Jamie

The New Isolationism by Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 24, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

There is really nothing new under the sun. This ‘social distancing’ business isn’t new; it’s just another example of good old American isolationism, something that has run in our veins since our earliest days as a nation. George Washington warned us about getting mixed up in other peoples’ politics; “avoid foreign entanglements” he counseled us in his Farewell Address. I’m sure he would have added ‘viruses’ to the list of entanglements to avoid—if he knew then what we know now.

Isolationism used to refer to remaining apart from the political affairs of other countries. Nothing good ever comes from convoluted old alliances; what did we ever do to Carl Ludwig Joseph Maria of Maria, aka Archduke Franz Ferdinand, who was assassinated in Serbia in 1914 and dragged the world into its first Great War? And there were a lot of us who thought Herr Hitler was Europe’s problem; with an ocean on either side of our continent, why should we worry? I guess Pearl Harbor answered that question once and for all.

Isolationism isn’t by any means an all-American idea. The Ming Dynasty moved Chinese foreign policy in an increasingly isolationist direction in the 15th Century. The Japanese Shogunate enforced a policy of kaikin—limited contact with most foreign countries—from the 17th Century until 1853 when Commodore Matthew Perry came sailing into Tokyo Bay. Most recently, Switzerland has made isolationism—they call it ‘neutrality’—into a political art form, the international equivalent of bumping elbows with everyone else in the world. Except Swiss bankers. They are huggers.

I wonder what George Washington would think of our current plight. You know the one I’m talking about—the one that was a hoax two weeks ago and is now a full-blown national emergency. Apparently, a wall isn’t sufficient defense against contagion, and now even all those clean Canadians to our north are suspect. Personally, I don’t subscribe to the theory that this pandemic is caused by a “Chinese virus;” that’s just political spin intended to point the finger at someone else instead of owning up to our own presidential ineptitude and the resultant lack of national preparedness. Even if you’re a dyed-in-the-wool isolationist, you don’t blame someone half a world away for your troubles. You figure out how to deal with it yourself.

I will say this: our current isolationist moment, terrible as it is, has produced some awfully funny memes. (A year ago, I had no idea what a meme was; I’m still not 100% sure.) For example, there’s a popular new cocktail making the rounds, the ‘quarantini: it’s a martini but you drink it by yourself. A parent of twins first experience with homeschooling ended with the two students suspended for fighting and the teacher fired for drinking on the job. Spanking and prayer are both now back in our schools. I love the spoof of the trailer for the movie 1917 in which a messenger is running through the mayhem of the first World War, except now he’s carrying an enormous package containing rolls of toilet paper. Just a few days ago, I even had a friend send me a picture of a Scot playing the bagpipes under the legend “Social Distancing in Scotland.” Ex-friend, I should say.

Despite what you might think, I’m slowly becoming a convert to this new isolationism, to “social distancing” if you prefer. I’m reading more and showering less. Just a few days ago, the wee wife and I bravely took the grandkids out to a nearby park where we all skipped rocks and raced leaves in a brook. She and I have also saved a wad of dough by eating at home, although I am sensitive to the plight of friends who own and operate restaurants. I like the idea of purchasing gift cards from them: pay now, eat later.

My parents’ generation suffered through a Great Depression only to dive head-first into a World War and they didn’t even have FaceBook, Instagram, Twitter, or Netflix to help them cope. In these days of isolation, I can only shake my head in admiration of their undaunted courage.

I don’t mean to make light of all this. Well, maybe I do, but that’s just me and one of the defense mechanisms I use in order to get up in the morning. I don’t know how long this nightmare will last but I do sincerely believe we’re all in together and that we’ll all get through it. However, until then, I’m going to practice my own brand of isolationism: I’ll keep washing my hands and staying in my own little lane while you stay in yours.

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

Green for a Day by Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 17, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

How can I not do this today? Most people assume my surname is Irish—it’s not; it’s Scottish—but today I won’t complain. On St. Patrick’s Day, everyone has the right to be a wee bit Irish.

A few years ago, I wrote a Musing about Pádraig, Ireland’s patron saint. In case you missed it, here’s a quick refresher: Pádraig was actually born in Scotland in 387 but at the age of sixteen, he was kidnapped and sold as a slave to an Irish chieftain named Milchu who happened to be a Druid priest. It was while tending Milchu’s sheep that young Pádraig encountered an angel who turned his heart toward God. The rest, as they say, is history.

Historical as he may well have been, Pádraig has certainly become the stuff of legends. Like: he used the lowly shamrock to illustrate a parable about the Holy Trinity. Like: he banished all the snakes from Ireland (never mind there never were snakes in Ireland to begin with). Like: he walked throughout Ireland with a staff made of ash wood which he thrust into the ground wherever he stopped to preach. In one village, so the story goes, it took so long for his message to get through to the local hardheads that his staff actually took root and grew into a tree. (That town is now known as Aspatria, Pádraig’s ash.) All these yarns may or may not be actual history, but they make for awfully good Blarney.

But leaving hagiography aside for just a moment, Patrick has done a lot of good marketing for Ireland. Guinness alone owes him a small fortune in marketing fees, to say nothing of Leprechauns, Claddagh rings, Aran sweaters, the Boston Celtics, and Irish soda bread. I have a friend who drinks nothing but Jameson’s Irish Whiskey but personally I draw the line there: there is really no good whisky spelled with an “e.”

I will say this for the Irish: they know how to tell a good story or a good joke. Another friend of mine who just happens to own an Irish pub tells jokes non-stop and most of them are really funny although half the laugh comes from his authentic brogue. I play golf with him sometimes and he always wins because I can’t putt and laugh at the same time.

For such a small country—after all, it’s only about the size of New England—Ireland has produced more than its fair share of gifted writers and poets. James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, William Butler Yeats, C.S. Lewis, to name but a few. Moreover, Ireland also has exported many literate sons and daughters to this country: Flannery O’Connor, Frank McCourt, Eugene O’Neill, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Margaret Mitchell, William Faulkner, Henry James, Ken Kesey, and many more. Maybe there’s something in that peaty Irish water or some other form of Irish liquid. Whatever the cause, we are a richer nation of letters for our Irish ancestors.

Ireland has blessed us in other ways, too: with inspiring politicians of both stripes like Ronald Reagan and John F. Kennedy; with sublime singers like Bing Crosby and Judy Garland; and
with wonderful actors like Grace Kelly and George Clooney. But not Sean Connery. He’s Scottish and always will be.

Music? I defy you to sit still during a session with an Irish fiddler, someone tooting on a tin whistle, an uilleann piper, and at least one bloke thumping on a Bodhrán. The maudlin stuff is grand, too: I dare you not to weep as the sun goes down on Galway Bay or not to shed a tear over the grave of Danny Boy. Molly Malone will keep you craving cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o, while the Wild Rover will leave you clapping three quick times long after the last note is sung. But there is a musical limit, a point beyond which even i won’t go: you can keep your green alligators and long-neck’d geese, your humpty-backed camels and your chimpanzees, your cats and rats and elephants and, sure as you’re born, the loveliest of all, the unicorn. No, please. You can t’ank me later!

Last, but never least, there’s the wee wife who has a lot of the Irish in her. At most recent count of her eight siblings, their spouses, children, and grandchildren, we now number 53.5. (The .5 is due soon.) I think that qualifies us as our very own Irish diaspora.

So, for just this one day a year, ‘tis fine to wear a bit o’ green, raise a parting glass and cry “Slainte!”, kiss your neighbor, watch “The Quiet Man” for the umpteenth time, and find that pot of gold at the end of your rainbow. Finian did.

Éirinn go Brách!

Sure and beggorah, 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

Seven By Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 10, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Just two days ago, I was invited to a birthday party. My buddy Gavin was turning seven. There was pizza, cake, and ice cream for the kids and salad for the grown-ups. Sigh. Maybe that’s why I started thinking about the time I was seven…

Like Gavin, I was in the second grade. My teacher, Miss Cook, was young and pretty and I thought I would marry her one day. Now I know that was just a crush but at the time, it made perfectly good sense to me. It was very likely my first crush and it was certainly a memorable one. Two years later, I had another crush on my fifth grade teacher: Mrs. Lively. She was a little older, but pretty, too, and she seemed to me to be just like her name. But she was already married and by then I knew she wouldn’t want another husband. One was enough.

When you’re seven, life is pretty good. You have no idea about the potholes and speed bumps that lie in wait in the road ahead. High school, broken hearts, college, Peace Corps, marriage, grad school, two kids, first job, second job, divorce, more broken hearts, therapy, third job, second career—a long one this time—eventually a second marriage, a repaired heart, grandkids, and finally, a new home over here on the Eastern Shore. When you put it all in one long sentence, it doesn’t sound all that bad, but the day-after-day aspect of it is another story. Thankfully, it all came right in the end.

But back to seven. As numbers go, seven has a heady legacy. There are, of course, seven days in a week. There are seven seas and seven continents. Snow White had seven dwarfs. Once upon a time, there was a drink called Seven-Up and there were seven deadly sin although it seems like there are a lot more sins these days. The wee wife is the seventh of nine children in her boisterous family. A rainbow has seven colors. It even used to take seven virgins to light the Olympic flame. I could go on but you get the picture. There is something quite mystical about the number seven which is probably why the secret society at my alma mater was called the Mystical Seven. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I wasn’t one of the tapped.

Whatever. But Gavin’s seventh birthday got me to thinking about the lay of the world when I was seven. A nice old man named Eisenhower was in charge of things and life seemed pretty good, at least until he had a thrombosis (whatever that was) out in Colorado and another man named Nixon—he didn’t look so nice, needed a shave—took over until avuncular Mr. Eisenhower thankfully recovered and went back to work. At home, one of my older sisters had just gone off to college and I inherited her former bedroom, a giant step up from the little room with the single bed I had been living in for the first seven years of my life. My new room had twin beds, my own desk, and enough space for a miniature pool table. High cotton! Sure; there were hurricanes down in Texas and a pogrom over in Greece, but at the time, I had no idea what a pogrom was, let alone knew where Greece was on the map. All that came later.

But by far the biggest event of the first month of my seventh year took place down south in a place called Mississippi: the acquittal by an all-white jury of two white defendants charged with murder for brutally killing a fourteen year-old African-American boy named Emmitt Till who was accused of offending a white woman in her family’s grocery store. The jury deliberated for all of 67 minutes before rendering their verdict of innocent; one of the jurors famously said “it wouldn’t have taken us that long if we hadn’t stopped to drink a pop.” A few years later, one of the two men acquitted of the murder later admitted that he and the other defendant had in fact killed the young boy but thought “they hadn’t done anything wrong.”

Now, more than ten times those first seven years later, I still shudder to think about all the things I didn’t know that were happening back then. Or were yet to happen. Maybe that’s a protective blessing for a seven year-old. The world can be a pretty tough place and your seventh birthday should be a wonderfully happy affair, full of pizza and ice cream and cake and a bright future.

The salad can come later.

I’ll be right back.

Big and Little Things by Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 3, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

It won’t be long now. The geese are almost all gone and that means our other birds will soon be back: first, the soaring ospreys with their keening cries and then, a few weeks later, the tiny hummingbirds powered by their precious little wings beating more than fifty times per second. Both of these avian masterpieces are sure signs of spring, nature’s way of telling us that another winter is over; it’s time to move on.

Apparently, size really doesn’t matter to Mother Nature. If Darwin knew what he was talking about—and I believe he did—then the origins of many of our finest species are truly miraculous things. I’ve often wondered that if we all emerged from the same primordial muck, how is it possible that some of us became rhinoceros and some of us became butterflies? The wee wife is more of a creationist than I so this dilemma doesn’t really bother her. God made rhinos on Wednesday and butterflies on Thursday. It’s not a very scientific explanation but at least it’s a damn good yarn that doesn’t leave her puzzling about how all of us came to be.

Of course, the big and little conundrum does not only apply to miracles of creation, however they came about. There are big and little lies; big and little toes; big and little deals or big and little mistakes. Stargazers watch Big and Little Dippers. Should you care to change the adjectives, the same rules still apply: there are creatures great and small; your chances can be fat or slim; we go through thick and thin; boxers can be heavyweights or lightweights and I, for one, would not like to be punched by either. Are your clothes dirty? There are heavy and light loads of laundry and even your washing machine can tell the difference. Now that’s artificial intelligence!

Let’s face it: size is relative. If size really mattered, elephants, not lions, would be kings of the jungle. Mark Twain, who had something worth saying about everything under the sun, knew that what mattered most was not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog. Over here on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, every good waterman knows it’s not the size of the boat that matters but the size of the wave. Finally, for all you fashionistas out there, consider this: it’s not the size you wear, but how you wear your size. Bam! Case closed!

But back to the beginning: ospreys and hummingbirds and, for that matter, every flying thing in between. When you stop to think about it, it’s pretty amazing that birds didn’t need the Wright Brothers to invent flying. Over the millennia, the laws of aerodynamics must have been written by some unseen hand. I suppose the same can be said about things that swim: who needs lungs when you’ve got gills? What about dolphins or whales, you say? They swim but they need air to breathe. And you would be correct: this is indeed a miraculous world!

So just for a moment, let’s put aside big politics and little viruses and what to make for dinner and go out to watch the birds coming home to roost. You’ll be glad you did.

I’ll be right back.

Freewheelin’ by Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 25, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

An old African proverb I’ve always admired goes like this: “If you want to go fast, walk alone. If you want to go far, walk with a friend.” Now I should probably leave well enough alone, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. I want to add a third condition to the proverb: “If you want to go fast and far, bike with friends.” There, I’ve said it.

Like everyone else, I started out on a tricycle but soon graduated to a two-wheeler with training wheels. When I finally could ride without the extra wheels, my first cool move was to clip a playing card between the spokes of my front and rear wheels to make my bike sound like a motorcycle in the Fourth of July parade. I decked it out with red, white, and blue crepe paper so it looked pretty cool, too.

When I turned ten, there was a vague understanding in my house that I was allowed to ride my bike around the block. One day near the end of summer, I broke free and (with a friend) rode several blocks across several busy intersections to visit my aunt. When I arrived on her doorstep, she asked me if my mother knew where I was. I lied and said, “Of course she does.” Well, of course she didn’t and my older sister was soon dispatched to come collect me and my friend and bring us back home.

My sister was leaving for Europe the next day and had better things to do than pick up her little brother and his pal; she threw our bikes in the back of the family station wagon and drove us home in angry silence. Once there, I got the “wait-til-your-father gets-home-now-go-to-your-room” speech from mom. When dad finally got home after work, I met my fate with a hairbrush but I had the distinct feeling his heart wasn’t in it. I think he was secretly impressed with my exploit.

After college, I joined the Peace Corps. For my first year, I rode a bike to the school where I taught physical education and English. For my second year, I decided it was time to step up my ride. I somehow talked my Country Director into letting me get a motorcycle—probably not the best way to demonstrate my willingness to live like my Tunisian counterparts. That said, my 500cc Triumph did give me ample opportunity to explore the far-away corners of my adopted country and I took full advantage of my new freedom. When it came time to return to America a year later, I sold the motorcycle. On the day I was scheduled to depart, I saw the new owner riding by on my old bike. The sight brought me to tears, but I wished them—bike and rider—well.

Fast forward a decade or two. I’m riding a fancy hybrid bike; too big and bulky for any serious road racing but with enough gears to make peddling relatively easy and fun. Just like the kid in “Breaking Away,” I got all the necessary accessories: a fitted racing jersey, padded tight cycling shorts, the right shoes, wrap-around sunglasses, and of course, a helmet and gloves. The gloves were probably not absolutely necessary, but I thought they finished off the ensemble. I even contemplated taking Italian lessons, but figured that was one turn of the wheel too many.

But as time wore on, I began to quarrel with that bike. The seat was uncomfortable; the brakes squeaked; the tires always needed air. It didn’t occur to me that I was changing: spreading out, getting shorter of breath, losing my will to go on long weekend rides in the country on spring afternoons or when the leaves were worthy of peeping in the fall.

When older folk think about downsizing, it’s their homes that get all the attention. When I began to think about downsizing, I had my bike in mind. Now all I need is a beach cruiser for getting around town. Its name is Jack. It has a big wide seat, a built-in bottle opener, and a rubber horn that squawks like a duck.

Not to be outdone—she never is—the wee wife got her own beach cruiser. It’s bright pink with a basket and bell. We call it the Pink Panther. It will never be stolen because no thief in his right mind would ever be caught dead on it.

Next week, she and I are taking off to Rehoboth for an overnight excursion with some good friends. We’re thinking about taking our bikes. While I sometimes struggle with the bike rack that attaches to the car, it’s probably a good idea. We’ll all be able to go farther, faster.

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

Friends with Fireplaces by Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 18, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 4 Comments

It got cold last weekend—very cold—so when an invitation from dear friends to have Saturday dinner in front of their fireplace arrived, we jumped. You see, our house, much as we love it, has no fireplace and because it’s an old house with a historic pedigree, it never will. That’s a long and different story. So, yes, we’d love to come for dinner; what can we bring?

We’re town mice. Our friends are country mice who live right on the lovely little point where the East and West Forks of Langford Creek come together. That’s reason enough to venture out for dinner, but in winter, we don’t often go down to the dock to watch the sunset. But tonight, it’s the fireplace that draws us in; its glow warms us inside and out; the seasoned oak and cherry smells divine; the crackle punctuates our laughter. Throw in a delicious stew, a homemade cheesecake, and a few—don’t count!—bottles of wine and you’ll understand why we love to gather here.

Did I mention dogs? Two big, friendly, so-happy-to-see-you golden retrievers with some good years under their collars, the kind that jump up on the couch next to you, snuggle in, and let you rub their bellies after dinner. There’s just something about good dogs; better than blankets.

The women linger and chat at the table; the men talk quietly in front of the fire. There’s an upcoming adventure, a work-in-progress, a new car. Nothing too heavy to lift, no need to talk religion or politics. We’re all in the same little lifeboat.

Meanwhile, the fire in the grate goes through log after log, but no matter: there’s plenty of wood. Plus, there’s something atavistic and manly about poking a fire from time-to-time, whether it needs it or not. Plans get made; some may actually come to fruition, but even if they don’t, they help fill up a cold winter night. Up in the sky, a million stars are shining like shattered ice, but down here, in this snug room, all is calm and safe. The road ahead runs straight to the horizon.

It’s getting late. Time to go, but we really don’t want to break the spell. It’s hard to pry ourselves away: the fire, the dogs, the friends. We could stay and spend the night, but there’s something worthy about the idea of going home to meet tomorrow, even if home will be fireless and cold tonight.

I switched to water long ago, mindful of driving home late at night through stubble fields where deer are feeding. The ride back to town is comfortably quiet; we’re going slowly. Twice, I catch the gleam of our headlights trapped in deer eyes, but we each keep to our respective spaces. I like driving through this peaceful, midnight landscape and decide to take a backroad just to stretch the moment, make it last a minute or two longer.

Back home, we hurry upstairs to get under the covers. We talk quietly, mostly about what a wonderful evening it was, the food, the dogs, the friendship, and of course the fireplace. We fall asleep in the sweet remembrance of its warm and comforting glow.

I’ll be right back.

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.

Staying Dry by Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 11, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

There’s a lot to be said for staying dry. I don’t know about you but unless I’m taking a shower or swimming in the ocean, I prefer dry to wet. I don’t even like to sweat: those hot, humid summer days may seem a preferable alternative to what we’re going through right now, but believe me, if the air conditioner had not been invented, I’d have taken off for Iceland long ago.

When God let Noah in on His dirty little secret, the umbrella hadn’t been invented, there were no such things as windshield wipers, and raincoats were made from animal hide—hardly effective protection from a forty second shower let alone forty days and nights of steady downpour. Talk about sea rise! Now, in this post-diluvian world, we complain—at least I do—if rain keeps us indoors for a day or two, or our hair gets a little frizzy, or—God Forbid!—it’s “cart path only” on the golf course. There’s just nothing worse than a cart path that runs along the right side of the fairway and your ball is in the left rough! Insult added to injury. Sad!

Gene Kelly might have enjoyed singing in the rain and swinging on wet lampposts, but not me. For me, staying dry is not about coming in out of the rain or bladder control or avoiding alcohol; it’s just plain old common sense. I’m telling you: wet socks are the devil’s playground! Take them to the dry cleaners right now! As for wit, I’ll take the dry variety any day; that extra second it takes for a joke to sink in is worth its weight in dry measure! And then there’s the dry martini, that most counterintuitive of cocktails that makes the end of a long wet day well worth the wait.

Over here on Maryland’s right-hand shore, most of us take water for granted. I certainly have nothing against water: the play of morning light on the river or a raft of geese settling down at evening make all the water surrounding us look and sound like a living, breathing work of art. Water’s utilitarian, too: I like to paddle on it, bathe in it, swim through it. I’ve even been known to drink it from time to time if nothing stronger is available. I just don’t like it falling on me for days on end; it makes me feel like I’m Wile E Coyote and Roadrunner is on the cliff above me with a garden hose making my life miserable. Make it stop!!

There are, of course, ways to stay dry even in the worst of squalls. Slickers, rain pants, and waterproof boots can help, but they weigh you down and waterlogged is just like it sounds. Umbrellas can provide a temporary measure of protection, but inevitably you need that second hand to carry something or to open a car door, and if you have you ever tried opening a car door while holding an open umbrella and a bag of groceries, you know that eventually something’s gotta give. When it does, that’s the moment it hits me: I could move to Phoenix!

I realize that dry is not always a good thing. Dry toast? No, thanks. A dry lecture? Boring! A dry well? Big problem! Dry February? Maybe good for the liver, but not the soul. Dry does have its limits.

All in all, as in war, so in investing: I’ll do whatever it takes to keep both my socks and my powder dry.

I’ll be right back.

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.

Dinner With Rabbie by Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 28, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

If you’re Scottish of either the home-grown or diaspora ilk, you surely know that January 25 is the birthday of Robert Burns, the National Bard of Scotland. Born on that day in the village of Alloway in Ayrshire in 1759, Rabbie (as he was known) was a pioneer of the Romantic movement in poetry. Many of his verses and songs were written in the Scots dialect which made his work accessible to many who don’t think much of any poetry written in English. He was the poetic voice of Everyman in Scotland, a scoundrel, a lover, a romantic who found poetry in the most common of things. One of his poems—Ode To a Louse—was written about a wee mite working its way into the hair of a woman seated in front of him in church.

To this day, Scots revere, extol, and on his birthday, celebrate Rabbie Burns. This year, my wee wife and I, along with two other dear friends of Scottish descent, decided to host our own version of a Burns Supper, a feast of Scottish traditional fare that includes neeps (mashed rutabaga), tatties (mashed potatoes), and, of course, haggis, every true Scots’ favorite dish. Oh, and one other thing: malt whisky, spelled without an “e” in Scotland and always served neat.

Haggis has a reputation it doesn’t deserve. Burns called it “the chieftain o’ the puddin’ race.” It’s made with minced lamb, oats, and all matter of seasoned innards, all wrapped and boiled in a sheep’s bladder. It tastes much better than it sounds. In Scotland, a haggis always includes bits of lung, but that’s not allowed over here so kidney is used instead. I can’t tell the difference. Our haggis was prepared out in Wisconsin by a company called Scottish Gourmet—no, that’s not an oxymoron—and shipped to us packed in ice. We purchased two versions: five pounds of traditional haggis and two pounds of a “royal” version made with venison and whisky. All we had to do was steam to reheat.

A Burns Supper is more than just dinner. There is great ceremony to accompany the repast. There is the Selkirk Grace (attributed to Burns), The Address to the Haggis, the humorous Toast to the Immortal Memory, and last but not least a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne, perhaps Burns’ most famous song. The highlight of the show comes when the haggis is brought to the host on a silver salver, piped in by yours truly, fairly compensated with a deep dram of whisky served in a quaich, a two-handled chalice which in my case has been handed down over many generations.

After dinner, the fun really begins. There is often dancing but, alas, we were pinched for space. We were expecting around forty people at our supper, but the final head count was (I think) fifty-two. Everyone had been asked to contribute a bottle of malt whisky which if unconsumed could be retrieved at the end of the night. I saw lots of bottles arriving but only a few departing.

It was a wonderful affair, more than worthy of a poet well known for his tendency to excess. Everyone, kilted Scots and Sassenachs alike, got into the spirt of the evening—or should I say the spirits of the evening. People not generally known for erudition and eloquence began speaking in a Highland brogue, trilling their “r”s and using lilting grammatical formulations that have not been heard on this continent for over two hundred years.

At the end of the evening, we (the hosts) looked at each other and said, “What have we done?” Apparently, we created a monster, a haggis-loving monster that now needs repeating next year and every year thereafter. We might cull the guest list, but I have a feeling we’ll end up enlarging it; as one happy guest said in departing, “Looks like you’re going to need a bigger boat!”

I’m awa’ but dinna fasch: 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

Writing a Novel by Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 21, 2020 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

It’s hard, writing a novel. There are so many things to take into consideration: the title; the names, physical descriptions, and backstories of the characters; the pace of the story; the plots and subplots; historical accuracy. Yesterday, I wanted one of my heroes to drive a Citroën 2CV—a deux chevaux—but the year was 1942 and the deux chevaux didn’t come into production until 1948 so my man had to drive a Fiat 500 Topolino instead; not nearly as good! And what about sex and violence? Sex and violence sell books and you’ll never get your novel turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Ryan Gosling if you don’t have at least a little sex or violence or both! I’m telling you: writing a novel is hard; it’s like being a one-armed juggler without a helmet!

It’s hard, writing a novel. Things keep getting in the way: going to the grocery store, making dinner, changing the laundry, taking out the trash, playing golf. Especially playing golf. Everybody thinks it’s easy writing a novel but it’s not. Life keeps coming at you head on and life isn’t always conducive to the discipline of writing a novel. I should know. I’ve started three and finished none.

It’s hard, writing a novel. People think you can write anywhere, anytime, but you can’t. The light’s not good here; this chair is uncomfortable; it’s too noisy; it’s too quiet. Some people think you can take your laptop to Starbucks so you can write your novel while drinking a no-foam latte, or they figure you can write while you’re on vacation, but is it really a vacation if you have to write while you’re on it? I don’t think so!

I’ve heard people say that writing a novel must be good therapy. I suppose there’s some truth to that because it’s kept me from committing homicide. So far.

Then there’s the question of money. There’s always the question of money. Unless, of course, you happen to be Danielle Steele, John Grisham, David Baldacci, Doctor Seuss, or any one of those other Philistines (not you, Doctor Seuss) who turn out bestsellers like Christmas fudge and make it look like it’s easy to write a novel. Maybe it is for them, but I am an artist. I walk a higher, narrower path.

It’s not easy, writing a novel. You can’t tell your friends what you’re working on because then they want to hear all about your novel but you don’t really want to talk about your novel because after all, you’ve started three and finished none and that’s not a very good track record. I realize these friends are just trying to be helpful and supportive, but let’s face it: writing is not a team sport. It’s the loneliness of the long-distance runner, a solitary pursuit. It’s the stuff of introspection, not Martini Night.

It’s hard, writing a novel. It’s relatively easy writing these Musings—it will be four years next week and I haven’t missed a deadline yet!—but my novel weighs on me like an elephant on my chest which is how people describe a heart attack. A novel is a heart attack, day after day after day.

It’s hard, writing a novel. My wife wants to know what I’m going to do today and I tell her I’m working on my novel and I know what’s she thinking: he’s going to sneak out and play golf or take a nap or watch the next episode of The Crown without me! She wants me to go get some real exercise. I tell her writing a novel is good exercise for my mind and she just stares at my belly.

I’m just saying: it’s hard, writing a novel. Ideas come screaming like a firetruck in the middle of the night when all I want to do is snuggle up next to my sweet baboo, but instead I have to get up quietly in the dark and go downstairs where it’s cold and then stare at my computer screen for an hour or two. I might as well go back to bed but I’ve just downed two cups of coffee while writing an entire paragraph so what’s the use?

Believe me: it’s hard, writing a novel. You try it. On second thought, don’t you dare: the competition is stiff enough as it is.

I’ll be right back.

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.

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