Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Chestertown
From dawn to dusk, crabbers harvest the bounty of our Bay. It’s hard work, and we thank them for it! “Smith Island Crabber” by Lenny Burton
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Pieter Brueghel the Elder (1525/30-1569) became a member of the Antwerp Painters Guild in 1551. We know little of his life before that date except that he was an accomplished artist. On his return from a trip to Rome (1552-1553) to view the work of Italian Renaissance artists, the path that non-Italian artists took at the time, he began to create drawings for engravings by Quatre Vents, the most prestigious printer in Antwerp. During his career, Brueghel made over 80 drawings for prints.
Brueghel lived during volatile political and religious times in the Netherlands. Protestantism was growing, particularly in Antwerp, a cosmopolitan city, the center of north-south trade, and a major port. Calvinism was particularly strong in Antwerp. Charles V of Spain, ruler of the Netherlands, had established in 1552 a special court to prosecute non-Catholic heretics, and he declared in 1549 the Netherlands was a province of Spain. His son Philip II, an extremely devout Catholic, continued the rule of the Netherlands on his father’s death in 1556. Ultimately, Philip declared he would never rule over heretics and brought in the Duke of Alva in 1567 to put down the Protestant revolt. The Eighty Years’ War (1568-1648) split the Dutch Protestants in the north from the Belgian Catholics in the south.
The Land of Cockayne” (1567)
Brueghel’s paintings, many depicting Old Testament stories with subtle criticisms of Catholicism and the government, by necessity began to change. As the religious and political situation worsened in Antwerp in the 1560’s, and prisons filled with so-called heretics, and the Protestant resistance grew stronger, Brueghel turned to the less controversial subject matter of peasant dances and peasants at work during the seasons. In the last two years of his life, Brueghel painted popular myths and Netherlandish proverbs.
“The Land of Cockayne” (1567) (20.4’’x30.7”) depicts a medieval myth that describes an imaginary land reached by eating one’s way through a rice pudding mountain. “All ye who are lazy and gluttonous be ye peasant, soldier, or scholar, get to the land of Cockayne and taste there all sorts of things without labor. The fences are sausages, the houses covered with cakes; capons and chickens fly around ready roasted.” Under a round table full of food, a scholar with his books and fur-lined robe, lies spread legged and sated. The peasant, flail under him, forms the second spoke of a wheel pattern. A soldier dressed in red, with a spear, forms the third spoke of the wheel. The fourth spoke is a duck, its head lying obligingly on a plate ready to be chopped off. Wheels are circles symbolic of the sun and rays of light, and they represent eternal life. The wheel of fortune, a tarot wheel, can bring either good or back luck. At the left, a soldier under a roof tiled with cakes, opens his mouth and waits for a cake to fall in. At the far right, a pig walks by, a carving knife stuck in his hide. Behind the pig is the rice pudding mountain, and a figure holding a spoon is falling from the tunnel he has just eaten his way through. “The Land of Cockaigne” depicts a land very different from the economically stressed situation of the time.
“The Blind Leading the Blind” (1568)
“The Blind Leading the Blind” (1568) (33.8”x 60.6’’) depicts a verse from the Gospel of Matthew (15:14): “Let them alone; they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.” Six blind men walk across the composition from left to right. The first blind man at the lower right has already fallen into the ditch, with the others not far behind. Ophthalmologists have been able to determine that one of the men suffers from corneal leukemia, another from atrophy of the globe, and a third has had his eyes removed. Brueghel’s ability to depict details is remarkable. The blind men clearly are dressed as members of the peasant class. Many of Brueghel’s paintings include images of the blind as well as cripples with crutches and people with deformities. Such people were not unusual in his time.
The church of St Anne, from the village of St Anne, Pede, is set in the background at the right. Whether the church is Catholic or Protestant is not certain. The Catholic church believed that good deeds and charitable acts were important for entry into heaven. However, the Protestant church believed that faith alone would serve as entrance to heaven. Thus, beggars and the infirm saw a deep decline in charitable donations.
“The Misanthrope” (1568)
“The Misanthrope” (1568) includes the proverb written on the painting. “Because the world is so untrue, I go my way so full of rue.” Defined as a person who dislikes and mistrusts other people, the elderly misanthrope in the painting tries to shut himself off from the world. In a long black cape that hides all but his long nose, long white beard, and his clenched hands, he turns his back and seems to walk out of the painting. But he cannot remove himself from the world. Unknown to the misanthrope, a young man is about to cut his purse from his person, and he is about to step on three sharp snares on the ground ahead of him. The robber is encircled by a globe with a cross on top symbolizing the universal nature of the church, which he clearly does not embrace–or he represents. They both have passed by a pastoral landscape with a shepherd guarding his black and white sheep. In other words, they pay no attention to the good shepherd who protects his flock safe from harm.
“The Peasant and the Birdnester” (1568)
Brueghel had many proverbs to choose from, as they were much in use in the Netherlands. Erasmus of Rotterdam published Adagia (1500) containing 800 collected proverbs. In his 1508 version there were over 3000 items, and his last edition in 1536 contained 4,151 entries. “The Birdnester” (1568) depicts the proverb: “He who knows where the nest is has the knowledge. He who robs the nest, has the nest.” The peasant smiles and points at the foolish peasant who is risking his life by climbing the tree to get the bird nest, unaware that he is about to walk into the river. The thief has lost his hat while he hangs precariously from the high tree. He has the nest in his hands, but can he safely get down from the tree?
Influenced by 15th Century Netherlandish paintings, Brueghel has included several flowers at the left edge of the river. The most visible and identifiable is the single purple iris. Symbolism for the iris comes from the Greek goddess of the rainbow named Iris, and the iris appears in the Old and New Testaments. The first reference is from Genesis (9:13) in which God says to Noah, “I have set my bow in the cloud,” as a covenant between man and God that he will not destroy the Earth with a flood. The three petals of the iris represent the trinity, and the iris re-emerges each spring from the cold winter earth. The presence of the iris may indicate there is still hope for these two.
“The Merry Way to the Gallows” (1568)
“The Merry Way to the Gallows” (1568) was one of Brueghel’s last paintings. In 1567, the Duke of Alva and the Spanish army arrived in the Netherlands to rid the land of all Protestants. The gallows were in full use. Executions were popular entertainment events; people of all ages attended. The gallows take center stage in the painting. It is a lopsided structure; the lower support legs almost appear to be walking. Two peasant men and a woman dance in a circle at the foot of the gallows. Behind the dancers, a man plays a bagpipe. Bagpipes were common in Netherlandish art, symbolic of rowdiness. Villagers come up the hill from the town to see the execution.
Two men at the lower left appear to look out at the vast panoramic landscape that forms more than half the painting. One gestures into the distance. In the lower left corner, a man in dark clothing squats on the ground and shits, mocking the state. All three ignore the gallows and the justice it should represent.
The painting has an alternative title: “The Magpie on the Gallows.” Magpies have a long symbolic history. In Europe the magpie was considered intelligent, but also represented deceit and opportunism. Magpies destroy farm crops and steal food from other birds’ nests. They also steal any shiny object they see. Two magpies are prominent in the painting. One sits on top of the gallows at the center of the composition. A second magpie sits at the base of the gallows on the branch of a dead tree. Magpies are associated with people who gossip, and in Brueghel’s time spiteful gossip often led to arrest and execution. The skull of a horse on the slope at the right of the gallows adds to the atmosphere of death.
To the right of the gallows and lower on the hill is a wooden cross, the one symbol of the church present in the painting. In contrast to the gallows, the rest of the landscape includes green trees, a distant winding river, and mountains that are a reminder of the Alps. In the left middle ground is the grey stone of a hilltop castle. A mill with its water wheel is tucked into the lower left corner. The green pasture by the mill contains sheep, and a miller, clothed in white, can be seen in the doorway. Life goes on.
Brueghel was critical of the political and religious strife that were destroying the Netherlands, and in earlier paintings he included subtle, and not so subtle, references to his distain. One painting in particular, “The Massacre of the Innocents in Bethlehem” was retouched to make the babies into bags of wheat. Before he died, he had his wife burn some of his paintings that were too sarcastic or critical, fearing harm would come to her if she kept them. He told her to keep “The Magpie on the Gallows” for herself.
Beverly Hall Smith was a professor of art history for 40 years. Since retiring with her husband Kurt to Chestertown in 2014, she has taught art history classes at WC-ALL. She is also an artist whose work is sometimes in exhibitions at Chestertown RiverArts and she paints sets for the Garfield Center for the Arts.
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A small act indeed; infinitesimally small. But it does provide context for my thoughts.
Fiction is now behind me. My attitude and political preference are now the same—Independent.
In the beginning my Mom prevailed. Her ancestors had been Lincoln Republicans and she passed it down. And then friends turned into colleagues who introduced me to new friends who turned out to be reform Republicans.
I ended up serving in both President Reagan’s and George HW Bush’s administrations. So, when faced with an unacceptable Republican candidate for President in both 2016 and 2020, I filled in my ballot with Republicans I admired. Several of my Republican friends chose to lecture me.
Remaining attentive to possibilities, I remained hopeful. But hope will only take me so far; reality intrudes and today’s reality is jarring. You are for Trump or you are a RINO (Republican in name only); well, if I am a Republican in name only, adios. I leave with this thought, politics by subtraction does not work unless it is toxic elements that are subtracted to broaden the appeal. Perhaps the former President in his frequent references to RINOs should define the quid pro quo.
I have joined 762,594 other Marylanders who identify as Independents. We, by law, are told to join a Party or shut up— “our primaries are closed”. Given this exclusion you would think fewer Marylanders would be Independents. But, given the state of our two political parties, I’m not surprised.
Decades after choosing my Mom’s way I look at the two Parties and know that on many of the most consequential issues neither represent me. The blinkered choice we all face is a consequence of control by what are said to be the base constituents of the Parties. The two Parties, like the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), work to control the market.
Okay, I know. Comparing the two political parties to OPEC is unbalanced. OPEC only combines to influence the prices of fossil fuel products; the two political parties control the way we govern ourselves.
Increasingly both political parties practice identitarian politics. They tend to be the sum of their interest groups. The late comedian Robin Williams captured the reality: “Politicians should wear sponsor jackets like Nascar drivers, then we know who owns them.”
Since politics is often a necessary path to public leadership, character should be a first principle. Character is most often notable as something candidates declare they have. In government, character should be closely tied to truth. Hypocrisy, for example, is not admirable. Evasion, likewise—a rote recitation of talking points does not suggest a search for truth. And to leave the abstract, a $31 trillion-dollar federal debt is proof that most politicians use the public treasury as their political check book—a decided lack of private and collective character. It will take generations to retire such a debt—this is not a happy birthday legacy.
America’s strength is in choice. We don’t choose our parents but as adulthood approaches, we begin to choose the next step and the one after that and so on. Enough choose military service that conscription is not necessary. And since Americans like competition, we get to choose between sellers who compete for our business.
Our political system should also be wide open. Our founding principle: Out of Many One. We should issue an invitation to all who want to apply their talents in our communal efforts that we call government. Let talent and attitude and persuasion separate winners and losers. In today’s political reality, financers and pollsters have more clout than voters.
Finally, back to Maryland. By my count there are 29 States with open primaries—Party affiliation not required. Within the open primary states there are differing rules—in fact in some States the top two finishers regardless of Party affiliation proceed to a run-off. My guess is that it will take a petition/referendum process to reform Maryland’s election laws as the two Parties will fight to retain their control. But, for the time being, primary election day is a day off for me.
Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books.
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We have made remarkable progress in global disease prevention.
We have developed a vaccine to eliminate COVID 19.
We have an effective “cure” for AIDS.
We have eradicated childhood diseases including measles, whooping cough, chickenpox, polio, and mumps.
But we haven’t.
Because of the last mile.
The last mile is the term health officials use to describe bringing prevention treatment to the population. And it has always been its Achilles heel. COVID-19 is a good example, we have the “magic bullet,” but it is unlikely that we will ever eliminate COVID-19.
If everyone had taken the first COVID-19 vaccines, the disease would be in our rear view mirror. But since many refused to be vaccinated and it was unavailable to the young, it is probably too late. Unvaccinated people will continue to be a breeding ground for new mutations of the virus. Vaccines will be playing catchup for the foreseeable future. For those of us who try to protect society by doing the right thing and getting our vaccinations, it is a hard pill to swallow. And in our frustration and anger, we jump to judgement. The last mile, so close.
There is a resurgence in heretofore eliminated childhood diseases. Recent research (2019) identifies the availability of nonmedical exemptions (NME) for vaccinations as the culprit. Measles (rubeola) is a highly contagious, vaccine-preventable illness. Since 2014, an illness once eliminated has been reappearing due to low vaccination rates. Mumps has found its way onto college campuses (even Loyola University in Maryland), Patient Zero has consistently been identified as an unvaccinated student. Whooping cough infected 9,000 students in California, the source—an unvaccinated student. Chickenpox has reappeared, once again, the source—unvaccinated students.
While there are some religious exemptions, most parents choose not to vaccinate their children because of misinformation or fear. Many parents who request an exemption cling to the repudiated belief that vaccines cause autism. Others feel that as long as other parents are doing it, they didn’t need to expose their own children. And finally, there are anti-vaxers who are simply misinformed.
Sitting on the school board it was hard to listen to parents’ pleas to not immunize their child, knowing that I vaccinated my child for the good of the community.
HIV/AIDS has a similar pattern, but for different reasons. In the 80’s, HIV/AIDS was the number one killer of young people, more than suicide, more than accidents, more than drug overdoses. Dedicated scientists spent billions of dollars to bring us a type of cure. Not the vaccination they had hoped for, but an innovative way to prevent the spread of the disease, using a two-pronged approach.
Decades of research revealed that the HIV/AIDS virus mutated so rapidly that a vaccine virtually impossible. So, they decided to attack HIV/AIDS using a novel methodology aimed at two populations: the infected and the uninfected, at-risk population. Much like the malaria drugs that we take when we go overseas, PReP is a medication developed by scientists to prevent those at risk from contracting the HIV/AIDS virus. Scientists also developed medications for those infected with HIV/AIDS (called TasP) that reduced the virus load to “undetectable,” so that infected people could not transmit the virus.
But then came the last mile.
Early on, public health officials recognized that many people with HIV/AIDS lived on the margins of society. Sex workers, drug users, the mentally ill, homeless, low education, the abused, and closeted or untested LBGTQ individuals were key transmitters of the disease. And how the states addressed the last mile appears to be about judgement.
In San Francisco, health workers went on the streets searching for infected and at-risk individuals to offer them tests and medication. They provided free health care and HIV/AIDS medications. Subsequently, (before COVID 19) new HIV/AIDS infections dropped substantially.
A NOVA documentary covered the rise of HIV/AIDS in southeastern states. A handful of states in the south are responsible for 50% of all new HIV/AIDS cases nationally. Ten percent of these residents have no access to healthcare, healthcare insurance, or financial assistance, despite the prohibitive cost of HIV/AIDS medicines ($2,000 per month). Some Federal assistance is available, but in those states with large Christian populations that preach “morality,” there is little aid to those who are vulnerable. I suspect that the reason for this is judgement.
People who live on the margins of society can be challenging. But these dedicated healthcare professionals are able to care for them wholly without judgement. They understand that they cannot know the issues that many face and it is unkind to judge them.
Our rush to judgement is not surprising. In my church, I was raised on judgement. I was told by my tantes (German for aunt) that Missouri Synod Lutherans were the only ones who would go to heaven. How lucky was I, I thought, that my parents chose the one church that would get me to heaven, if I was good. Score! (Although, I still feared that every thunderstorm was God returning to send me to hell for whatever transgressions a little kid might have committed.)
As an adult, I remember listening to a sermon by a priest in my Episcopal church (by joining the Episcopal church, I guess that I gave up on heaven) reminding us that the Bible makes it clear, it is God’s job to judge, not ours. “After all,” he said. “You can get some time back in your busy day if you leave the judging job to God.”
I admire those who don’t judge, those who aren’t detoured by the roadblocks in the last mile. They are our hope for eradicating diseases.
As for me, I keep trying.
Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.
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Given the months of warm weather on the Eastern Shore, entertaining outdoors is a prime activity. Many bridal showers, weddings, baby showers, reunions and other celebrations are held at private residences instead of commercial venues. Instead of caterers providing food and bar service from the party host’s residential kitchen, Owners Kate Bush and Kreigh Kirby of Traveling Spirits offer another unique opportunity for bartending service for outdoor functions.
Traveling Spirits is a full service company who customizes each outdoor cocktail area with their mobile bar, high top tables, bar height chairs or standard tables and chairs, a photo wall and yard games for children of all ages. The mobile bar began its life as a horse trailer that a builder stripped down and rebuilt. The back awning door opens up to reveal a seven foot tall greenery wall with Traveling Spirits’ logo that can also be used as a photo wall for special occasions.
The mobile bar has HVAC and is fully stocked with two beer coolers that can hold up to 300 cans and bottles, a draft system that can run 2 kegs, full range of glassware and meets all Health Department requirements such as a working sink. Clients appreciate that Traveling Spirits does not sell alcohol so clients can purchase their own wine, spirits and beer. Kate and Kreigh work closely with clients to create their shopping list, based upon their number of guests and target budget for the event.
Owners Kate Bush and Kreigh Kirby of Traveling Spirits
Kate is a graduate of SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) with a BFA in graphic design and a minor in advertising. Kreigh is a native of Kent County and is a graduate of Frostburg University with a degree in accounting. He currently works for the Kent County School System. Kate moved to Chestertown in 2019 where she met Kreigh and she currently works at The Retriever in Chestertown, whose owner, Neyah White, has been a mentor to her.
Traveling Spirits’ dynamic duo of Kate and Kreigh combines Kate’s extensive experience in the food service industry including high-end bar establishments and Kreigh’s degree in accounting. Kate has worked in the food service industry since she was 15. During her college years, she worked every position from host to manager. Throughout her nine years of working in high-end bar establishments in Charleston, Houston, Philadelphia and Savannah, she learned the art of making a well crafted cocktail and providing the highest level of customer service. For weddings, Kate and Kreigh especially enjoy crafting a “his” and “hers” signature cocktails for the newlyweds to toast each other.
All great ideas begin with an inspiration and the idea for a mobile bar began several years ago with an unused horse trailer in Kate’s backyard. Her mother envisioned other possibilities for the trailer and suggested Kate and Kreigh transform it into a mobile bar. It soon became a hit at parties for family and friends and word spread about this unique bar. Due to the growing number of requests for bar service, Kate and Kreigh founded Traveling Spirits. With demand for outdoor bridal showers, weddings, graduation celebrations, family reunions and other special events and festivals, Kate and Kreigh’s business continues to grow. It is so gratifying to know that talented young people with a great idea can become the catalyst for a new business that keeps them on the Eastern Shore-Bravo and Brava!
Kate and Kreigh are now engaged so one of their 2023 events will be their own wedding reception, with other staff serving of course!
For more information how Traveling Spirits can help you with your event planning, contact Kate and Kreigh at [email protected]
Jennifer Martella has pursued her dual careers in architecture and real estate since she moved to the Eastern Shore in 2004. Her award winning work has ranged from revitalization projects to a collaboration with the Maya Lin Studio for the Children’s Defense Fund’s corporate retreat in her home state of Tennessee.
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I know where I will be at 1 p.m. tomorrow–in front of my television. I will be tuned into what is expected to be the last investigative hearing of the House Select Committee on the January 6th Attack on the U.S. Capitol. A few days ago, Representative Zoe Lofgren (D-CA), a Committee member, hinted that Ginni Thomas, the wife of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, would testify. That has changed. Now Lofgren just promises “surprising new material.”
I wasn’t particularly interested in learning more about Ms. Thomas, an enthusiastic proponent of efforts to keep Donald Trump in the White House. I wonder what the new material might be given everything the Committee has already reported. Could it be that Roger Stone got a new tattoo or that Trump played a round of golf with three Oath Keepers and cheated? Yawn.
What do I expect tomorrow? Although I hope I’m wrong, not much. The hearing will take the format of the previous hearings. The witnesses are a minor part of a multimedia presentation structured to make what could be boring information more accessible to a larger audience. There will be videos of depositions, and presentations by one or two Committee members laying out “new revelations.”
My expectation of an anticlimactic final day of hearings doesn’t mean that the Committee has failed in any way. The Committee has documented that Trump spent considerable time planning and executing the January 6 insurrection and that the law and Constitution did not deter his plan to overturn the 2020 election in the least.
The formal findings of the Committee, which will be issued after the midterm elections, will present a compelling case to indict Trump. We already know that. We will be told, again, that:
Trump lost the November 2020 election and, unable to reconcile himself with his defeat, either knowingly lied about believing he won the election or deluded himself that he did.
Various White House counsel, his daughter and Attorney General Barr knew Trump had lost and advised him of that fact.
Before the January 6 failed insurrection attempt, Trump, and various Trump gang members, including Rudy Giuliani and Lindsey Graham, sought to interfere with the proper counting of votes, including in Georgia and Arizona.
Trump intended the rally that preceded the attack on the Capitol to be the starting point for the attack.
Trump was aware that armed militia groups were going to the Capitol in quasi-military garb.
Trump intended the assault on the Capitol to persuade legislators to reject electoral college votes to set the stage for his being declared the winner.
Trump supported the discredited legal theory that suggested that the vice president could reject electoral college votes.
Trump was angry at Vice President Pence after he declined to implement Trump’s unconstitutional scheme.
Trump did nothing to deter the Capitol riot once it started, choosing instead to watch it on TV.
What more do we need to know? More importantly, what else does the Justice Department need to know to start formal proceedings against Trump?
Regardless of what happens on Thursday, Donald Trump and the big-game hunter Donald Trump, Jr. will cry “Witch Hunt!”
To my knowledge, Don, Jr. has never bagged a witch. But, while the defeated ex-president does not deserve fairness given his assault on democracy, it must be admitted that Democrats are doing their best to use the final hearing of the January 6 election to influence the midterm elections. That revelation is like the discovery that gambling was going on in Rick’s Café in Casablanca. What did you expect? It is, however, unfortunate because the crimes that the January 6 Committee documented need to be prosecuted, and anything that gives Donald Trump ammo to attack the Committee and its findings as politically motivated is counterproductive.
One final thought: I wonder whether the January 6 Committee got to the bottom of what was said at the December 19, 2021, meeting at the White House attended by our Congressman, Andy Harris. To date, Dr. Harris has not offered a satisfactory explanation of what he was doing at the meeting. It would be a service to the First District if the Committee shared everything it has about that meeting and its attendees before election day. The information might open some eyes here on the Eastern Shore.
J.E. Dean is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and other subjects.
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A politically savvy friend here in Anne Arundel County asked me last week if Heather Mizeur had a chance to beat Rep. Andy Harris in the upcoming 1st District Congressional race. I hemmed and hawed.
About this column, I have no hesitation.
We both understood that a redistricting configuration more favorable to Mizeur, overruled by the court, would have provided a more likely road to victory for the energetic Democratic candidate against Harris, a right-wing extremist. Such an advantageously redistricted 1st would possibly have spelled the end of Harris’ ineffective career in the House of Representatives.
Mizeur, a former state delegate, is intelligent, astute, determined and competent. The district needs her common sense and listening skills. She would serve in a way that would reflect responsibly on a district that for too long has tolerated and re-elected six times a person who has accomplished little and continues to support the past president’s insane denial of the legitimacy of the 2020 presidential election.
The conventional wisdom that Harris cannot lose in the 1st District is only as true as the current election. He has accomplished little for a district yearning for respected leadership.
Mizeur would offer a large dosage of bipartisanship, a willingness to collaborate with her Republican colleagues. Her lack of doctrinaire stridency would invite conversation and compromise. Her instinctive impulse would be to support programs beneficial to the Shore and the district in contrast to Dr. No.
I ask that non-MAGA Republicans, Independents and Democrats turn out and elect a person who knows well the needs of the Eastern Shore and is poised to represent it (as well as parts of Harford, Baltimore County and Anne Arundel County) in a fashion that would re-enfranchise thousands of citizens who consider Harris a Republican nut job.
Instead of a congressperson who believes that his conservative supporters will continue to tolerate his political positions and outlandish behavior. Mizeur would serve with a heart and a brain. She would be sufficiently independent to ignore the absurd—and never carry a gun into the U.S. Capitol, nor declare a legitimate election a sham.
Opponents portray Mizeur as a progressive unsuited for the conservative 1st District. Hogwash! She is a level-headed candidate who owns a farm outside Chestertown, supports veterans’ programs and understands complicated health care matters.
As our nation confronts inflation and attacks on our democracy, the 1st needs and deserves a representative in Congress who will imbue her position with passion and persistence. She will behave honorably, studying difficult issues with a thoughtful perspective, not an extreme point of view. She would leave no constituent unrepresented. She would not commend the actions of an anti-Semitic and autocratic leader in Hungary.
My benchmark in judging Harris is former Republican Congressman Wayne Gilchrest, a Vietnam veteran, environmentalist and good person. Harris defeated Gilchrest in a primary in 2009, successfully claiming that Gilchrist was not Republican enough. Hogwash, again! First District Republicans accepted this political sorcery. Gilchrist had the audacity in the minds of many GOPers to oppose the invasion of Iraq by President George W. Bush.
Just imagine. Gilchrist was guilty of principle over party.
Though a New Jersey native, Gilchrist loves the Eastern Shore, settling in Kent County. In retirement, he ran an environmental program on the Sassafras River under the auspices of the Eastern Shore Land Conservancy.
Back to the race. I urge 1st District voters to allow Harris, an anesthesiologist, to return full-time to his medical practice. Heather Mizeur would be a reliable, sensible advocate for the Shore and the rest of the sprawling district. She would be an effective advocate for the Shore.
Incumbency can be unhealthy. Dr. Harris has inflicted sufficient pain and discomfort. Mizeur will breathe new life into the 1st Congressional District.
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. After 44 years in Easton, Howard and his wife, Liz, moved in November 2020 to Annapolis, where they live with Toby, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel who has no regal bearing, just a mellow, enticing disposition.
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We’ve been home almost a week now, and as some memories of our trip to Italy fade and old routines kick in, I feel like I’m waking from a dream. In the early morning darkness that foretells autumn, I spend a few minutes each day recalling specific moments of our journey, gathering them like chestnuts, storing them for winter.
Friends ask, “What was your favorite moment?” They might as well be asking, “Who’s your favorite child?” Still, I try to sort out the moments—the many good and the few bad—in an attempt to put together a narrative that makes sense. I can’t; it just doesn’t work that way. A wide-angle lens doesn’t provide sufficient detail; a telescopic lens leaves out perspective and nuance. I reread notes I made along the way: that helps, but eventually I’ll need to write them more coherently, and, hopefully, that effort will generate both the detail and perspective I’ll need to answer my friends’ questions.
I remember that just before leaving for Italy back in mid-September, I whispered a little prayer: “Please let us have a seamless trip.” Someone must have heard me because we did. There has been a lot of talk these past few months about the craziness and stress of travel in the post-COVID world, much of it true. But I’ll say this: all our flights left on time and arrived on schedule and none of our suitcases ended up in unintended airports. Thank you, Lufthansa. All the Italian trains ran on time, even if did happen to be at the wrong station: Rome to Venice, Venice to Florence, Florence to Naples, Naples back to Rome. Thank you, Mussolini.
The car we rented in Tuscany and Umbria served us well and was returned unscratched, although there was that moment at the toll booth on the Autostrada outside Florence. Mea culpa. All-in-all, the moving parts of our trip ran remarkably smoothly and if that’s a testament to some higher power, I’m eternally grateful.
Once we settled into the hotels along our route—Rome, Venice, Tuscany, Umbria, Florence, and Ravello on the Amalfi coast, we felt safe and comfortable. Even in October, Italy has more than its fair share of tourists, but for the most part, we saw what we wanted to see and if a line was too long, we just sat in the sun and had (another) glass of wine. There is no such thing as a bad meal in Italy—well, maybe one, but there is always a lesson to be learned from a single culinary mistake.
Rome is still eternal and the Sistine Chapel is still crowded. In St. Peter’s Basilica, my wife had a quiet conversation with a pope who presented her grandmother with a commemorative medal many years ago. We peeped through a keyhole on the Aventine Hill, gaped at Michelangelo’s Moses, threw coins in the Trevi Fountain, climbed the Spanish Steps, ate a gelato in Piazza Navona, and wandered through Trastevere.
One evening in Venice, we sat, enthralled, listening to a performance of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” in an old church. The following day, we mastered the vaporetto system, sat by a quiet canal and had (another) glass of wine, and, at dinner, made more new friends.
In Tuscany and Umbria, we wandered through hilltop towns, did just a little shopping, ate delicious meals, and marveled at the rows of slim, pointed cypress trees, as well as at the subtle pastel hues of light and shadow that painted the countryside.
In Florence, we wandered through a maze of streets, fell in love with the humble Convent of San Marco, got caught in a torrential downpour, and, yes, we bought leather.
And in Ravello, we celebrated our dear friends’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, swam in the Tyrrhenian Sea, sailed past Positano, and, no I didn’t drop my phone overboard. I almost did, but it was saved from drowning by a narrow gunnel. Talk about a higher power!
The trip home was long (20 hours, give or take), but relatively uneventful. I know it will take a few days to decompress and find my footing in this time zone, but in the end, I think maybe Dorothy was on to something: “Home…there’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.”
Last night, my wife and I stood on a bluff overlooking the Chesapeake Bay and watched the sun drop below the watery horizon. The silhouette of the Francis Scott Key Bridge and the lights of Baltimore shimmered in the chilly distance. An ocean away, Italy was fast asleep. These words came creeping into my mind: “With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.” (Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann)
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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.net.
The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.
Author Note: I dreamed of being an actress since I was five. My grandmother took me to a production of Annie Get Your Gun at the University of North Carolina-Greensboro. At some point in the play, the actors came barreling out on motorcycles, and I realized I wanted to do whatever that was. My quest for stardom took many twists and turns, some utterly ridiculous. “No Business Like Show Business” is one of those twists.
No Business Like Show Business
SOMEWHERE IN THE DEEP RECESSES OF MY MIND, something that sounds like a buzzer is going off. What is that annoying sound? Oh, my alarm clock. I must have dozed off. I’m always anxious when I have one of these ungodly early calls. I’m so afraid I’ll oversleep that I can’t sleep at all and instead spend the night tossing and turning. It doesn’t matter what I do. I took melatonin and valerian root, did deep breathing exercises, tried to meditate, and counted sheep; nothing worked.
As I come into consciousness, the words of my disheveled, irate college English Lit professor, who showed up thirty minutes late to our 9:00 a.m. final exam, float to the surface of my mind. Incensed, he glared at the class through his bloodshot eyes and snarled, “Only ditch diggers and garbage collectors are up at this time of the morning.” I roll over and, through my blurred vision, the massive, illuminated red numbers of my alarm clock flash: “2:45 a.m.! Rise and shine!” Ugh. Is this happening?
Barely conscious, I stumble out of bed because if I don’t, the second alarm clock sitting on my dresser across the room will begin buzzing as well. I always set two alarm clocks because I can’t be late. Lateness isn’t tolerated. If I’m late, not only will I lose the job, but casting will be called, and that will be the end of that relationship. Show business doesn’t comprehend forgiveness because time is money, and money is God.
Staring at my bleary eyes in the mirror, I remember growing up as a Southern girl in the ’50s. From my vantage point, the only outlets available to me for my tremendous energy and passions appeared to be a teacher (boring), nurse (I detest the sight of blood), wife and mother (no thank you), or actress. If these were my options, my choice was clear. At about the age of ten or eleven, I began dreaming of being an actress. I’d sing my heart out and dance around our living room to my parents’ records of West Side Story, Carousel, and Subways Are for Sleeping. It all seemed so glamorous. Over the years, watching movies like Stage Door, All About Eve, and A Star is Born fueled my dream. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, and Katharine Hepburn and wondered, Who are these fascinating creatures that live such exciting celluloid lives, and how do I become one? I imagined Broadway openings, with curtain calls and standing ovations. Opening night parties with everyone dressed to the nines in evening gowns and tuxedos, drinking champagne, waiting for the early-morning reviews. I dreamed of the accolades of being in a hit show. Acting was my way out of the provincial South and my alcoholic family system. But when I was dreaming of being an actress on Broadway, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Fighting through the disappointment and exhaustion, I remind myself, Today’s a new day. Anything can happen. You could be upgraded. An upgrade means you’re somehow magically selected by the director and go from being in the background to being a principal actor, sort of like winning the lotto.
Back in my bedroom, the clothes I’m wearing to set hang neatly on my closet door. I always lay out all my clothes and pack my bag the night before, so I don’t have to think. Pulling on my jeans and T-shirt, I wonder, How did I even book this job? Oh, right, yesterday afternoon, I received a call from a commercial casting office.
“Hi, Jill,” the cheery voice trilled. “We realize you auditioned for the principal part of the receptionist in this commercial, but we’re wondering if you’d be interested in doing background for us tomorrow?”
I’m not thrilled by the prospect, but SAG extra work on commercials pays exceptionally well, and I need to earn as much money as possible to make sure I qualify for my pension credit and health insurance. Plus, I’ve got bills to pay, so I graciously accepted the job. Lots of actors disapprove of background work, but I never think of myself as an extra. I’m a trained actor, and I go to set as a professional ready to do my job. I show up on time, with the right attitude, and whatever wardrobe I’ve been asked to bring. For this particular day, I was told to bring the bathing suit I auditioned in. One never knows what conditions will be like on set, so I pack two robes: one full-length ivory chenille in case holding is chilly and a short cotton kimono with a colorful, pastel Hawaiian flower print in case it’s warm.
“Be prepared,” the Girl Scout motto, rings in my head as I grab my bag and head out into the dark morning to procure a cab. This is a luxury for me. After years of lugging my wardrobe, traipsing through the pitch black to the subway hoping I’ll make it to set on time, I made a rule. At 6:00 a.m. or earlier, I treat myself to a taxi because public transportation, like most of New York City, is still asleep, and I prefer not to start my day by worrying about getting raped, murdered, or mugged in some deserted subway station. Money is tight, but I remind myself that traffic will be non-existent at 3:45 a.m.
I hail a cab and make it downtown for my 4:00 a.m. report with two minutes to spare, check in with the PA, climb into the back of the van, put on my sunglasses, and close my eyes, trying to block out any extraneous conversations or light, which is impossible. Once everyone is accounted for, the van departs. I’m a little nauseous, so I don’t ask or care where we’re going. Twenty-five minutes later, we arrive at what appears to be a deserted office building somewhere in the hinterlands of New Jersey.
After we drop our bags off in holding, we’re broken for breakfast, if you can call it that. Who can eat scrambled eggs, bacon, and oatmeal at 4:30 in the morning? After breakfast, the women are taken to wardrobe. I bring my bathing suit and chenille robe. I loan my cotton robe to another actress because a Girl Scout helps when needed. The ten or so of us head down the long beige hallway to wardrobe, where we’re handed a hanger. Attached to the hanger by a safety pin is a baggie. Inside the baggie are a nude G-string and a pair of pasties. I figure this goes on under our bathing suits for hygiene. Seems a little odd if we’re wearing our own suits, but at this hour, my mind is still in a bit of a fog, so I smile and take my hanger.
The costumer points to the baggie like a flight attendant holding an oxygen mask and explains, “This is what you’ll be wearing in the commercial.” A hush falls over the room, but she’s not saying anything else. Is that the end of the sentence? Perhaps I’m confused? Did she say this is what we’re wearing in the commercial? I glance around for confirmation, then, as if action were called, all the women start yelling and screaming.
“Are you insane? What are you talking about? We weren’t told we’d be naked!” Now everything comes into sharp focus. I rationalize, This is a mistake. A simple misunderstanding. She didn’t say or mean that. My mind’s racing, but I stand still and silent. This is my MO when trying to figure out the best escape route. The women continue their tirade.
“We were not told we’d be in G-strings and pasties! This is outrageous!”
Perhaps I’m still dreaming, and I’ll wake up at any moment. The women refuse to comply with the wardrobe instructions and storm back to holding, chattering among themselves.
Once back in our seats, the men, sensing our distress, tentatively ask, “What’s going on?”
One of the disgruntled actresses blurts out, “You’ll find out.”
The men are escorted down the hall to wardrobe like the unsuspecting, clueless dupes they are. I can’t wait to see how they react. Upon their return, they sit and bow their heads as if in prayer. Not one word. Not so much as a peep. They appear shell-shocked. After a long silence, one of the ladies asks, “Well?” Turns out they’ll be wearing nude G-strings in the commercial, too.
On the outside, I appear calm and serene, but inside, I’m railing. Are you kidding me? Is this for the porno channel? I mean, what the hell is going on here? G-string and pasties? I don’t think so. I’m not a stripper. Jesus, no wonder they kidnapped us at 4:00 a.m. and transported us to bumfuck New Jersey in an unmarked van before the birds were up!
The panicked first AD (assistant director), trying to placate the disgruntled background players, informs us, “Since there appears to be some sort of mix-up, the director will be coming in to speak with you.”
Silent as a stone, I stew and wait. The director rushes in like he’s late for an appointment, all smiles, and gushing hellos.
“Good morning! Gosh, so sorry about the misunderstanding. Let me explain,” he continues. “The name of the commercial is ‘Naked,’ and it takes place in a brokerage firm. The clients, walking into the office, discover everyone is naked,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Not to worry,” he reassures us. “I’m looking for ‘real’ people, not models.”
No shit, Einstein. Models? You’d have to pay models a shitload of money to prance around in the altogether.
He reassures us, “Nothing will be shown. I’m going to pixelate, pixelate, pixelate,” he says, chirping the word “pixelate” as he moves his fingers over his chest and genital area. “Pixelate, pixelate, pixelate all your private parts.”
No reaction from the hushed background actors, so he changes his strategy.
“I give you my word,” he solemnly continues, “the set will be 100% private.”
Oh, please, that means no one except the entire cast and crew, production, ad agency execs, assistants and interns, and any other miscellaneous folks who happen to be in the vicinity will be allowed on set.
He glances down at the floor before saying, “If this is about money, we’ll gladly pay everyone an extra $100.” Still no response from the background. Like a narcissist pretending to care, he continues, “I understand if you’re not comfortable being naked. I’m so sorry, but I just can’t believe you weren’t told what you were supposed to be doing.”
“Casting told us nothing,” a woman calls out.
“We were told to bring our bathing suits,” I loudly clarify. The director, desperate to convince us, nods and tries another tactic.
“I may upgrade people.”
Aha! When all else fails, dangle the proverbial upgrade carrot. This is the oldest trick in the book, and actors fall for it every time.
“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t you step forward one at a time and privately tell me if you’re willing to be naked?”
I’m not sure if it was the pixelate, pixelate, pixelate, the extra hundred bucks, or the “possibility of an upgrade” that persuaded the actors to be naked, but many agree to stay. I and seven other actors flatly refuse.
Those of us who decline to do the nudist thing are escorted back to wardrobe, and the women are given a nude-colored bandeau top and relegated to the back desks to sit or hide behind computers with our robes on. Once action is called, we drop our robes while everyone else is walking around in their G-strings. One actor passes out folders, another delivers mail, some make small talk, one pretends to repair the Xerox machine, while a much older woman washes the windows. I try to keep my eyes focused on my computer screen, but one of the principal actors, who looks about twelve but I’m sure is more like twenty-three, is standing right in front of my desk with his mail cart, and he’s so nervous he’s trembling. Maybe he’s just cold, but I empathize with him.
After lunch, which is at 10:30 a.m., the eight of us who rejected the “naked thing” are told by the first AD, “Thank you so much, but your services are no longer needed.” After changing back into my street clothes, I try to return my nude bandeau top, but the wardrobe mistress says, “Please keep it. You’re the only woman who didn’t scream at me.”
In the van back to the city, the actors are all abuzz with the morning’s events. Somehow, someone found out that another group of actors had been brought out here the day before, and as soon as they discovered they were supposed to be naked, they mutinied and refused to shoot anything. The entire group had to be paid for the day and driven back to the city. This forced production to shut down, regroup, and try again. Now I understand why we were abducted and driven to some undisclosed location before the sun was up, leaving us stranded with no way back to the city and no one to call because the SAG offices weren’t open yet.
I guess I ought to point out this was a union commercial with all union actors. Honestly, if you want to walk around nude for an extra $100, I don’t care, but trust me, this is bullshit and there’s no telling where this footage will end up.
The actors in the van continue their rants all the way back to the city, vowing, “I’m calling my agent.”
“I’m going to give casting a piece of my mind. How dare they!”
I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing even though I didn’t earn any overtime and wasn’t upgraded, next month’s rent is paid. I’m almost positive this job has qualified me for my SAG pension and health credit, and that’s all I care about at this point, except going home and crawling back into bed.
Showbiz, ah, the glamour. I smile as I remember that hopeful, starry-eyed girl singing her “There’s No Business Like Show Business” heart out in the living room.
♦
Jill B. Dalton is an award-winning playwright whose plays Whistle-blower and Collateral Damage were both semifinalists at the National Playwrights Conference (Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center). Her book, My Life in the Trenches of Show Business: Escape to New York – Act 1, is available on Amazon. Dalton is also an accomplished actress with performances in Saturday Night Live, Law & Order, and Wall Street. She lives in New York City. Websites: www.jilldaltonwriter.com and www.jilldalton.nyc
Delmarva Review publishes compelling new fiction, nonfiction, and poetry selected from thousands of submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding writing from the region, the nation, and beyond, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent. Support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.delmarvareview.org
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The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.
The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.
