Jamie

The Consolation of Books by Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 14, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

I love to read. Not “like,” mind you; “love.” Reading informs me; relaxes me; restores me. It may well be that reading is just another form of escapism, but what’s wrong with that? These days, a little escapism can go a long way.

I’m a supine reader. Chairs are good for the short-haul, but if I really want to take off and go around the world, nothing beats the couch. Except the hammock (in summer) or maybe my bed. At the end of a long day—or, at this time of year, a short day—what’s better than crawling under the covers with a good book? My wife agrees; she says it keeps my hands occupied.

I can’t pinpoint when this reading habit began. I remember childhood stories but I can’t quite see who is telling them to me. I still have some childhood books on my shelves: “Winnie-the-Pooh” (all four books in the series, of course), The Velveteen Rabbit, and a large format edition of a picture book about a little wooden Indian in a canoe named “Paddle to the Sea.” A boy places his toy carving on a frozen hilltop in Minnesota and as spring finally reaches the northland, the snow melts and the tiny canoe slips into a stream that empties into Lake Superior and eventually makes its way into the Mississippi River where it bobs along until it finally reaches the sea. There is a new picture on every page and it was my game of delight to find little Paddle in each one. It never got old. (Actually, come to think of it, that book is no longer on my shelf; my grandson has it.)

In school, I read what I had to read, but with a few exceptions, I had yet to find true love in reading. Girls always seemed to get in the way. One of my great collegiate regrets is that for a survey course on 20th Century American Literature taught by a very popular professor, I finessed my way through the syllabus by reading the cliff notes version of great books by wondrous writers. The final exam consisted of very specific questions about each book we “read.” I failed the exam and spent the next summer making up the credit. My father was not pleased.

But I finally awoke to the joy of reading when I was in the Peace Corps. There are long, dark, cold nights in the high desert of Tunisia and there wasn’t much to do in my small village. So, I read by lamplight. I worked my way through the work of Nicos Kazantzakis; “Zorba the Greek” was fun but “The Last Temptation of Christ” pushed me to higher ground. I explored Arabia with T.E. Lawrence and Wilfred Thesiger. I plowed through Shakespeare and even the Bible, marathons of shear accomplishment more than pleasure. But with each word, each paragraph and page, each new story and plot, I was accumulating a treasure chest of vocabulary, voice, and yes, even knowledge. Now, all those late-into-the-night books are the dividend accounts from which I can draw (tax free!) as a writer.

These days, I tend to choose works of fiction except when David McCullough comes out with a new history or Malcolm Gladwell opens up a new perspective on the world by talking to strangers. I like to think I’ve discovered wonderful new writers like Amor Towles (“A Gentleman in Moscow”), Delia Owens (“Where the Crawdads Sing,”) or, most recently, Téa Obreht (“Inland”), but I have a feeling that a few million other readers can also lay claim to these new voices. It doesn’t really matter who discovers good new authors, I guess; good writing will eventually find its way into the light.

I’m thankful for many things in my life, but at or near the top of the list are eyes to read and places to find good books. I’m ok with libraries and big box stores but dusty second-hand shops (like The Bookplate in Chestertown and Vintage Books in Easton) are the jewels in my browsing crown. It’s where I go to find what I seek: in a phrase borrowed from Alan Furst’s new novel of World War II intrigue, “Under Occupation,” “the consolation of books.”

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 Watchman’s Tale by Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 7, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

You know, it’s not all that easy being a watchman. You catch what sleep you can during the day while the few friends you have are going about their business, then it’s up when the sun goes down, on your feet all night, cold, lonely, brooding about tomorrow. Most nights, it’s a boring job—not much goes on in this little corner of the world.

But every once in a while, something does come along, like it did last night. Three strange fellows, dressed like kings (kings!), arriving from the east. Said they were following a star (a star!), but I didn’t see no star. Said they were looking for a baby (a baby!) and that they even had gifts (gifts!) for the child. “What’s in the packages?” says I.

“Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” says the black one.

“Oh, I know all about gold,” I say. “But why would a baby need gold? And what’s them other two things?”

They looked at each other, then at me, like I was stupid or something. “Frankincense,” says one of the other two (I couldn’t see which one because it was getting dark), “because it makes us think about God (oh boy, we’ve got a real doozy here!) and myrrh because it takes away the pain of this world.”

“This baby’s in pain?” I said. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s not in pain yet, but he will be. Someday.”

Now I was getting suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not looking for trouble, are you? Maybe you should just move along.”

“Which way to Bethlehem?” one of them asks.

“Bethlehem? Why would three fancy kings ever want to go to a little town like Bethlehem?”

I’d had enough of these fellows. Didn’t trust any of them. So I pointed over my shoulder, over to the west. “Bethlehem’s that way.”

How far?” says one of them.

“Not really sure,” says I. “Two days, maybe a week. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Oh, you know: like on how fast those camels go; or if you stop to rest. And you know, if that gold is getting too heavy, you can leave it with me.” I laughed, but they didn’t think that was very funny. People don’t have much of a sense of humor anymore. Especially these three wise guys. I started to shoo them along.

“Wait,” says the one in front. “What do you know about Herod?”

“Herod?” says I. “How should I know? I’m just a watchman; you’re a king. Don’t you kings ever talk to each other?”

“No,” he says, all serious like. “We don’t even want Herod to know we’re here.”

Now I was really getting suspicious. “And why’s that?” I asked.

“Because of the baby. We think Herod might be jealous.”

“Herod? Jealous of a baby?” These guys were really getting on my nerves.

‘Yes! This baby is a king, too.”

I’d had enough. “OK. That’s it. Move along. Let’s just pretend this whole conversation never happened. I didn’t see you and you didn’t see me. On your way!”

And so off they went, toward Bethlehem to find a baby who was a king. All that gold and whatever them other two things were, pointing up to a star that wasn’t there. People, these days!

Like I told you, it’s not easy being a watchman.

I’ll be right back. (That’s me talking.)

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

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The Year in the Rearview Mirror by Jamie Kirkpatrick

December 31, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 3 Comments

Today—technically, tonight—is New Year’s Eve. That was always beside the point in my boyhood home because December 31 was my father’s birthday and that celebration always took pride of place. Friends stopped by, usually on their way to or from some other celebration, and the living room was always filled with happy, loud adults. I sat on the stairs with my arm around Tango (our French poodle) and gaped at the scene below. I didn’t understand how all these people could be having such a good time. Now I know.

But father died in 1988 and so now I remember him on this day without the well-oiled crowd downstairs. New Year’s Eve still comes and goes, but for me, it’s an evening for reflection more than merriment. And as for midnight, that’s way past my bedtime. Still, to honor the tradition, I thought I’d take this moment to reflect back on the past 365 days. Here goes…

Just this month, Time Magazine made Greta Thunberg, the cherub of climate change, its Person of the Year, a most well-deserved honor if there ever was one. Would that more of us had her commitment and her fierce determination to see our planet survive!

In November, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was indicted on charges of fraud, bribery, and breach of trust. Venice was flooded. Up in the heavens, there was a transit of Mercury. Coincidence? I think not.

In October, two women—Jessica Meir and Christina Koch—made history by simply taking a walk…in space! It was the first time for an all-female spacewalk: no dogs, no shopping, just really expensive outfits. Meanwhile, back down here, on the next-to-last day of the month, the Washington Nationals crowned themselves World Champions. It was a thrilling World Series, one that saw the home team lose every home game. That’s against all the odds in baseball and in life, too. Think about it: maybe home isn’t where the heart is after all.

In September, Hurricane Dorian came knocking on the door of the Bahamas with winds exceeding 180mph. In the UK, Parliament was prorogued, while over in Afghanistan, there was a Presidential election. (The winner was announced only a few days ago.)

August was quiet—except for more violent protests in Hong Kong, cataclysmic wildfires in the Amazon rainforest, and the Dow plunging 500 points due to concerns over the yield curve inversion. Don’t ask; I have no idea.

In July, Boris Johnson became the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom chasing Brexit-stained Theresa May from office. “El Chapo” was sentenced to life-plus-thirty years imprisonment raising again the age-old question of whether there is still life after death. Oh: and Mr. Trump asked President Zelensky of Ukraine for a favor.

June? Mr. Trump stepped over the line into North Korea. Problem solved.

In May, England won the World Cup in Cricket shocking absolutely no one. There was nautical mayhem in the Straits of Hormuz and the King of Thailand married his personal bodyguard (a commoner); sure beats finding someone on Match, Zoosk, or e-Harmony.

We’re on a roll!

In April, Emperor Hirohito abdicated the Chrysanthemum Throne, the first abdication by a Japanese Emperor in over two centuries. The Cathedral of Notre Dame, pride of France and a world icon, was severely damaged by fire. Last but not least. a comedian, someone named Volodymyr Zelensky, was elected President of Ukraine. That name does sound vaguely familiar…

March was quiet until Robert Mueller sent his report to Mr. Trump and William Barr concluded there was no Russian meddling in the 2016 election. None whatsoever.

Nothing happened in February. It was too cold.

And, finally, way back in January, Venezuela had its own constitutional crisis, the Justice Department charged Chinese tech firm Huawei with multiple counts of fraud, and China landed a probe on the far side of the moon, the first human-made object to go over to the dark side.

So it was quite a year. Did I forget anything? Oh yeah, just this: for only the third time in our nation’s history, the President has been impeached.

So stay tuned. There’s an election in the road up ahead. Maybe by this time next year, objects in your rearview mirror may be closer than they appear.

I’ll be right back.

PS: Happy birthday, Pappy!

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‘Twas by Jamie Kirkpatrick

December 24, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

Sometimes, less really is more. Contractions are useful little shortcuts that expedite speech and generally make a writer’s life a little bit easier. Not all contractions, mind you. Take ‘ain’t,’ for example; that one is still a no-no to most grammarians but otherwise I’ve never met a contraction I didn’t like. See what I did there?

C’mon; admit it: you like ‘em as much as I do. We don’t talk in full measure so why should we write any differently? Contractions emulate speech. If I were to write a sentence without a single contraction, you might think I were a stuffy, pompous scribbler who is trying to earn a better living by charging my readers (or my publisher) by the word. But that’s not me. See what I did there?

So, let’s just assume that contractions are indeed useful, acceptable, even delightful elements of good writing. Doesn’t it therefore make sense that there should be a Hall of Fame for contractions? You’d agree, wouldn’t you? And if there were such a Hall of Fame, wouldn’t “’twas” be a shoo-in for inclusion? The Irish among us may fancy “’tis” but that’s so…present tense. I’ll take ’twas any day. Especially, today, or—depending on when you’re reading this—on Christmas Eve.

Just imagine there were no contractions back in 1823 when our esteemed local ancestor Clement Clark Moore sat down to write his immortal poem in praise of Christmas Eve with the soporific words “It was.” No! Just wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t have the same rhythm, the same wonderful anapestic tetrameter, the same (dare I say) magic that little “’twas”—one of only two contractions in the entire poem (the other is ‘kerchief)—brings to the table. “’Twas” gets right to the heart of the matter: the stockings hung by the chimney with care, the children nestled all snug in their beds, St. Nicholas himself (that right jolly old elf) and his smoky pipe, and those eight tiny reindeer—coursers more rapid than eagles—with their wonderfully onomatopoetic names.

But alas; nothing comes easily these days. There’s an apostate school of belief out there that claims Mr. Moore was not the author of “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (aka “The Night Before Christmas”) and that the poem was actually the work of Major Henry Livingston, Jr., a view naturally espoused by the descendants of Major Livingston. But I’m not here to debate the provenance of what many folk believe to be the best-known verse in American history although I’m sure that opinion is open to debate, too; I’m here only to praise its opening contraction: that marvelous little “’Twas.”

Perhaps inspired by Moore’s poem, in 1871, Lewis Carroll used “’Twas” to open his nonsense poem, “Jabberwocky.” (“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/Did gyre and gimble in the wabe…”) But wondrous as that poem may be, it’s a far cry from Moore’s holiday opus, if only because everyone can imagine St. Nicholas laughing like a bowl full of jelly while merrily going about his Christmas business. But there’s not a soul alive that has. any idea what a Jubjub bird is or what a frumious Bandersnatch looks like. Nevertheless, I give Carroll high marks for trying and especially for employing good old “’twas” right out of the gate.

But let’s return to where we started and one of my favorite all-time Christmas gifts, the lowly-but-useful contraction. ‘Twere it not for contractions, my writing might be regarded as stilted and boring, with nary a sugarplum to enliven it or entertain the reader. But as you can see, I’m all in favor of words that contain that wondrous little apostrophe, the mark that makes every writer’s life just a bit easier, mine included. And so I say…

I’ll be right back. (See what I did there?)

PS: Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

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The Christmas Porch by Jamie Kirkpatrick

December 17, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

First of all, it’s getting colder by the day and darkness comes early this time of year. That leaves me—an inveterate porch sitter—with something akin to a Christmas dilemma on my hands. I’m not ready to hibernate yet. I still need a place to sit and watch the town wake up and go to work in the morning or get ready for bed at night, not to mention the in-between time when dogs get walked and cars get parked and the mail lady comes and friends pass by, busy with their Christmas errands.

Then there’s this: we don’t have a fireplace in the house so we’ve learned to make do with a fire pit out front. The flames don’t throw off much heat—the liquid in my glass does a far better job of that—but the fire does give an awfully good glow and sends sweet woodsmoke wafting down the street that lets the neighbors know we’re braving the elements and happy to share a cup of Christmas wassail.

And finally, there’s this: our home is called “Standing Room Only” for a good reason and that reason doesn’t leave any room for an indoor Christmas tree. “So,” my wife and I said to each other a few years ago, “let’s put a tree out on the porch!” And that’s how it all came together—porch, fire pit, and tree—our own little Christmas miracle.

OK; I admit it doesn’t work all the time. Rain can cause a problem with the fire pit and there are dawns or dusks when it’s just too damn cold to sit on the porch; I’m not that crazy old coot. Yet. But flood or icy blasts notwithstanding, I don’t mind bundling up, building a fire, and sitting in the glow of our brave little porch tree, doing my part to bring a bit of Christmas cheer to our little corner of the world. After all, if my glass gets empty (which it does from time-to-time) or the thermometer dips too low (which has been known to happen), I’ve only to come inside where it’s cozy and I can comfortably admire the tree through the living room window, glass fully recharged.

This may be a small town but you’d be surprised how many people pass by our house and if I’m not there to say hello to strangers or chat with friends, I feel that I’m just not doing my civic duty. My wife is even more dedicated to the cause than I am, although her temperature threshold is a bit higher than mine. She’s been known to stick her nose out the front door and immediately retreat back inside, leaving me to wonder if maybe I should join her. But bundled up on her swing, she’s a veritable font of information for the out-of-town crowd that passes by inquiring about where to eat or shop. Plus, her chat game is sharp: she mines friends and neighbors like a forty-niner and occasionally she comes up with a nugget of gold that’s more than worth the wait or another log on the fire, God bless her.

Just about anyone can sit on a porch on a warm summer evening with a cool drink, watching fireflies wink, but it takes a more dedicated soul to sit on the porch at this time of year. The fire pit helps; so does a hot cup of morning coffee or a nightcap wee dram out of the whiskey decanter. But it’s the tree with its twinkling lights, pine cone garlands, and burlap bows that makes our porch picture perfect… and warm.

I’ll be right back.

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The Angel’s Share by Jamie Kirkpatrick

December 10, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Iffy, Crumpets, and I had just ordered dinner and somehow—I don’t remember how or why—I said something about the angel’s share. “Wait,” said Iffy. “What’s that?” said Crumpets. And so I began to explain…

When a distilled spirit—whisky, brandy, cognac, for example—is put into a cask to age, a small amount of the liquid seeps through the porous membrane of the barrel and evaporates into thin air. It’s not much—about 1% of the volume of the liquid per year of aging—but enough to satisfy the angels who (like the rest of us!) surely appreciate a wee dram or two when the weather turns cold as it usually does about this time of year. “You mean there’s whisky in the air?” said Crumpets. “Is there bourbon, too?” asked Iffy. “Well, yes,” I said, “but it’s for the angels, not us.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them about the devil’s cut.

The devil’s cut is different. Distilled spirits are often aged in casks that originally held bourbon (or port or sherry) and a fraction of that original spirit remains trapped in the wooden staves of a whisky barrel. That iota of residue is the devil’s cut and it provides the aromatic essence that can give certain whiskies their slightly sweet finish. The tiny loss of liquid volume is the price we gladly pay to the angels and the devil. Just imagine the party they must be having!

There’s metaphoric gold to be mined here. Nothing good comes without a price. The pleasures of our lives may be few and far between—niceties, necessities, even luxuries—but they’re rarely, if ever, free. Clean air, clean water? Just think how much these essentials are worth to us and if you doubt me, ask the good people of Chernobyl or Flint, Michigan how much they would be willing to pay for a lungful of fresh air or a glass of clean water.

Or consider this: if the angels and old Dr. Evil are taking their share and cut out of what is intended for our palettes, is that a tax we pay or a hidden cost of doing business that is quietly passed along to the consumer? Either way, it’s hardly a transparent transaction; in fact, it’s just the opposite. Talk about a cloak of invisibility!

But you know what? I’m ok with sharing with the angels—after all, they do us a world of good. Just ask George Bailey. And as for the devil, I’ll give him his due, too, if only to keep him otherwise engaged and out of my hair. After all, I’d hate to think of the mischief that rascal would make if he were out and about and sober. He would probably be the wise guy that’s rolling back environmental regulations, or denying climate change, or appointing nincompoops to the federal bench, or shaking down Ukrainians, or generally fomenting hate while running water in our sinks and flushing our toilets all day long.

I’m willing to pay my fair share for a safe infrastructure, good public schools, healthy food, and a strong national defense—within reason, of course. If death and taxes are what Daniel Defoe identified as life’s only true certainties in his “Political History of the Devil” way back in 1726, then I’ll gladly pay the latter to avoid the former. And if in the bargain, the angels get their fair share, then I’m all the more for it.

I’ll be right back.

A Dickens of a Story

December 3, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

I suppose you could say that a quiet and rainy Sunday morning really began with a not-so-quiet impromptu dinner party on Saturday evening. Mr. and Mrs. Iffleby had fully intended to attend an annual Christmas gala out in Betterton Bluff but unseen events had transpired in such a way that they thought it wiser to give the coachman and four-in-hand the night off and remain in town.

At the same time the Ifflebys were pondering their evening dining options, Mistress McBetts suddenly found herself unexpectedly alone and in need of a bit of good company on a cold Saturday evening in late November. Somewhat to her own surprise, she knocked on the door of her cheerful neighbors who lived down the street and spontaneously invited them—the Kirkbrites—to supper in her cozy apartments. It was just as she was proffering her kind invitation that a messenger boy also appeared on the Kirkbrites’ doorstep with a note from the Ifflebys inquiring whether they might dine together at the local inn.

In a flash, everything came together: it just so happened that good Mrs. Kirkbrite had spent that very afternoon concocting a savory beef stew that could easily be stretched to accommodate three more so it was readily apparent to her that everyone—the Kirkbrites, the Ifflebys, and Mistress McBetts—should all convene in an hour around the Kirkbrite’s dinner table. When Mrs. Kirkbrite proposed her plan, Mistress McBetts agreed on the spot and the messenger boy was dispatched back to the Ifflebys inviting them to join in an impromptu dinner party. The ifflebys thought it a splendid solution to their dining dilemma, Mistress McBetts went off to fetch a bottle of wine and a dish of Brussels sprouts she had left simmering on the stove which she insisted on contributing to the fare, and Mrs. Kirkbrite reset the table for five while her husband refreshed the fire in the grate and opened a bottle of a modest Bordeaux that would pair well with his wife’s aromatic beef stew.

To no one’s surprise, the impromptu dinner party was a rousing success due, in part, to the stew, the sprouts, a seasonal salad, a fresh baguette just out of the baker’s oven, and some decadent chocolate truffles for dessert. Or perhaps it was due in even larger part to several additional bottles of wine procured from the local Wine and Cheese Shop at the very last minute, as well as a wee dram or two of Mr. Kirkbrite’s favorite Highland malt whisky which he proudly served after dinner. As the candles on the dinner table burned low, everyone heartily agreed that spontaneity, not honesty, was indeed the very best policy.

And so it certainly seemed that evening. If a passerby had looked through the Kirkbrite’s frosted front window pane and seen the happy friends gathered around the table, he (or she) might have felt a stab of regret that she (or he) was not included in such a merry gathering. But what the passerby would not see or know is that a very merry Saturday evening is inevitably followed by a dreich Sunday morning when one wishes that he and she had not consumed quite so copiously of such hearty food and quaffable drink.

Ah well, such is life and as we all know, life does go on. And so it did: Iffleby—good churchman that he was—went off to services with just a touch or regret and a slight headache. Mrs. Iffleby remained at home in her dressing gown and poured herself a second cup of tea which she took to her fainting couch. For her part, Mistress McBetts slept until almost noon. As for the Kirkbrites, wife spent the day recovering with a good book while husband retired to his study with a large pot of black coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs, which he felt was the good and necessary soakage that he would need if he were to write a Dickens of a story about a spontaneous dinner party with good and true friends. He worked for an hour or two, finishing his story just in time for Sunday lunch with these words:

“I’ll be right back.”

Gratitude

November 26, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

I’ve been musing a lot about gratitude. That seems reasonable given that Thanksgiving and its rowdy holiday cousins have come knocking on the door with armfuls of fun things to eat, drink, and do. So to get myself in the spirit of the season, I decided to make a gratitude list. I began: someone with a whistle to blow; brave civil servants speaking truth to power; ibuprofen; naps; socks (once they’re on); a good book; that first sip of morning coffee; seat warmers in the car. And that’s when it hit me: I was compiling a senior citizen’s gratitude list. I’m getting old. Sigh.

Fortunately, the next day was Grandparents Day at the elementary school where two of our five munchkins (another is on the way, thank you) attend. It gets a little complicated in our family, especially when we take the annual family photo with three grandfathers and one grandmother, but that’s just us. When it came time to go to the kids’ classrooms, we divided and conquered: two grandfathers went off to kindergarten while my wife and I headed to first grade.

A lot of first grade takes place on the floor these days—my wife handled the descent with ease but that’s a long way down and a long way back up for me. There were math problems, word puzzles, and coloring projects—gently supervised chaos. We met our grandkids’ teachers and classmates, and the grandparents of our grandkids’ friends. There we all were, proudly sitting in this boat together, just like the kids.

We watched our grandson solve math problems by counting on his fingers in a manner that resembled a Mandarin using an abacus. We admired his porto-cubist artwork and suddenly I remembered something Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he has grown up.” On another wall, there was his Newberry Prize-worthy illustrated story about designing and building a hamster cage although, as far as I know, there was not then—nor ever will be—a hamster in his house. We thought maybe the story was his way of processing the new crib that had just been assembled at home, the one that will soon cradle a new baby sister.

The chairs in the classroom were small; really small. My knees were becoming locked to my chest. Just when I was about to faint, the teacher rang a bell and said it was time to go to the gym for assembly. I found a seat—a real seat!—between my wife and the two other grandfathers in our clan who had just graduated from kindergarten. My limbs tingled as blood started to recirculate through my extremities. When the kids came marching in, cell phones popped up like weeds after a thunderstorm, recording every precious wave and shy smile as well as the heads of every other doting grandparent in the room who was doing exactly the same thing. Then we recited the Pledge of Allegiance and sang “My Country ’Tis of Thee” before sitting back to watch a variety show of cute poems and songs, including “Shoo Fly Don’t Bother Me” (now an ear worm stuck in my head) and the “Turkey Trot Blues,” rhythmically banged out gamelan-style on a combination of xylophones and glockenspiels. I turned to my wife and mouthed, “Wow!”

The day’s duty done, we all headed off to a nearby restaurant for lunch, joined there by two great grand-parents. Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so old. I’d pinched an outline drawing of a turkey from school and some cut-out paper feathers on which the kids were to write the names of things for which they were grateful. I was supposed to then glue the feathers onto the turkey but that seemed like a lot of work so I decided to veer a little off course. Instead, I asked the kids to just tell me their gratitudes, the feathers, as it were, on their Thanksgiving turkey. Here’s the list they came up with:

The beach, the ocean, waves, sand, sun. Mommy and Daddy, my brother, my sister, our baby brother, the new baby sister in Mommy’s tummy; our dog; hockey and ice-skating; Christmas; my bike; our bunkbeds; the moon; friends; candy; food; climbing trees; playing tag; a tire-swing; Halloween; lights in the night. Love.

You heard me: a six-year-old and a four-year-old actually said, “Love.” From the mouths of babes…

So what’s on your list?

I’ll be right back.

The Ties That Bind by Jamie Kirkpatrick

November 19, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

These days it’s oh-so-easy to discern the fault lines and fractures that keep us apart. It’s much more difficult to find the ties that bind us together. Somewhere along the way, our commonality has been swallowed up in the black hole of politics in the Trump era; our union has become our disunion. I’d like to think we can rediscover the ties that bind us together but I’m not at all sure that’s possible anytime soon given the current climate. Still, it’s worth a try.

I thought maybe I’d find the ties that bind us in our common nationality. After all, we’re all Americans; we all pledge allegiance to the same flag. No matter where, when or how our families came here; no matter the color of our skin, or what religion (if any) we choose to practice, or whatever our gender or our sexual orientation—none of these descriptors really matter. We are all still Americans, still one people. We still believe in our own cherished creeds: that all men and women are created equal, that we can form a more perfect union, and that government of, by, and for the people shall not perish from the earth. That should be enough to bind us together…right?

Sadly, it’s not. It seems there are a few among us—some even in positions of great power and influence—who espouse a different creed, one that marginalizes women, immigrants, people of color, people with physical or intellectual disabilities, people who worship a different God, people with a different sexual identity or orientation. To these sad souls, anyone who is different from them or the least bit threatening to them warrant not empathy and protection, but persecution and exclusion. I used to think these folk were just misguided social outliers, people who made the rest of us continually strive to form an ever more perfect union. Now I’m not so sure they’re simply outliers. They may be far more numerous than I ever imagined and may constitute a deeper, darker strain within us that defies any possible binding tie. It’s a scary thought.

So if the ties that bind us together aren’t present in our ‘Americanness,’ then maybe they are to be found deeper down in ourselves among the better angels of our nature. After all, we are all human beings who want to build a better life for ourselves and a better world for our children. But here again, I find myself bumping up against the four pale horsemen of this new dystopian apocalypse: fear, greed, mockery, and deceit. If we are ever to be bound together again, we will somehow have to learn to trust each other, to rediscover common purpose, to reunite so that we can truly make one out of many. Given the way of the world today, that may seem a Herculean task. It is, but it’s a necessary one.

I’m no longer under any illusions: this mess is likely to get a whole lot worse before it gets any better. However, I am, by nature, an optimist which means I will continue to search out those ties that can start to bind his together again. I’ll look up in the attic, down in the basement, under the bed, or around the bend—wherever there is a chance of finding that first, tiny thread that will begin to weave the rope that will bind us together again.

I could sure use a little help.

I’ll be right back.

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