New Steps by Jamie Kirkpatrick

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Rob built new steps for our house last week. I “supervised.” I watched him measure twice and cut once. I watched him level the job to perfection—not a simple task given the way things slant and lean around here. I watched him drill holes, drive nails, and set screws to create a solid, stable platform on which to stand or (as is often my wont) to sit. I watched him bull nose the treads and paint the risers…I thought I had a momentary vision of DaVinci, flat on his back, working on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And when he was finished, he stepped back and looked upon what he had wrought and said, “Nah; off by an inch.” And he started over.

Rob would be the first to admit that he’s a perfectionist. It’s a quality that I greatly admire but don’t remotely share. I can live with imperfection which, in my case, is a good thing. Still, a craftsman like Rob doesn’t earn his stellar reputation by producing shoddy work. The same is true of my friend Eggman the painter. He’s an old-fashioned miracle up on a ladder, sanding, scraping, taping, priming, laying on a first coat, then a second, before he details and touches up his work. Even then, for Rob or Eggman, the work isn’t done: saws and tools and brushes need to be cleaned and stored, everything returned to its proper place, ready for the next job. That kind of organization and care is another quality I admire but don’t share. I put down my screwdriver and five minutes later I can’t for the life of me find it.

But back to our new steps. It doesn’t take a genius to see their metaphoric value. The old steps were worn out. The wood was rotting in places, the paint was chipped; truth be told, they were an accident waiting to happen. As a portal to our porch and house, they sent entirely the wrong message: this house is tired, it has lost its charm, it isn’t loved and cared for by the owners. Talk about fake news!

We all need new steps from time to time. It’s so easy to follow old, familiar patterns, or to overlook problems, or to take the easy way out of banal responsibilities. Why not put something off until tomorrow? Maintenance isn’t sexy; let’s just buy something shiny and new and never mind those old porch steps. We’ll get to those someday…

Of course, there’s this, too: new steps lead in new directions. That journey of a thousand miles really does begin with a single step. It may be a hard one to take sometimes, but unless that initial stride is made, there is no progress, only decay. I can’t honestly say I was thinking those thoughts as I watched Rob labor away on our new steps, but the message he left behind after he packed up his tools and drove away is crystal clear: new steps lead to new beginnings.

Be like Rob: make new steps.

I’ll be right back.

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” will be released in June 2018.  Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

Out and About (Sort of): What’s Behind The Wall? By Howard Freedlander

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As I viewed the Traveling Vietnam Memorial Wall a week ago on the grounds of VFW Post 5118 in Easton, I looked at the 58,000 names of men and women killed in Southeast Asia and starkly envisioned in the black background of the haunting tribute the turbulent 1960s.

I spent the rest of the week trying to make sense of a violent decade marked by war abroad and civil upheaval at home.

Allow me to share my thoughts. They might echo yours. They might rankle.

Like others born at the end of World War II, I spent my adolescence and young adulthood in the 1960s. While coping with my own growing pains and angst, I felt buffeted by catastrophic events. The decade was historic for its tragedies, its divisiveness caused by the Vietnam War, fractious race relations, the impact of feminism and a revulsion by some toward academic institutions and the government.

To this day, I cannot understand what begat the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Senator Robert F. Kennedy. I wondered then if there were some unconscionable and undetected strain in American culture that led to the extermination of excellence.

I understand that many may disagree with my imposition of “excellence” on these three gentlemen. I stand by my opinion. They were remarkable.

As I traveled through life, I’ve certainly perceived an underlying resentment toward high-achievers, people whose skills and intelligence supersede the attributes of the rest of us. But this is fueled by jealousy. It doesn’t normally engender violence, just disdain.

Back to the wall, so dramatic in its somberness.

My first reaction was one that engulfed me despite my best effort to avoid it: was the Vietnam War worth the loss of 58,000 lives and thousands who were maimed physically and mentally? This nagging question is not intended to besmirch the bravery and patriotism of our troops.

The war, like the decade, was complex. It was meant to contain the spread of communism in Asia. That was a noble objective that placed us in the middle of a civil war between North and South Vietnam. As documented, our political and military leaders lied to American citizens about the inability of the world’s greatest power to change the political equation in Vietnam. As time went on, despite hard-fought victories, we lost mightily on the field of public opinion.

As our troops fought courageously in the jungles and rice paddies of a divided South East Asian nation, back home the nation was engaged in protests staged against the war in cities and major universities. We were a nation at war with itself. While conversation and actions were harsh and disruptive, women, for one, made strides in the business, political and academic worlds.

As I strolled along the Traveling Vietnam Memorial Wall, I saw what is commonplace at the actual memorial in Washington, DC: flowers and a note left by a veteran in memory of the loss of five fellow soldiers. That’s symbolic of the compassion and healing power of this unusual and poignant tribute to the dead.

Whatever passions were stirred by an immensely unpopular war, the Memorial Wall offers a quiet, contemplative place to pay homage to our nation’s fallen soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines and Coast Guard members. It even summons forgiveness on the part of those who mistreated our returning veterans.

Our country’s history comprises many historic decades. Our own lives pass through phases, variously pleasant and unsettling. Last week’s 50th anniversary of the death by gunfire of Robert F. Kennedy at a hotel in Los Angeles, following a campaign victory speech during his quest for the Democratic nomination for president, drew me back to my adolescence and young adulthood in the sizzling 60s.

I recall I was just beginning to like Bobby Kennedy. In contrast to his brother, the president, he seemed so strident and pugnacious. I learned that in many ways he was more passionate and sensitive than his charmingly smooth older brother.

I thought maybe another Kennedy could have become president. It was not to be.

Just two months prior to the killing of Bobby Kennedy, the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., a giant among civil rights leaders, was gunned down in Memphis, Tennessee. He led the rocky and risky crusade for racial equality, fighting forces of discrimination that still exist.

Dr. King’s “I have dream speech” was an unforgettable call for national unity. He strove ceaselessly for racial equality. He awakened the national consciousness. Yet, equality remained elusive. He died pursuing his dream.

When Robert Kennedy was shot on June 5, 1968, dying the following day, I was a young reporter at a community newspaper in Ellicott City in Howard County. Still shaken by the murder of the Rev. King, I was dumbfounded and shocked by the assassination, only two months later, of Sen. Kennedy. I immediately wrote an editorial and submitted it to the editor. He rejected it for reasons I cannot recall. He likely considered it too emotional.

So, here I am 50 years later, writing that editorial. This one is probably more reasoned and mature. After all, what does a new reporter just out of college know about depth?

Viewing the Traveling Vietnam Memorial Wall transported me back to a difficult and disruptive decade.

The journey was well worth it.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

P.S. I Love You by George Merrill

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For me, receiving mail has lost its magic.

I once loved anticipating mail. Getting it now is perfunctory, like bringing in garbage cans. Today I receive mostly advertisements printed on intrusive cards some larger than four by five. They hardly fit in the mail box. Then there’s the relentless stream of bills. The joy of anticipation is gone. Once, the excitement of getting the mail was finding a real letter, handwritten, addressed to me. Few if any write letters any more. The world of communication, once a twist of the wrist, has gone electronic. We are literally, snagged by the web, trapped in the net.

I once read that in sixteen-eighty in London, England, the mail system functioned 24/7. If Mrs. Dalloway invited me to take tea with her at 4:00 pm, I’d receive her invitation at 10:00 am. I would post my response straightaway and she’d receive it by noon. Anywhere in London for a penny. It got pricey if you posted out of town, and there was a caveat: the receiver paid postage, not the sender. Considering all the junk mail I receive, wouldn’t it be neat if the post would not surrender my mail to me unless I first paid up? Just say no, would do the trick.

In colonial times, communicating with kin overseas was stressful and cumbersome. A ship’s officer arriving in port with letters without stamps would advertise in the local newspaper. They’d list the names of those having mail and for them to come collect and pay for it, if not already paid for by the sender. I would imagine a husband in London, sending a letter to his wife in Annapolis, would cost her an arm and leg to claim it. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it sure ups the ante in the family budget no matter who pays.

Aviation promised more speedy mail delivery. In its infancy, however, the pilot was more at risk than any mail man was when a junkyard dog tore after him. Without instrumentation, pilots became disoriented when flying through clouds. Pilots might swear they were flying level but in fact were in deep descent. Crashes were frequent.

I remember three chapters in my life when receiving mail was exhilarating. The first was during WWII. I’d receive V-MAILS, letters from my father while he was at war. The return address read cryptically: “Somewhere in Europe.”

Then came my cereal box years. Cereal makers, like those producing Wheaties and Kix, offered toys like the ‘secret decoder ring” that broke all codes or another ring that, by changing color, “foretold weather.” Mailing off a quarter with the box top would assure that I’d possess one of these wonders. After I’d mailed off my submission, I would begin counting the days and even intercept the mailman before he reached the door.

In late adolescence, I was in and out of love. For some of these loves, letters were part of the romance and I came to expect them. The wait for letters was excruciating. I now marvel at how verbose lovers are at eighteen. I simply couldn’t write enough to shape the nuances of my emerging passions and give a voice to my excited sentiments. Run-on sentences were the name of the game.

In today’s post-modern world, hand written letters have been eclipsed by email. Email is fast, economical, and costs the same to send anywhere in the world. Emails arrive almost instantly and like mice, seeing one always means there’s lots more. Some are bizarre. I used to get regular emails from a barrister in the Caribbean who’d address me as ‘Dearest.’ He’d urge me to respond immediately as he was keeping fifty thousand pounds in trust for me.

Email, especially texting, has spawned a form of hieroglyphics designed to reduce words to their marrow. It makes electronic messaging even faster, by lessening the time a writer spends composing texts. For the uninitiated, these symbols are inscrutable and seem more like the periodic table or scientific equations than real words or even sentences. Even the tender sentiments they purport to communicate become tepid and as ho hum as yesterday’s alphabet soup.

How about instead of emailing or texting your loved one, “I can’t wait to look into your eyes and savor the soft scent of your perfume,” you write ‘ILU/ILY’ which means “I love you.” ‘XOXOXO,’ means, I want to hug and kiss you. It works for some, but not for me. Is this only because I’m a luddite, that I’m so old a dog I disdain new tricks? I’d say it’s more than that. It’s about nuance and in my opinion, next to facial expressions, only words can hone our emotions to such fine tolerances.

Tweets serve communication the way fireworks light up the night sky: while they catch your eye, they quickly fizzle. No nuance, here.

Letters take a lot of time and thought to write. It would take me the same time to write one letter by hand than to dash off twenty emails. In communicating with a spouse, loved one or friend, the nature of affection encourages the sharing of many different thoughts and feelings like pillow talk that is lengthy and meandering.

Electronic communication is a boon for commerce. It’s great for communicating data or gathering information, arranging appointments, ordering holiday gifts and getting directions to unfamiliar places.

When kissing my wife before bedtime, however, I can’t imagine holding her and saying ‘ILU/ILY.’ Nothing beats a plain old fashioned, breathy, “I love you,” whether it’s carefully written long hand or whispered softly in an ear. Consider something as sensual as hugs and kisses; when reduced to a formulaic, ’XOXOXO,’ it loses all its pizazz.

A simple ‘PS, I love you,’ works better.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

Open Letter to WC President Landgraf on Kent County Schools by William Short

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Dear President Landgraf,

I would like to address your comments, which were most welcome, at the Kent County Commissioners‘ meeting on June 5, 2018; and, your letter to Commissioner Pickrum dated June 1, 2018. concerning the $580,000 shortfall in the budget for The Kent County Board of Education. As the President of Washington College, you are one of the pillars of this community, and your words in a public forum have weight. I want you to know that I listened to you and have thought about your words. No one wants the schools in Kent County to fail, most especially the Commissioners; in fact, we are all products of this school system. We were all born and raised here, and this County has deep familial and cultural roots for each one of us.

During your tenure at the Educational Testing Service [ETS), you led the financial turnaround of the organization from near-bankruptcy to create a $1.6 billion global, technology-based concern. In this endeavor, I’m sure you faced some tough business decisions that affected the lives and livelihood of individuals globally. Therefore, you can understand the dilemma of the Commissioners being forced to decide on investing on economic development or investing in our children. At first blush, it seems to be an obvious choice — except, it is not. You state in your letter, “I would like to have more of our faculty and staff choose to live locally, rather than commuting from Annapolis and Middletown.”

I could not agree with your more; however, without proper economic investment, where will they be living and what sorts of commerce will they have locally? The “economic development or education investment” the question is as perplexing as the chicken or the egg causality dilemma.

After thinking about your comments, I believe the communities frustration of this issue stems from approaching it the same way, but expecting a different solution.

In your letter you state, “The investment in public education is the single greatest way to help the college and every other business that calls Kent County home.” I could not agree with you more, and every business, and every person pays their fair share of property tax, with the exception of Washington College. If Washington College paid county tax on the full assessable base of all its properties, the County would receive $837,382. Washington College actually pays $65,541, so there is a loss of $771,841 due to the tax-exempt status of the properties. These figures do not include State and town taxes.

I’m not suggesting that Washington College should not receive benefits offered by the State, but if Washington College gave less than 5% of the interest made from its endowments, Kent County could work to match those funds to meet this continuous shortfall facing our educational system. If Washington College could commit to meeting the County half way ($290,000), this could open the gateway for the County to partner with the College to find a new solution to this issue. Our economic investments will mature in 10 years; so, will Washington College partner with Kent County for the upcoming 10 years [$2.9 million) to make a community for your faculty and staff to live locally? As you aptly said, “Our decisions about funding public education have lifelong consequences.”

With respect,

William Short
Commissioner of Kent County

Letter to the Editor: Fund Schools to Advance Economic Development

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I have a layman’s grasp of Kent County’s annual budget process. I attend most commissioner meetings and one recent cycle, I even attended every one of their afternoon budgeting sessions.

I’ve observed in detail how Mr. Pickrum, Mr. Fithian, and Mr. Short weigh and assess each department’s request and understand why they have such a difficult—maybe impossible—task: Compromising on a county budget that does not, and cannot, satisfy every need.

However, the commissioners’ proposed Fiscal 2019 budget is self-described as stressing “Economic Development” first and “Education” second. Why?

Kent County cannot assemble a successful economic development strategy/program without first guaranteeing that our public school system is fully funded:

  • Even if this means the commissioners must allocate more than 38 percent of the total county budget to the public schools.
  • Even if this means the commissioners must reduce spending elsewhere.
  • Even if this means the commissioners must increase the county property tax.

If the commissioners fully fund basic public services—public education, public safety, and public health—we can be assured that steady and healthy economic development can be a consequent result.

Yours truly,

Grenville B. Whitman

Rock Hall

For Men Only by Al Sikes

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Oh for the chance to have one more back and forth. Too often our intrinsic treasures are only truly treasured when they are gone.

I can recall of course. The union card. Walking on my knees, picking cotton. The adventure in Alaska. So, let me give you a son’s perspective.

Dad wanted, no insisted, that his sons experience life’s needs, not just its wants. The need to work hard for a living and to appreciate those that did so. The need to go well beyond your comfort zone. The need to understand education as a privilege.

William K. Sikes with his son Al Sikes

Thank you, yet only on reflection, for that job at Scott County Milling Company. It was there I learned to plow out boxcars which arrived by rail from grain producing regions; offloading them was part of my job. The grain was converted to feed and I was in the middle of the process—and a dirty, dusty process it was. The dust was so thick that Dad urged me to wear a face mask.

I refused; it was hard enough being a kid among men. On the third day, I didn’t show up for work because of a respiratory infection. On my next day at work I wore a face mask and as I would remove the filters it became apparent to my fellow union workers that they too needed protection. My moist breath had converted dust to a muddy look; not a pretty site. Face masks and filters were required in the next contract.

But, perhaps the perfect fusion occurred when Dad convinced a friend of his to hire me to work in Anchorage, Alaska, at Elmendorf Air Force Base. I drove to Alaska—what a trip, the last thousand plus miles took me on unpaved roads through British Columbia and the Yukon.

Alaska introduced me to homesteaders, jack hammers, tar paper roofs and King salmon. Men, even in their teens, can profit from a Hemingway experience. Yes, I learned to tar paper roofs and handle a jack hammer, but the really important lessons were learned on the Russian River access trails and in the relationships at work.

Today’s summer jobs for youth are often in fast food or staffing camps, or, for those in college, internships that might lead to post-college jobs. On the camping front a recent Wall Street Journal article noted camps to teach young people to invest. Several names: “Camp Millionaire, MoolahU, Financial Investors Club of America and WhizBizKids”.

We need to better understand each other. Yet the military is now volunteer, most summer jobs are clean hands affairs, and frequently that last pre-career summer begins the gap year and foreign travel. And now, camps with financial missions.

Father’s Day is mostly a commercial event. But, I would urge today’s fathers to consider how their sons will recall their relationship–what kind of reflections their sons might have when Father’s Day appears on the calendar. I recall wisdom.

 

Out and About (Sort of): Politics Aplenty by Howard Freedlander

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Three weeks from today, a primary election will happen in Maryland. Like all elections, the results matter on the local, state and federal levels.

As you travel the Eastern Shore, signs are sprouting wherever you look. It’s growing season for these omnipresent reminders of an upcoming election. And candidates are fishing for votes at public events, sporting smiles, handshakes and easy chatter.

What I find remarkable about this particular political season is the number of women running for office in Talbot County and in the Democratic primary for governor. From what I read and hear, this phenomenon is happening throughout the country.

I couldn’t be happier.

The increased participation in elective politics represents an activism sweeping the country. Many candidates are notable for their lack of prior political experience. And some are military veterans who are dipping their feet into politics.

Maybe it’s a generational shift, but these political newcomers are changing the political landscape, for the better. It’s their turn to seek and take political office. It’s time for new ideas, though sprinkled sometimes with more enthusiasm than pragmatism. Tinges of naiveté come with novices seeking to differentiate themselves from their competitors and incumbents.

I’m no political pollster or analyst. I can only guess about the reasons for the upsurge of activism and interest in serving the public in elected office.

I think our president has stirred the juices of discontent, particularly among women who resent his documented misogyny. Throw in the MeToo movement, and you have the makings of an upsurge in civic and political activity among women. Also, Mr. Trump, who never held political office, won the highest office in the land. That fact is inspirational to those who have avoided political campaigns, except to donate and attend fundraisers.

Non-politicians can and do win.

Some may cynically and mournfully say, including this writer at times, that my generation has had its chance to improve our nation and world, and our results have been distinctly average. The next logical progression is to hand off the baton of leadership to another spirited and motivated generation.

An infusion of new solutions and vibrant enthusiasm might produce changes that my generation failed to implement.

Before my fellow baby-boomers scream heresy and strongly disagree, I suggest we ask ourselves: have we left a better world for our children and grandchildren? I can’t say yes. Maybe readers can.

Crime, climate change, economic inequality, racism and gun violence, among other societal ills, have worsened. Succeeding generations face awesome challenges left them by us. That hurts.

As noted, when I look around the political landscape, I feel optimistic about the future. At least a little bit. Increasing participation by women is particularly heartening. Perhaps in the not too distant future we will have a woman as our governor and our president.

In the next three weeks, I recommend that we pay close attention to our local, state and federal elections, taking the time to attend candidate forums and accept invitations to meet-and-greets in your neighborhoods. If you have the chance, ask the candidate seeking your vote and donation probing questions that concern you, your family and your community.

Don’t hold back. Candidates relish being able to demonstrate their command of a particular subject—and maybe learn about issues that may not have occurred to them.

John Quincy Adams, our sixth president and son of John Adams, our second president and one of our nation’s founders, said,” Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest recollection your vote is never lost.”

Whenever I vote, I feel as if I’m fulfilling the unshakeable faith that my immigrant grandfather placed in American democracy. He treasured the hope implicit in the political process.

So do I. Unpleasing results at times and periodic outcroppings of corruption, while bothersome, fail to deter me.

Despite rampant cynicism, your vote and mine do matter. Our democracy demands participation in the public process. We relinquish this democratic right when we do nothing.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland.  Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He  also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer.  In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Lord Stanley’s Dilemma by Jamie Kirkpatrick

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About this time every year, two teams, two cities, and two legions of crazy fans vie for the honor of hoisting the Stanley Cup, the holy grail of professional hockey. This year, it’s Washington (a franchise that has never won a Cup) versus Las Vegas (a franchise that didn’t even exist a year ago). Talk about theater of the absurd!

Be that as it may, this year’s Finals puts me square in the middle of a dilemma. You see, I grew up in Pittsburgh, a.k.a. the City of Champions. My Penguins have won a total of five Stanley Cups including the last two. But this year, the Capitals sent the Penguins into early estivation in the second round of the playoffs and so I have had to adopt my wife’s hometown heroes, the Washington Capitals, if I am to maintain even a modicum of interest in the chase for the Cup. That means I have to don something red every time the Capitals play, a false flag operation I use to deflect my wife’s attention from the truth of my black-and-gold heart.

 

Today’s Stanley Cup didn’t start out that way. It was originally commissioned in 1892 as the Dominion Challenge Hockey Cup and is the oldest continual championship trophy in professional sports. The Cup was rechristened to honor Lord Stanley of Preston, the Governor General of Canada who donated the Cup as a yearly award to Canada’s best amateur hockey club. The Montreal Hockey Club was the first Cup recipient in 1893; professional teams became eligible to compete for the trophy in 1906 but it wasn’t until 1947 that the Cup became the celebrated prize of today’s National Hockey League. Oh—and by the way—did I mention that the Pittsburgh Penguins have won the Cup five times? I did? Oh well…

It turns out there are really three Stanley Cups: the original Dominion Challenge Hockey Cup Bowl, the Presentation Cup given to the winning team, and the Permanent Cup which resides in the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. The one we see annually hoisted at the conclusion of the Final Series—the Presentation Cup—is some serious hardware: it’s made of silver and a nickel alloy, stands nearly 3 feet tall, and weighs almost 35 pounds, but it must seem weightless to the players on the team that finally gets to lift it. The Cup’s present configuration dates to 1958 and contains a replica of the original Cup and five bands, each band capable of containing the names of players on thirteen championship teams per band. When a band is full, it is retired to the Hockey Hall of Fame and a new band is added.

The Cup’s provenance is officially regulated not by the NHL but by two appointed Trustees who serve until their death. Serious business to be sure but there is plenty of tomfoolery, too. Each championship team is allotted one-hundred days to enjoy the Cup during the off-season. During that time, each member of that team gets his own personal day with the Cup. Players have been known to sleep with it, drink from it, swim with it, use it as a dog bowl, or even baptize their children in it. I wonder what I would do with it on my day. Hmmm…

This year, I’ll admit that I have enjoyed watching my wife and her large family of rabid fans root for the Caps. As I write this, the Caps are up three games to one in the final best-of-seven series so this may well be their year. We’ll know soon enough. If it is, I’ll be happy on the outside. But on the inside is another story: revenge is a Cup best served cold with a champagne glass of wait-until-next year.

I’ll be right back.

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” will be released in June 2018.  Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

Senior Nation: The Very Best Senior Moment by Craig Fuller

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Returning from California where my younger brother – by two years – was married this past weekend, I reflected on the remarkable experience and emotions discovered in a “senior wedding.”

Truthfully, I have not been to many senior weddings in the past, yet each one I attended provided a wonderful spirit of love and commitment. While part of all weddings, the commitment of people in their 60s who elect to get married brings with it…well, more maturity.

Professional reputation has been built. The children have been raised and released into the world. Friendships have been built and nourished over decades. Then, added to all of that comes a strong and intentional passion to marry, again.

I shared with my brother and his beautiful wife a comment I’ve never forgotten from the woman my father married a few years after our mother passed. His new wife, who had survived two previous husbands, shared with me that marriage to our father was wonderfully different because they spent all of their time together.

The “senior marriage” is decidedly not about building a family, it’s about embracing two families. It’s not about building a career or two; it’s about enjoying the fruits of hard work over many years. It’s not about a process of finding yourself; it’s about a process of finding a new future with another.

For two days, my brother and his new wife brought together friends and family. We spoke of how we knew the bride or groom (or, in my case, both…but that is another story). We told stories about their past lives and laughed at experiences familiar to all of us. We truly celebrated a union of two fine people who know themselves and know they are happier, better and more fulfilled together.

Honestly, it was a weekend of pure joy and a sense of wishing the bride, the groom, along with their families and friends nothing but the best in the years they have together….where they really will be together.

This is one senior moment I hope can be shared by every couple finding perfect companionship in their later years.

Craig Fuller served four years in the White House as assistant to President Reagan for Cabinet Affairs, followed by four years as chief of staff to Vice President George H.W. Bush. Having been engaged in five presidential campaigns and run public affairs firms and associations in Washington, D.C., he now resides on the Eastern Shore with his wife Karen.