One of the many reasons I like this time of year is that it’s when we emerge from our winter burrows and begin to sniff spring. We’re tentative at first; we know how ephemeral, how quirky, spring can be. All this talk about lions and lambs, April showers and May flowers leaves us wondering if any part of spring is reliable. But with each new day, we come closer to the truth of spring: its effervescence, its optimism, its annual promise. And what really seals the spring deal for me is night talking, particularly with friends on the front porch in hushed voices. Makes me feel like we’re all by ourselves in some candle-lit Gothic cathedral, whispering secrets only the angels can hear.

Of course, sometimes the conversation can get a little rowdy; spring has that effect on people. Blame it on the wine, or maybe some medicinal herbs, or just plain old-fashioned human enthusiasm. Whatever or whoever turns up the dial doesn’t really matter; it’s a common enough reaction to the end of a long, cold winter and the beginning of that time of year when we shed all those heavy, dull clothes for something lighter and more colorful, and boots and wool socks for flip-flops or bare feet. Passers-by must wonder: what time do those people go to bed? Don’t they have to work tomorrow? Good questions!

Night talking—the porch variety—comes in many different shapes and sizes, It can be light or heavy; moody or cheerful; funny or serious; secretive or public. Perhaps we think that because it’s dark outside, we need to be more forthcoming than we do in daylight. Facial expressions don’t carry much weight after nightfall, so words have to be more like meteors arcing through the nighttime sky. And touch means more after dark…but you knew that.

I haven’t dabbled much with Artificial Intelligence, but what the heck, I thought, let’s give it a try; might find a nugget. So, I requested a poem about night talking and this is what I got about one second later:

The world is hushed, a somber scene,

As twilight fades and darkness keen

Invades the air, a velvet cloak,

Where secrets sleep, and shadows spoke.

 

But in this hush, a different sound,

A gentle murmur, soft and profound,

Two voices rise, a whispered plea,

In the quiet space, just you and me. 

 

No need for words, a knowing glance,

A shared emotion, a silent dance,

The night unfolds, a canvas wide,

Where hearts connect, side by side. 

 

The moonbeams dance, a silver stream,

Reflecting thoughts, a waking dream,

In this hushed hour, we find our space,

In the quiet night, a loving embrace.

 

The stars above, like watchful eyes,

Observe our words, as time flies,

A symphony of shared delight,

In the magic of the silent night.

I was, you might say, gobsmacked. OK, so maybe it’s not Shakespearean or even Nashian, but I did begin to wonder if maybe there was something to this AI magic after all. Here I sit, week after week, year after year, struggling to produce another week’s Musing for you and you and you, but now, all of a sudden, with just the touch of a button or two, out pops a few verses worthy of recitation…to friends…on the porch…late at night.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. 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.

 

Harry Truman was my first President. I don’t remember much about him. After all, I was only two months old when he held up that newspaper headline that said “DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN,” so not much about the little haberdasher from Missouri made its way into my infant skull.

Ike was next. Like everyone else, I liked him: his golf spikes, his love for playing bridge with Mamie, his passion for Western novels. I even saw him once when he came to Pittsburgh in 1959 with Nikita Khrushchev, riding up Forbes Avenue, smiling and waving from the back seat of his convertible. I was with my fifth-grade teacher at the time. “Why is the President with that bad man who wants to drop a bomb on us?” I asked. I don’t remember her response, but it just didn’t make sense why President Ike would look so happy sitting next to such a bad man.

Things changed. I grew up in a Republican household, but I was smitten with John F. Kennedy. He was handsome, athletic, funny; he had a pretty wife. That’s when I began to wean myself away from the Grand Old Party. I had nothing against it per se, but Kennedy’s opponent that year scowled a lot and perspired under pressure, so I presumed that all Republicans scowled and sweated.

I was at boarding school when President Kennedy was assassinated, in fact, the same school he had once attended. I remember every second of that day: my trip to the laundry, the faces of the ladies who worked there as they stared at the television, my own shock and the tears that ran down my cheeks that afternoon as I sat alone in the chapel. To this day, it may well have been the seminal moment of my life.

LBJ came next. I didn’t much like him: too many jowls and he was President only because my hero had been murdered. However, there were some good things about him—his commitment to civil rights, for example—but in the end, he was too engulfed in Vietnam, and the Chicago police were cracking too many protestor heads. I wavered.

I had come of age. For the first time, I could vote in a Presidential election. But I didn’t much like any of the choices: the scowler/sweater, the bigot from Alabama, and LBJ’s Vice-President, Hubert Humphrey. He seemed nice enough, just uninspiring. I voted for him anyway.

The next go-round it was ABN: anybody but Nixon who was still sweating, still scowling.  I liked George McGovern and his running mate, Sargent Shriver, had, like me, Peace Corps credentials. I lost again.

In 1976, I think I voted for Jimmy Carter, but I’m not sure. I sure would vote for him today: what an amazing post-Presidency!

I entered the wilderness: I bet on John Anderson in 1980 and lost. I lost again in 1984 when I cast my vote for Jesse Jackson instead of Walter Mondale. Lost again in 1988 with tank-riding Mike Dukakis. But in 1992, things finally went my way with the Arkansans. I remember thinking I had finally crawled out of the desert and could take a shower.

Eight years is not a long time in politics. Soon enough, the worm turned again when George Bush beat Al Gore by a hanging chad. Four years later, he beat John Kerry. Once again, I was back in the desert, only this time with some dubious types who got us into deserts of their own making in Iraq and Afghanistan because we were told they had weapons of mass destruction. Only they didn’t.

Then, just when I was beginning to think I would never be smitten again, along comes Barak Obama and I was back on the winning side.

I felt good about my chances in 2016, but I underestimated the man. Hilary underestimated him, too, and went down in flames. All of a sudden, I was back in the desert. No; not a desert; an alternate universe which made absolutely no sense. Nothing could be worse, or so I thought…

Joe Biden was a good and decent man. I was happy when he prevailed in 2020. But by the summer of 2024, it was apparent to me, he was fading. I thought Ms. Harris would prevail, but once again, I underestimated the man and the fervor of his base.

And so here we are, sitting in a chat room full of frat boys, playing with our phones, smeared with shade, on a ship of April Fools. Sigh.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. 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.

Last month, America’s most famous rodent, Phil, emerged from his den, turned around, and went right back to bed. I think I know how he felt. I want to go back to bed, too. Not for a few weeks, mind you, but for the next three-plus years.

Phil lives up on Gobbler’s Knob, near Punxsutawney in Pennsylvania. Tradition has it that if Phil emerges from his den on February 2nd—his very own day!—and sees his shadow, somehow he concludes there will be six more weeks of winter and goes back to bed. That’s a surprisingly logical conclusion for a rodent. The whole show—which is organized by a shadowy group of tuxedoed and top-hatted men known as the “Inner Circle,”—is based on a light-hearted communal suspension of belief founded on the assumption that Phil knows what he’s talking about because he is the same groundhog who has been predicting the weather since 1887. That would make Phil 138 years old, and while I have no idea what the lifespan of a groundhog is, 138 seems a bit much to me. I guess I need to learn how to suspend my belief.

Phil has quite a cult following. His “Inner Circle” of friends ostensibly speak Phil’s language. They know what he’s saying and how to translate his mumble chuck which is called ‘Groundhogese’ into a coherent message the rest of us can comprehend. However, it is only the President of the Inner Circle who truly understands what Phil is saying because only he possesses the mystical cane made of acacia wood that translates Phil’s gobbledygook into words his press secretary can understand, enabling him (or her) to read the proper scroll that will inform the entire world about the duration of winter. The message is then dictated to all Phil’s ‘phaithphil phollowers’ around the world, especially the ones carefully listening in Russia who certainly know a thing or two about winter.

You’ll be glad to know that Phil is not a lonely phellow. He is married to Phyllis, a sultry female groundhog who was once an “actress” in adult philms. For most of the year, Phil and Phyllis live in a climate-controlled environment in the back of the Punxsutawney Public Library. (I’m not making this up!) But wait! Just last year, Phil stunned his Inner Circle by siring two babies, I assume with Phyllis. Before that time, the Inner Circle believed that groundhogs would not breed in captivity, but they must have underestimated Phil’s powers of persuasion. As a result of the babies’ birth, Phil and Phyllis will soon permanently move to a climate-controlled burrow up on Gobbler’s Knob. The Inner Circle has made it clear that neither of the two babies can ever inherit their father’s prognosticating position. Phil is Groundhog for Life and remember, he’s 138 years old and shows no signs of slowing down!

I know this all sounds like a lot of hooey, but nearly half of America believe in Phil and think they understand his strange Groundhogese. As for me, I’m done with this long, cold, lonely winter. Maybe now that we’ve sprung an hour ahead, things will begin to change. I’ve seen plenty of signs. In fact, just a few days ago, two 19th Century sailors were walking down the street in front of our house, toting the mast of Sultana, the town’s schooner, which was derigged back in November.

Take that, Phil.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. 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.