal,” but now I’d take normal in a heartbeat. I’d especially take it for the grandkids: I worry about the mess we’re leaving them, the one that can’t be cleaned up with dishwashers and washing machines.

Normal means conforming to a standard; usual, expected, typical, routine. You tell me: what is usual, expected, typical, or routine about these days? Where once we might have equated “normal” with bland or unexciting, now I long for it like I long for a good chocolate milkshake. OK; maybe occasional excitement is good for the soul, but constant chaos isn’t. It’s exhausting, debilitating. Normal is natural, predictable, and orderly, not random, mean, or deviant. 

Psychologists cite four general criteria for abnormal behavior: violation of social norms (kindness and empathy, for example), statistical rarity, personal distress, and maladaptive behavior. Sound familiar? What lessons will those four little monkeys we tended last week derive from all the lunacy surrounding them now? Who will inspire them to lead worthy lives?

Thank goodness they don’t pay much overt attention to the nightly news yet, but some of this abnormality surely creeps in under the door. And someday, as their innocent childhoods slip away, they will have to chart their own respective courses through these roiling seas. I may not be around by then, but I hope I will still be with them.

Normal has gotten a bad rap; people equate it with boring. Even the great philosopher Marilyn Monroe once said, “Being normal is boring!” Well, maybe it is to a Hollywood starlet, but not to me. I miss the kids, but I’m glad my life is back to normal.

I’ll be right back.

 Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

Our lives—at least mine, anyway—are the product of our choices and/or of random events that, at the time, seem almost inconsequential. I spent a long time in the sleepless wee hours of a recent morning thinking about this and came to the conclusion that I am exactly where I am supposed to be in this crazy universe. 

That unraveling began with a dream, but as the clock ticked on toward dawn, it turned into a full-blown exegesis that introduced me to two essential types of people I have encountered along my way: my “spiritual guides” and my “sentinels.” The former helped me choose which fork in the road to take, while the latter kept me on my designated path until the next turning. Some of each were friendly or at least benign, others less so, but their attention never wavered. If I couldn’t always see my destination, I nevertheless both chose and followed the course set out for me, and now here I am, at camp. 

I am fully aware that this probably sounds like a lot of New Age hooey, or at least, a layman’s attempt to understand the predestination/arminianism dilemma. The former suggests that divine intervention controls our lives; the latter belief presupposes that God’s sovereignty and human free will are not only compatible, but also equally determinant in our lives. Hmmm…

Is this going somewhere? Indeed, it is. To camp, specifically, to this “at-home camp” with four of our grandchildren while their parents get a much-deserved, but long-overdue (thanks to COVID), anniversary sojourn in Greece. 

Now, don’t get me wrong: “camp” with these grandkids is hardly onerous duty. They are wonderful, kind, thoughtful children, and “camp” is their comfortable home which comes with a fully stocked refrigerator, a golf cart for neighborhood trips, a sports court, and a backyard swimming pool. Moreover, the kids’ schedule includes weekdays at honest-to-goodness school camps, so on those days, our daytime responsibilities were relegated to morning drop-off and afternoon pick-up at the appointed hours and appropriate locations. (Fortunately, Mom left us a very specific set of instructions.) And on the two weekends of our oversight duty, between tennis, pickle ball, swimming pool, and evening games, there was plenty to do. 

Meals were joyous and boisterous affairs, and our “campers” were remarkably well-behaved as well as well-trained in the long-lost art of helping with clean-up and other household chores. Bed times were staggered: the youngest (age five) was ready to hit the hay by 7:30; the oldest (age twelve) had a 9:00 curfew. (My own bedtime wasn’t much later.) The days went by much too quickly, and what once might have seemed a marathon to me became a sprint that was over all-too-soon. Except Laundry Day. That was still a marathon.

But back to the age-old conflict between determinism and free will. On the night I tossed and turned examining all the threads in the tapestry of my life, I really did come to the conclusion that not only was this “camp”exactly where I was supposed to be, but also that my wife and her big, beautiful family were gifts of immeasurable value. Oh sure, we have our occasional spats, but without doubt, I am blessed beyond measure. All the roads I’ve taken, all their unexpected twists and turns, all their forks and dead ends, have inevitably brought me to this moment, this lovely “camp,” right where I am supposed to be, where I want to be, where I belong.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.