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May 17, 2025

Talbot Spy

Nonpartisan Education-based News for Talbot County Community

Food and Garden Food and Garden Food Notes

How to be Vegan on the Eastern Shore: A Survivor’s Guide by Jason Elias

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It’s very hard to be a vegan on the Eastern Shore. In fact I have no doubt that it’s one of the hardest things to be. The Eastern Shore is built on food, the experience of food, the sharing and the preparation. There’s also a monetary footprint that is throughout the region. For example, according to 2020 USDA statistics, the poultry industry earned Maryland 6.7 billion dollars. That’s a lot of money.

For some “food is love” and nothing says love like crabs from the Chesapeake Bay or visiting the best restaurants looking for the best steak.

But what can you do when you’re vegan in a place like the Eastern Shore?

What exactly is “vegan?” According to the stringent definition, a vegan cannot have meat or seafood, basically food from animals. It sounds unfathomable and it sounded unfathomable to me too, until I became a vegan.

My entry in the “vegan business” came about during one bad day of eating and overeating. I was at Harris Teeter one afternoon, waiting for a sandwich that included pretty much everything on the menu. The young woman fixing the sandwich put six extra pieces of bacon on it and smiled like it was my lucky day. Yeah, really lucky. Besides this nadir, I had begun to get headaches from eating too much tuna, and a big fat belly from eating 4 and a half full meals a day. I had to do better.

I credit my girlfriend for helping me go vegan. It’s easier for her, however, she lives in New York. In comparison, Maryland isn’t as vegan friendly as it could be and the Eastern Shore is less so.

That said I’m here one of the statistics and really I should have been a group member decades before I did. Even as early as 11, I had intermittent trepidation with foods like sausage, eggs and scrapple let alone the junk they had for school lunches.

By my teen years I was even worse. I’d spend a portion of the year (for five consecutive years) sick to death, in excruciating pain, always brought on by a bad sandwich, a sub, as I couldn’t even keep down water. But for a while, I’d have a bland diet, and then I get back on the horse and live at McDonald’s again. Only if I knew about the choices out there.

During my “salad days” Maryland didn’t offer many alternative diets but times of changed. According to a 2021 study, there are 480 vegans for every 1 million people in Maryland. I’m sure the number isn’t just concentrated on the Eastern Shore alone. And given that places like the Amish Market routinely have pigs roasting on a spit for all to see, this area doesn’t have many vegan opportunities.

In many respects I had to cultivate a plan, read books and hunt and peck for my food because it’s rarely available on the drive thru but there are some places here where it is.

Thankfully area restaurants have started to offer some unique things on the menu. A lot of times you can omit one or two things from the menu and still have the taste and the ambience of fine dining as well as a guiltless conscience.

Local restaurants like Out Of The Fire, Eat Sprout, Pho Van and Roma Alla Pizza have vegan alternatives. Eat Sprout has a few locations in the area, other restaurants in the area include Sunflower and Greens and The Ivy. I’ve got to mention 4 Sisters and Kabob and Curry also have a lot of vegan dishes.

There aren’t many vegan choices in the fast food realm but the Impossible Burger at Burger King is very good. Taco Bell also has a few things to offer — -when the building is actually there and not on fire.

If I had a measurement to quantify the specifics of my vegan diet, it’s probably 80% vegan, 20% not. I often hope for better but for a person who had scrapple with his scrapple, it’s not too bad.

Since I’ve been vegan, my cholesterol and blood pressure have all gone down. I’m gratified that I can show my newfound love for pigs, cows, and sheep by not filling my plate full of them.

Jason Elias is a pop culture historian and a music journalist

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

A Target at Target: A Seasonal Job at the Bullseye

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Target is no place for old men. It’s true and the smiling, happy place that faintly smells like stale popcorn isn’t a place for a person like me. Don’t believe me? Target has been notorious for ageism. Oddly enough, there’s little or no information about the amount of 50-plus workers employed by Target nationwide. But that’s not all. In fact, we’ve recently heard about Target doing away with strategies that made it one of the more diverse companies in America. Oh oh.

I started working there before Target ended its DEI programs. I had no idea of any issues, so I applied there because I had to work somewhere. 

The job before this was as a caregiver. I had been caregiving off and on for nearly 20 years. My last two clients were the best and worst of it. One shift ended as I became the villain who was stealing everything from metal pooper scoopers and 15-year-old whisk brooms. The other shift ended because the client died; I had to leave him and his wife, and I grew attached to both.

I had to find a job like everyone and my next job was at Target as a seasonal hire. I interviewed with two young white kids, very young, I have GI Joes older than them. They were pleasant enough, and so was the interviewer. Her name was Hannah was slim, wore big glasses and was bald, she had been hired as a seasonal advocate a few years ago. That gave me hope.

I remember the early shifts were fun. There was perfunctory training, but it was pleasant enough. The staff and members talked to one another, they were playful. My first boss was blonde, an attractive woman, a little imposing. When I told her I didn’t want to go on the register, she said in a pitch-perfect sitcom tone, “That’s the job you were hired for, sir.” I got on the register. Later, as I worked at self-checkout as a Guest Advocate, she said, “You’re doing a good job.” In fact she told me that a few times.

Of course, she was gone within days. Apparently the very kind and helpful girls were gone within a week too. I’m not surprised, I overheard a bigger boss saying they were getting rid of the morning shift. They were on the morning shift.

I wasn’t there to make friends like it was a ‘90s dramedy. I was there to work. Target put me on the late, late shift, 7 to 12. This is where seasonal employment fools you. You work hard shifts, and you think you’d be indispensable. Not quite. In fact, after a few disappointments, my biggest wish was to not do anything stupid and just hang on.

The permanent job I wanted more than anything was being Guest Advocate in the self checkout line. I liked that a lot. When I got scheduled for my hours more often than not an older woman was in that slot. I knew her around town, she worked at the Unemployment Office. She was very pleasant and worked hard but if we had to arm wrestle for that job as the Over The Top soundtrack played through a boombox, so be it!

Nothing quite like that happened. In my last job I was often the only staff on site so I was amazed to be working with people. In my quiet times I marveled at how diverse the store was. That’s what Target was/is known for.

Although we were all essentially doing the same jobs, everyone treated me differently though. The Latino kids were mostly kind, the ones who helped me learn were mildly exasperated with my progress but all were genuinely happy to see me.

The Indian kids were equally kind as well. I remember a few of the girls treating me with respect. For a black man who is often deemed “weird,” that is a bit different.

The white kids were hit and miss. Some days they’d talk, other days not. That’s why I rarely speak to people I barely know.

Sad for me, a boss with the monotone Janeane Garofolo voice was like that. We could be the only people in the room, I’d say hello and hear crickets. Everyone deserves a hello; everyone deserves respect.

The younger black kids were ok too, they were kind, didn’t make me feel like an old man and in the way.

I got more sociological lessons for my dime, too. The most unpleasant customers were the women people call “Karens.” They earned their reputation. When I was at the cash register, there was an excess of women, from 44 to 1,000, who complained just to complain.

The majority of them were just spoiling a fight either at the beginning, middle or end of our interaction, even the good ones. I can still see a woman’s anger when I wouldn’t hold a backed-up line after she took 5 minutes to go grab a pair of denim overalls for her toddler. She got so mad.

With every confrontation, I knew in the back that if anything took me out of the job, it would be that gaggle of Karens. So many of them went to the manager probably to whine about me.

I didn’t fight all of the time I was there, and I also had a few reunions. I saw my 3rd-grade teacher in line, and we hugged. I ran into a high school friend who always makes me laugh and we finally settled a politically based estrangement. I even managed to run into one of the sons of the couple from my last caregiving shift. The son emphatically thanked me for my help with his father. I appreciated that.

Although I was doing good work, I didn’t feel safe. I was there on the days and nights leading to Christmas, the heaviest times and still had no clue whether I would be kept on. I finally got a clear answer a little bit after the holidays on an otherwise mundane day at the cash register. Near my break one of the nicer bosses walked up to my line and told me to turn off my light and go to Hannah’s office. This did not feel good, so much so I almost hurled on the spot.

I went to Hannah’s office and I sensed what the news was, she didn’t have to speak, but she had to, I was being let go. I was surprised and yet not surprised.

I went back to the register a little shaken, I was sad, that’s the word I’d use, sad. Often one rejection is tied to another. After the shift, I walked through the parking lot and I thought about being let go from a job I had nearly 35 years before at Black and Decker. I was a seasonal hire then, too, and just wanted to hang on.

For some reason my experience at Target reminded me of those lines in Peter Gabriel’s “Don’t Give Up.” 

For every job, so many men
So many men no-one needs

My last shift was like the Greatest Hits of everything I had encountered. I was the Guest Advocate at self-checkout, and it was a madhouse. All of the things I was afraid of at first I dealt with, with ease. My last chores were putting papers in the register, something that haunted my dreams. Really I should have just left but who knows when I’ll get the chance to put papers in a register again, it’s the little things.

Everyone who works at a job has a story. They are there for different reasons and have different expectations. At my age and my fear of cash registers, I didn’t expect to ever work at Target, but I liked it and I’d do it again but next time with bosses that speak, more breaks and less Karens.

Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop cultural historian. 

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

The Future Of Radio on The Mid-Shore: How one station has provided what was missing

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The Mid-Shore area has always been an underutilized option for serving the community at large. For the past 30 years, the area was typified by the following stations: WCEI, WCEM, WTDK, and WAAI. WINX serves St. Michaels and Easton and is affiliated with WCEI.

Before the choices were broadened by a rising technology, most of the stations were institutional, all but set in stone and the allegiance was unquestioned.

In the past few years this has all changed with a maverick radio station in the heart of the Mid-Shore leading the charge. It had to happen….

A changing community brings different perspectives as well as expectations. This area is one of the most prosperous in the county and our diversity is growing everyday. That said, radio stations and what they have to offer often don’t reflect that but they will have to, to survive.

During the heyday of terrestrial Mid Shore radio, AC (adult contemporary) was the big genre in the ‘80s and ‘90s in the area, and of course, that made it attractive to certain demographics. In 1990, a town like Easton (the home of WCEI) had the following numbers to work from:

White: 73.1%
African American: 17.2%
Latino 9.8%
Native American: 0.2%
Asian: 2.1%

The median age in America in 1990 was 32. That was the perfect age to local playlists to be mainly AC as songs from the 60s to the ‘90s were on the same playlist.

During their heyday, WCEI and WCEM (which rocked a bit harder) were the go-to stations. WTDK, the Duck played “the oldies” that a station like WCEI only played during the “Oldies Lunch.” WCEI in particular had more interpersonal shifts when the disc jockeys’ distinct personalities, voices  and comments were entertainment in and of themselves.

By the late ‘90s, the AC format fell out of vogue and an aging demographic seemed to turn towards country from the ‘70s to the ‘90s. AC as a radio station format has failed to retain its 25–44 demographic and said simply the world and music styles changed.

By 2000 the numbers in Easton were as follows:

68% White
15% Black
10% Hispanic
2% Asian
4% Other

According to the 2000 demographics, The Mid Shore population started to change after the heyday of AC radio. The majority of the local radio stations acted like business as usual until the conditions became untenable. In a lot of cases, the Mid-Shore community stopped tuning in and consolidation had to be an option.

Since 2018 Draper Media has been scooping up well known stations in the area including WAAI-FM, WTDK-FM and WCEM-FM. Through these ventures, Draper Media often absorbs smaller like minded stations to create a monolithic corporate voice, for better or worse.

If local stations saved from their corporate reward due to consolidation entertaining enough, some stand-alone stations have actually tweaked the local radio paradigm and have created new fans.

In recent years WHCP has done the impossible, it has survived and become an essential and trusted voice in a short amount of time.

WHCP has been in business since 2015. Station founder Mike Starling worked at NPR in Washington, DC. Among his achievements are being named VP at NPR and later CTO. Throughout his career Starling gained a lot of knowledge working at the local and national level of radio. WHCP at its best offers that and more to its listeners.

The WHCP-FM 91.7 which used to be (WHCP-LP 1o1.5) started out as a 71 watt enterprise reaching a total of 10,000 people in the Mid Shore area. In 2022 WHCP got a FCC license and got the signal boosted to 14,000 watts. In comparison, WCEI has 12,000 and WCEM has 6,000.

Even at its WHCP has also practiced a lot of the eclectic sensibilities that are inherent in the region that other stations have ignored.

WHCP has content from NPR, freer playlists, podcasts, podcast like chats and discussions about local events and people. It’s not afraid to alienate a “monolithic” and most likely imaginary group of listeners.

In an era when a DJ’s voice and musical imprint has disappeared from a shift, WHCP is the opposite of that.

WHCP has shows including Lady Spins The Blues with Dr. Donna, The Morning Groove with Shane Walker, and R&B, Neo Soul, and Smooth Jazz sets with DJ Kurt Kut.

Woman Wattage with Anne Watts is another popular show and WHCP also plays the late Bill Wright’s Roadtrippin’ programs.The political commentary of the Spy’s From and Fuller and Well-known Spy writer Laura Oliver’s How The Story Goes is another regular feature.

WHCP’s flagship office is based in Cambridge, and it also has an office in Easton, another town that is changing by the minute. In the meantime, WHCP is raising the challenge of serving all segments of the Mid-Shore population. This is the lay of the land according to the 2024 census:

Cambridge

44.2% Black
38.7% White
7.5% Latino
2.1% Asian

Easton’s changes were similar:

73.1% White
17.2% African American
9.8% Hispanic or Latino
2.1% Asian

In recent years, a lot of the aforementioned Mid-Shore radio stations have also had a presence on the internet. Its Yourz Radio is an internet station that has been in business since 2015 and offers hip-hop, R&B, boom bap, classic soul and interviews.

All of those mentioned above well-known local AC and country stations have an internet presence, but WHCP’s app, accessibility, and streaming make it truly set for the times.

The Mid-Shore’s audiences have often been neglected and undervalued. The good news is that the times are changing, and all of our voices are beginning to be heard.

Jason Elias is a pop culture historian and music journalist

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

How working at the Chesapeake Center helped me to learn more about people and myself

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The best jobs should teach you something, and hopefully, it will be a good lesson. I applied for a single job, but it turned out to enrich my life and change it.

When I worked at the Chesapeake Center I got a chance to form friendships with a segment of the community people often overlook: the developmentally disabled. And in those years I saw how our lives, perceptions and expected outcomes can form the basis of our lives, for clients and staff.

To be very honest, I got into the counseling job not by altruism but by accident. There was a vague ad in the Star Democrat, it had a few details but stated the job was in Easton. I applied to it, got the address of it, did a few tests and later I was hired.

After a few jobs, some writing assignments, down time and just plain living, I applied to work with the developmentally disabled in the area when I was in my late ‘30s. While it seems like a more action driven job and assisting younger clients in their daily activities, there’s also some older clients there.

Really I couldn’t help but be shocked at the responsibilities of this job. This wasn’t my wheelhouse. My grandfather treated me like I’d need the assistance of an entity so it was a surprise that I’d be the one helping people.

During orientation the program coordinator told the class of new recruits (I was one) that the job makes you “work on your stuff.” It’s true. Echoes of your lives and failures will play out like a movie you didn’t buy a ticket for.

My first shift was a house in the middle of town, Wynton. The houses names more often than not came from the streets they were on. From the sights and smells, it was a home in every sense. A counselor made home cooked meals, often desserts, it was a method I saw practiced in the best houses.l;

The counselor engaged in a cogent manner and spoke to the residents as adults. She really knew her business and ended up earning an accommodation for saving a client’s life, Peter Hanson.

Peter, Harold and Eugene were the residents. Peter had Down’s Syndrome, seemed innocent, he would bring pictures of his family and he would point to heaven to let everyone know where they were.

The second shift/house was a little more active, it was four males with three head injury clients. My first shift there was from 12 AM to 8A. For some reason one of the residents wanted to hear John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads” all night long, so I heard it all night long and it launched me into anxiety attacks.

The next shift there, a violent resident had a night long temper tantrum. The sight of screaming at the top of his lungs and breaking things still stays with me. The supervisor and the program assistant were useless, no doubt were amused but that’s the way it was then.

It didn’t get much better. After a shift at the house, I was having mini-strokes as I drove home. For those who haven’t done that, I don’t recommend it. I took a few days off and I was back at it. Maybe the job was trying to tell me something, but the good outweighed the bad.

If there were any clients I had an affinity with, it was the clients that society deemed “normal” before they had their accident or altering event. More often than not they are actively aware of how they were treated before and after. They could articulate that feeling too, in words, gestures or an expression. Most of them still had their past hobbies and pursuits. People may change, their brains and bodies may change but the core of who they are remains.

This is Arcadia; it might be called something else now. My first regular shift, a home away from home.

For whatever reason, the boss not only didn’t like Nina, he hated her, he hated me too. Unlike other houses, we had no van, and if we had to borrow one, it was from the house next door. The house next door was in better shape, it was newer and more work went into it.

This is the house next door. I always liked Arcadia better

This wasn’t Southfork but the dichotomy of the houses were exacerbated on a daily basis. It made me feel like the clients (mostly black) were less than and the workers there were less than too.

As a supervisor, Nina was brilliant; she always cooked dinner, and she gave me a lot of work, but good work. I respected her. I got to see the different personalities.

I was always amazed at how Geoff would have his cars and dolls, Louis would have the bare walls, and James Cerrone seemed to have an oasis, his personal effects, which included his radio to listen to the game and church services, clocks, and a porcelain figurine of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus.

My uncle passed away and I didn’t go to the funeral, I stayed at Arcadia. Nina saw I was sad and told me I could leave, I didn’t — I felt comfortable there and continued to do my shift.

I had a co-worker there, Betty and her role was to simply give meds. Her work style was best described as “relaxed.” At the beginning I scoffed at it  —  but it’s exactly how a person should work. The clients should be around a calm atmosphere.

Of course this atmosphere didn’t last. The boss wouldn’t leave Nina alone and she’s resigned. I was devastated. The clients felt especially bad and I never really saw them love a supervisor like that again.

In a short amount of time I was paired with a co-worker named Pam. Pam wasn’t like Nina. She could be short, direct but had a good sense of humor.

Everything was going well until she went away for CNA classes and was doing shifts next door. I had nothing to do with that one way or the other, I just wanted a safe and quiet working atmosphere.

After a few days of curt statements, she finally blew up at me for my work, if not my entire existence. Admittedly I wasn’t feeling my best, but the fight got very loud as the maintenance man was there eavesdropping from any accessible space.

The fight lasted for a while and in between the clients being picked up and dropped off at the house. I was a bit depressed, thinking about my uncle, how the house wasn’t the same and the heaviness of the day got to me so I went to my safe space, James’s room. I was in front of the mirror and started to tear up and James softly smiled and said, “Don’t cry.”

Although I didn’t always do smart things, I spoke up for myself and said I didn’t want to work with her. Pam’s dream shift next door lasted all of two weeks due to a small fire at another house.

All and all I had no regrets working there and I had a nice moment with the clients. I remembered I was driving another van and playing yacht rock during an outing and we all seemed so content.

Not surprisingly my time wasn’t long in the house. Another supervisor came in and wanted to work with all women. That was as good an exit ramp as any, I had to leave.

This was Davis, this house has been a number of things

The next house was Davis. I worked the most with Karen. We had birthdays close to one another, so we were on a similar wavelength. I liked the way she was with the clients, it’s what I aspired to. Harold, Eugene, Tom and Calvin were there. I always got a lot of laughs with Harold and Calvin. Tom seemed to simply enjoy my company. Later Geoff was there too.

At the same time, I was working at Davis, I ran into Mr. Cerrone at a doctor’s office. I can see him with his relaxed and crooked stride and wide smile, “Come back, come back…” he said in a hushed, confident tone….

I didn’t know how to come back. The only thing I didn’t like at Davis was the old van. The van was a 15-passenger behemoth. I didn’t like the looks of it on day one. There wasn’t much instruction but Karen told me to take “wide turns.”

A non-magic bus. This isn’t the actual bus, but it’s similar. I hate this bus too.

The good thing is that I rarely drove it, my partner did the driving while I either stayed silent, cracked jokes or commiserated. The staff gave me good natured ribbing about it, I laughed too as long as I didn’t have to drive it.

This particular house had tacit rules. Resident Tim had his own apartment next door and we were to respect his autonomy. That said we are always to respect Calvin’s dignity which is why I hated to see him being let out of the center, not in the best shape.

After a few years, Davis got a new supervisor, she wanted the day hours so I was sent to another house for a good amount of the summer. The house was Wrightson, Steve was a head injury patient, Sam was a paraplegic and Drew had bitten someone’s ear in a fight. I treated them all with respect.

The supervisor was a very nice guy. This was the time of the 2008 election and I remember him saying he felt like Obama, you know, a new guy with responsibilities. He asked me to work with him on the 2–10 shift. I didn’t answer. At the back of my mind I knew he’d be needled out of the job and he was, I was back at Davis before I knew it.I stayed at Davis for a few years. It was largely uneventful except for the times I had to send the entire 12 hours shifts alone with the residents. I was thankful when Karen helped out.

Karen left to work in another position in the company and I was left there. There wasn’t many people to work with, the shift wouldn’t be as fun or done as well without her. I was again looking for another opportunity.

The die was partially cast when I had to take time off to be with my mother in the hospital and the supervisor offered no consolation and just worried about the hours. This was a long way from being with Nina.

By this point I had been employed at the Chesapeake Center for three years. They kept their staff up to code, we took classes ranging from learning about blood borne pathogens, CPR to conflict resolutions to self-defense. Little did I know how hands on some of the shifts would be.

Despite the highs and lows, I was probably burned out shortly after I left Davis. I went to work at a house called “The Main House.” This used to be a house specifically for head injury clients. In the ‘80s I’d see clients who had “escaped” walking the roads to and from Kirkham Service Center. After quite a few years, the house was back in business as a group home.

The Main House

I was taken with the size of the Main House. A house is only as good as the people you work with and at the beginning, it was fun. The shift was reminiscent of my first regular one, with good reason, Barbara and Eleanor were there as well as James Cerrone.

Mr. Cerrone didn’t quite have the oasis he had at his other house, but this was one was comfortable as well.

The early shifts here were a lot of fun. It was a house full of camaraderie, I did the 4 to 8 shift, which means I could help with the harder tasks and still have time to look after my grandfather who had dementia.

There was a lot of work and hard work but I didn’t mind. The only downside? I went through five supervisors in a short time. And of course the most were essentially nice people. The employee retention wasn’t getting any better and it was sad to see staff leaving as the clients got attached to them.

Most of the residents that I knew were essentially the same. Eleanor and Barbara still didn’t get along. Barbara and James were still attached to the hip. Peter was there but he was different.

It was a bit surreal to see Peter, a person at one of my first houses — become so high strung and violent, but that’s what exactly happened. Turns out this isn’t uncommon to see in people with Down’s syndrome. This is how it’s explained in literature courtesy of The Arc…

As adults with Down syndrome grow older, there is an increased risk of experiencing certain common mental health disorders like depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and behavioral disturbances. A sudden or abrupt change in mood or behavior patterns warrants further investigation.

Peter had all of that. And what was worse is that I couldn’t practicate any of the lessons I learned in the classes, in the field or in life. He was just that mercurial and just that frightening.

My new supervisor wasn’t making things any easier. Beverly had been in the house a lot as relief work, she had been there for years and was in the day program. Out of all of the workers that she worked beside in the Main House, she lasted, they didn’t. To put it mildly, things had changed at the Main House, for me, some of the workers and the residents too.

Although I had been there for 4 years, I felt fully like beleaguered staff. I was made fun of and chastised in front of other workers and the residents. Just a few months earlier it was so different. Many other people who did shifts at this time went through the same thing, out of the workplace clique and nothing they ever did was right.

I saw the first once comfortable house fill up with more clients and less room. By this point I was talked into a 2–10 shift so I was there to pick up the clients and at home a little later than I wanted. I was familiar with two of the new residents. Steve and Sam. These guys had their own bachelor style house on the edge of town. I had worked with them during my break from Davis.

Sam was the more hands on client. During his first night there, the supervisor brought in four staff to give his shower. That was a waste of time, I shooed them away and did it myself. There was no need for a big production plus I had done it before and wanted to do it alone with comments or criticism.

The same schism that existed at the old house existed here, but this time it was confined to the upper and lower levels of the house. The upstairs had two young male clients in their 20s. David and Cody, both seemed able-bodied, I never actually knew why either of them were there.

They were looked after by a younger counselor, one who got the breaks and esteem I never quite got. His shift was easy, he took them around in the company car and for a variety of post-teenaged activities. A young woman helped with the shift. Since neither of the men were bed bound, there was much less work than I did, more time for play and I was steaming.In turn I was working my fingers to the bones, sometimes doing 3 to 4 showers and doing dishes, cleaning up in the kitchen and just feeling in the way. Somehow in hindsight it reminds me of those lyrics from James Taylor’s “Fading Away.”

And here I thought I was a thinking man
But I’m a shrinking man, I’m sinking man
I’m fading, fading away

I began to disappear more and more with each shift. I had become a peon and I didn’t know it. When this happens, you lose the clients on top of everything else.

To make matters worse, James Cerrone had died at the center’s day program. I wanted to go to the service but my supervisor had to have someone stay behind. Me. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. James Cerrone made a mark on my life however, I have the radio he listened to the games on, his favorite sweat jacket and a blanket.

Peter wasn’t getting any better and during an afternoon/nighttime meltdown he kicked me where I wish he hadn’t. The pain was intense and lingered for years. Oddly enough I thought Peter would be better off living alone. I was one of the ones who advocated for it. Unlike others, I wasn’t entertained by his violence and I wanted some of the older clients to spend their golden years in peace. It’s the least we could do.

I spent the time looking for the relationship I had with Mr. Cerrone. It was a fool’s errand. With a lot of the other older clients, I found a bit of racism. A frankly bizarre resident Mr. Williams was new, he’d wear cowboy attire and would walk around with a toy gun. I got used to it. I took a few days off and when I came back, the supervisor and a worker told me that Williams called me the “N word.” That led me to questions, least of which was why are they talking about me when I’m not there?

In a way I feel like this reversal of fortune was my fault. I couldn’t tell if I played into being a semi-lovable foul up. The clients inadvertently called me the perfect name for it, “Mason.” By a certain point I was burnt out to cinders, and in a way “Mason”’ stayed on years after Jason checked out.

By this point the job was really working on “my stuff.” I was always wary of that bus. It was at Davis and it somehow ended up at the Main House. Why I didn’t know. I wasn’t in the best shape the day I arrived and as it turned out, since new staff was there. I had to drive the bus. Great.

The trip to the center was fine. The only problem? Parking. After the clients were all let in, I had to find a place to park and I grazed the mirror of another car. The owner saw it, it wiped off but the damage was done  —  although I didn’t know it. Barbara was crying on the bus as someone was laying me out. I never felt so small , but that 15 passenger bus was big.

Since the mark on the passenger mirror wiped off and didn’t make the car disintegrate, I thought I was in the clear. But it seems like Beverly wouldn’t let it go. A fellow worker let me know that she kept talking about it like it was a national tragedy. I kept it in mind.

I didn’t have to retain it for too long however. I went to the house for my shift and HR was there along with my supervisor. The words were a blur but I was let go. I think they still wanted to talk but I wanted to get home.

Although I was glad to be away from the job, I didn’t quite realize that I wouldn’t see the clients anymore. I still did see a few thought out the years and often not how I wanted. I saw David a lot, he had jobs in the area. Barbara died in 2018, she knew my name but she was a little different as I went to touch her, she had always been affectionate towards me. Geoff, Eleanor and Tim all died close to one another.

When baseball players go into the Hall of Fame, they often have a choice of what jersey to wear, what team held the biggest hold on their heart. Metaphorically speaking In those terms, I’d probably go in with a Davis hat and an Arcadia uniform. The friendships I made there and the lives that touched me continue to inspire. Despite the sad times, it was time well-spent.

Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop culture historian

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Striking Out at Camden: How Three Bad Seasons Sent A Once Proud Franchise Into A Decade Long Tailspin

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Cal Ripken from the dugout on the night he stopped the streak on September 20, 1998. The Orioles lost to the Yankees 5-4.

The 1998–2000 Orioles were one of the more disappointing teams of modern times. From owner Peter Angelos’s ham-fisted and wrongheaded ownership to Mike Mussina’s inevitable exit, we saw how a team loses 14 straight seasons. How does it start? One season at a time…

The cynical among us say that the roots of the 1998 losing season were in 1997. After falling to the Cleveland Indians in the AL Championship Series, Orioles owner Peter Angelos fired Davey Johnson. For all of his vaunted intellect, Peter Angelos basically fired a perfectly capable manager who got his team to 1st place.

That was just a start. Star Orioles closer Randy Myers got 46 saves in 1997, didn’t want the O’s contract and went to Toronto, San Diego and then out of baseball.

The Orioles went in-house for a new manager, pitching coach Ray Miller. Although he was there for the Oriole Way/Cal Ripken fungo bat days, he wasn’t in any shape to practice “The Oriole Way,” especially on a team of rented and hurt veterans.

Really, Ray Miller was a so-so manager who hadn’t managed in 13 years, he wasn’t the  optimum choice, especially dealing with a George Steinbrenner manqué in owner Angelos. It didn’t take long for Miller and the Orioles to be tested.

On May 19th the Orioles and Yankees faced off in a bench clearing fight. Reliever Armando Benitez gave up a home run to Bernie Williams and then dinged the next batter, Tino Martinez (of course) in the shoulder and a brawl for the ages started. One of the biggest highlights was when Daryl Strawberry ended up in the Orioles’ bleachers.

Even the fight was telling. The Yankees had more fighters, even their brawls were coordinated and the Orioles were outmatched in fights and in baseball games. At the point of the fisticuffs, the Yankees were 28–9 in first, the Orioles were 20–23 in last place and 11 games back.

That said, the 1998 team wasn’t a bad one. Rafael Palmerio, Roberto Alomar and Cal Ripken were All-Stars and both Mike Mussina and Scott Erickson had gutsy seasons. Strong vets anchored the team including Eric Davis and Harold Baines. The problems? Well, they started off slowly but surely.

Only two pitchers Mike Mussina (13–10) and Scott Erickson (16–13) had wins in the double digits. The Orioles searched for a third starter in tired arms like Doug Drabek, Scott Kamienicki and Juan Guzman. Jimmy Key spent most of the season in pain and went 6–3 and retired from baseball.

To add insult to injury, the Yankees went 114–48 and won the World Series in 4 games. The Yankees winning percentage was a staggering .714. The Orioles winning percentage was .488.

Not surprisingly, the Orioles’ high level talent started to leave. General manager Pat Gillick left for the Seattle Mariners. Rafael Palmerio took a pay cut to play again for the Texas Rangers. Roberto Alomar left to play with his brother for the Cleveland Indians.

The Orioles vaunted farm system wasn’t going great guns either. After another promising start, the oft injured Jeffrey Hammonds was traded to the Reds. 

In other comings and goings, Mike Mussina longtime battery mate Chris Hoiles called it a career. And oddly enough the 1998 season was the year that the Iron Man Cal Ripken decided to stop his streak. It was as good a time as any. Promising farm system player Ryan Minor replaced Ripken in the lineup at 3rd base.

Since it wasn’t 1992, neither Joe Carter, Norm Charlton, Jimmy Key or Doug Drabek would be coming back to the Orioles. By this point, Angelos’ brusque management style had become so renowned that exiting GM Pat Gillick told 1999 GM Frank Wren not to take the job. He didn’t listen. What came so easy in 1996–97 became downright difficult in 1999.


1999 Outside Pitch Card, Mike Mussina, Cal Ripken Jr, and Brady Anderson

Of the returning players, the O’s still had Brady Anderson who was a durable presence even after his 1996 dream season. Cal Ripken was still there although age and injuries were catching up to him. Mike Mussina remained a dominant pitcher although on a diminishing team that couldn’t recruit A level talent.

Peter Angelos started to own the team in 1994. Despite early good luck, Angelos made rookie mistakes that hampered the organization for many years

Peter Angelos and the Orioles front office dysfunction wasn’t exactly an inviting place to go play baseball so the options became limited. Angelos did his tried and true acquisition of vets including Charles Johnson, Jeff Conine and Delino DeShields.

In an interview, Angelos talked about a player he wouldn’t have taken a chance on.

“Jeez, that guy! I’ve looked at medicals for 30 years as a lawyer, and that guy had the injuries of an infantryman!”

Who was that guy? It was Will Clark and Angelos signed him to a 2 year, $11 million dollar contract.

Angelos sidestepped the glaring pitching issue and signed human powder keg and Albert Belle for a five year $65 million dollar contract.

Belle’s stats were great. For all of the talk about his slugging (.564 batting percentage) he was great on the field too with a .976 fielding percentage. According to reports, Angelos acquired Belle so the Yankees couldn’t get him. How cynical was that? And costly, very costly.

The pitching was a bit better but not enough to compete. Mike Mussina just missed having his first 20 game season and Scott Erickson actually had more wins than losses at 15–12. Mike Timlin was all but the poster boy of this team’s deficit and was 3–9 and appeared in 69 games, mostly used in short relief. The once promising Rocky Coppinger started to find his path out of baseball going 0–1 with a 8.32 era.

The worst of the bunch had to be Heathcliff Slocumb who got paid $1 million dollars for 10 games and a 12.46 era. Slocumb didn’t make it past April. Really? In retrospect, the very idea of having a pitching staff that included Heathcliff Slocumb, Mike Timlin and Mike Fetters wasn’t going to compete let alone win.

The manager had to go and he did. In October 1999 Ray Miller’s option wasn’t picked up at the end of a very grim season. That season incurred more wrath and collateral damage from Angelos, and while Angelos and GM Frank Wren were looking for a new manager, Wren was relieved of is duties too.

In November 1999, the Orioles signed Mike Hargrove as the manager. Like the 1997 Orioles, the 1999 Indians they lost in the playoffs after coming in 1st in the AL Central and Hargrove was the fall guy. In effect, he brought all of that cheer to a fading, failing highly dysfunctional franchise.

If anyone thought Hargrove would light a winning spark in this group of vets, they were sadly mistaken. At this point the losing skid was in the team’s DNA regardless of whether Cal Ripken was there or not. Syd Thrift was in the GM role and reportedly helped Frank Wren out the door.

The Orioles didn’t make any moves, likely a combination of being tentative, being cash strapped and the organization having a bad reputation. Shortly after the All-Star break, the Orioles were 38–49, the accustomed “comfort zone” for the team hovering below .500

Something has to be done and Angelos did it during the season. Instead of filling his dugout full of vets, he let a bunch of them go. Charles Johnson, Will Clark, Mike Timlin, Mike Bordrick were all traded as there were more games to be played. Even a returning Harold Baines wasn’t immune and was sent for his third stint with the White Sox.

While it was good news to see some of those recent acquisitions go by the end of the season, another important one was on the horizon and it didn’t have to be so.

The farm system continued to be depleted as Calvin Pickering didn’t turn out to be a Y2K Gates Brown anymore than beloved Ryan Minor would become an heir to Cal Ripken Jr. Although this was all bad, worse was coming.

By 2000, Albert Belle had a degenerative hip condition and at a press conference, Peter Angelos stated the following:

“This is the end…Albert is no longer playing baseball for the Orioles.”

Belle didn’t go away with just a handshake, the O’s had to pay $13 million in for the final three seasons of the $65 million, 5 year contract with $3 million a year deferred.

Mike Mussina at the press conference with the Yankees.

In November 2000, the Orioles No. 1 pitcher and franchise player, free agent Mike Mussina, left and signed with the New York Yankees for 88 million dollars. The loss of Mike Mussina still stings to this day, most had expected Moose to end his career here. The reason he left was simple and Mussina said at the Yankees press conference…

“It just came down to who really seemed to want me on their team the most…”

Before it got to this point, owner Angelos never even considered Mussina leaving as he said, “He’s not going anywhere…”

Rafael Palmerio returned in 2004 only to be chased out of baseball due to failing a steroids test. David Segui was also back and the mercurial Sidney Ponson was still there and had a 5.30 era that year.

Mike Hargrove ended up managing the Orioles for 2 more seasons. He ended up with four seasons where the Orioles ended up in 4th place. Arguably, he had little to do with the losing seasons, the foundations started years before the Orioles turned losing into an art form.

The Orioles basically toiled in anonymous anonymity. Melvin Mora (acquired from the Bordick trade), Nick Markakis, Matt Wieters and later Chris Davis and Adam Jones represented the new guard.

The O’s had a flirtation with actual success in 2005 under new manager Lee Mazilli, the Orioles led in the East most of the season until they collapsed in a heap and headed towards another losing season.

Angelos’s machinations seemed to be mollified by the mid 2010s. His yen for limping veterans abated due to the fact that that kind of player began to retire early and wasn’t available.

The Orioles finally won again in 2012 with manager Buck Showalter. Not surprisingly, the winning season seemed to come as baseball changed and Angelos just stayed out of the way. The Angelos family sold the Orioles in January 2024 to a group led by private equity investor David Rubenstein. Peter Angelos died in March 2024. 

After over a decade of steady losing, the Orioles are a regular team again, going through the simple highs and lows of a contemporary baseball ball club. At this point, that is a gift in and of itself.

Jason Elias is music journalist and a pop culture historian. 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Spy Daybook: Change in Easton is the Only Constant

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The face of commerce has always helped to define Easton. In yearbooks, photos and newspaper clippings, Easton’s business face has often been shorthand for Easton was.

Of course, this isn’t always easy. Throughout the decades, Easton has often been complacent, smug, and too comfortable to adequately serve its ever-changing population. We’ve had missed opportunities, some great businesses and some not-so-great businesses.

Despite the fact that some of the buildings are over a hundred years old, the stores themselves aren’t the constant; change is the constant.

As a lifelong resident and innocent bystander, I’ve seen many businesses come and go and I’m geeky enough to remember most of them.

These are the places where the faces of what Easton was and, in some cases, wanted to be, past and present.

A few years ago and a long way from the halcyon days. The color scheme here is reminiscent of ‘70s somewhat. Taken from Google Images.

Talbottown

It’s hard to believe that this structure was the heart of Easton’s shopping and commerce, but it was. In fact, in a town in the grips of segregation, its mission statement and creation was meant for anything but.

Talbottown had strong mid-century architecture and was just a pleasant place to be. The concept and shopping center was the brainchild of Easton native James Rouse, who, of course, later founded and crafted Columbia and Cross Keys as multi-racial areas.

In the early ‘70s I remember going into W.T. Grant’s with my mother and grandmother and getting my picture taken. I still have the pictures. Mamma Lucia’s was there, The Book and Cart Mart, Hess Apparel, the C&P Store and Price’s Music Stores. By the mid ‘70s stores like Geradi Bros and Royston Brothers were there too.

A small JC Penney moved in a little later and a nightclub called The Stockyard was there for a bit.

By the ‘80s, Talbottown lost its luster and became a grinding wheel despite later stores like Rustic Inn and Rudy’s Pizza and Pasta. During its 30th anniversary, Talbottown still saw itself at the top of the shopping center hegemony and was looking toward renovation.

Downtown

So much merchandise it needs a map from 1980.

By the late ‘70s, the businesses started to leave. Reads, Traders, Atkinson’s, and Bata Shoes were off the street. McCrory’s remained in good shape with a full inventory and offered everything from clothes to housewares to records and tapes. Dollar General was also open opposite the Safeway.

One thing that can be said about Easton Plaza is that it’s still there. The Amish Market is a popular destination and moved into the old A&P/Superfresh building in 2007.

Easton Plaza

This area is often forgotten. It’s been around since 1965 and was anchored by A&P and Drug Fair. In the early ‘70s Drug Fair still had a food counter, a clothes section, offered albums, 8 tracks and toys and ammunition next to one another. It was a different time.

A&P turned into Super Fresh in 1987. Chesapeake Bowl turned into Easton Bowling Center and than Easton Bowl. Regardless of the name it’s longest runnning business in all of the three “original” shopping centers in Easton.

After over 40 years, Peebles closed in 2019 and became Gordmans’s for a while, and now it’s Big Lots

Tred Avon Square

Tred Avon was promising at the beginning. Early on it was anchored by Acme, this new and improved Acme replaced the one on Dover Road near the old Trailways station.

Tred Avon’s architecture was in a newer style, it was a newer property. Early places included Vernon Powell, the Athlete, Tred Avon Movies, The Eggplant, Peppermint Stick, JoAnne Fabrics and of course Price’s Music Stores. Neal’s Pizza, Peebles, Benjamin’s, Radio Shack and Fashion Bug were also there.

My highlight of visiting Tred Avon Square was meeting a clearly distracted Al Bumbry for an autograph signing. For a bit, Tred Avon Square was a prime shopping destination and supplanted Talbottown.

For better or worse, those in the town still wanted to hold off on change and in 1981 Kmart was proposed and was denied. Having Kmart would have provided a lot of jobs and the merchandise that Easton often didn’t have. It would be a full decade until there was substantial movement for chain stores on Rt 50 and beyond.

What’s Downtown In The 80’s Not Much…

By 80s, there was little action for stores in downtown. Some good news? The town abandoned its Back to the 1800’s aesthetic to let McCrory’s stay and a nice record store Apple Records was in business for a few years. Traders and Bata were both gone by the early 90s.

Greetings From Easton! I think. This is Easton in the late ‘80s via a postcard, that may or may not be my Nissan Sentra in the middle of the pic.

In a 1986 interview with the Star Democrat, then Mayor George Murphy detailed Easton’s lack of retail plans and what kind of stores he wanted and nothing else.

“That’s going to be the dominant shopping for the downtown…small specialty shops.”

For many of that generation, that helped Easton cultivate its public face. To make matters worse, while Easton was busy weighing business decisions they made the horrible decision in 1986 to let the KKK meet on the courthouse steps. What?! Yep…

The courthouse of course was opposite where the businesses were, near the old Firestone and up the road from Crackerjacks. On that day Easton’s public face was mighty grim, certainly nothing to put in the Waterfowl Festival program.

Everything’s Great, Never Better. Is McCrory’s Still There?

Although the shopping centers didn’t have the KKK walking near them, they had their share of identity problems too.

At Easton Plaza, Drug Fair was tied in red tape and left under a cloud in 1990. Rite Aid moved into half of the remaining building. Around the same era. Giant was prevented from being built in the area.

Tred Avon had Acme at its prime and Price’s Music Center and JoAnn Fabrics both remained, Price’s closed in the early ‘90s.

Talbotown still had its great architecture and The Rustic Inn was there, Hess Apparel, and the Book and Cart Mart remained and was renamed the News Center.

By 1990, Easton had a population of 9,372, an increase of 24% from 1980. On the face of it, it seems small, but in layman’s terms, the face of Easton began to change where things had to get better, whether some wanted it or not.

Wal-Mart gave Easton another large employment opportunity for the town and a large multi-racial workforce like Black and Decker and Waverly Press (Cadmus)

In 1991, Wal-Mart arrived and anchored the Shoppes in Easton. Wal-Mart was basically everything “old Easton” tried to stop, a big department store with actually needed items, a cross section of people and no tolerance for the racial shenanigans that some of the stores in Easton often had partaken in.

A little later The Shoppes at Easton were built next to Wal-Mart and originally included Giant, Chesapeake Chicken, Dollar Tree, Fashion Bug and others.

The 90s represented a high point of sorts, the businesses on Main Street were sound. The Birdcages had viable stores like Rowens, Noah’s Ark and the Courthouse Square Deli.

The Armchair Book Shop was a promising bookstore. Flavaz Clothing Accessories was in the old Apple Records building on 26 N. Washington Street. Coffee East arrived in the late ‘90s.

The Avalon Theater of course had re-opened as a showcase for national acts like Richie Havens, Judy Collins, Arlo Guthrie among others.

Wal-Mart gave Easton another large employment opportunity for the town and a large multi-racial workforce like Black and Decker and Waverly Press (Cadmus)

Talbottown had a renovation in 1996 and still had the News Center and, early in the decade, the Rustic Inn and JCPenney.

By this point 2000’s, Easton was further renowned for being one of America’s Best Small Towns. The Waterfowl Festival continued to prosper. The era was also known for the Monty Alexander Festival. And of course the Academy of the Arts. There were also some losses too. Cherry’s Outdoor Store caught on fire in 2001 and Easton lost one of our best and respected businesses.


Who knew that Rowens had outdoor dining. Scossa went into the old Rowens Stationary in 2005. By this point, downtown Easton had abandoned its colonial or bust aesthetic and started to be a Mecca for restaurants. A few years later someone would come along and take it even further.

More Changes

Waterside Village arrived in Easton in 2008. Easton had changed so much that this area barely matters, it serves its purpose with little fanfare. Included are Target, Famous Footwear, Harris Teeter and Pet Smart.

Years earlier Food Lion appeared at Easton Marketplace and the shopping center was later anchored by a small Sears, JcPenney, Rainy Day Books and Time Out Bar and Grill.

By 2010 demographics changed in a transformative way. There was no looking back, the face of Easton was changing. Easton’s demographics exploded and the old zoning guardrails disappeared and money talked and was more important than set dressing for tourists and the Waterfowl Festival.

Who Owns Most Of Easton Maryland?

It’s not hearsay to say that Easton got a bit complacent around 2016. Things were fine, if not exceptional, so-so businesses moved into the same old buildings in an exercise of futility and musical chairs.

Someone else had another idea. The eccentric billionaire, philanthropist, and president of Beowulf Energy saw Easton, Paul Prager, fell in love with Easton and saw its potential beyond wooden ducks and secondhand simply southern decor.

In short order, Prager moved businesses into long dormant buildings that were all but set design for tourists. For example, Flying Cloud Booksellers set up shop in the old Cherry’s building.

The Prager Building, one of the many buildings to bear Prager’s name and to have his imprint. This is a long way from the ‘80s when the town kept buildings vacant until they thought about with to do with them.

By 2020, Easton’s population was over 17,000. Prager has upgraded Easton in ways unimaginable thirty years ago. But as we greeted his new businesses and were grateful for the employment opportunities they gave, Hill’s Drug Store left mainstreet after nearly 100 years to center its work at its Cynwood location. Change is the only constant; the only constant is change.

Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop cultural historian

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

My Friend Lila by Jason Elias

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“Hi, this is Lila’s machine…”

Whenever I called my friend Lila Line, that’s what I heard and I loved to hear it. From 1972 to 1998, writer/photographer Lila Line lived in this area and graced our presence with wit, empathy, and charm. I was lucky to have met her. And like all circuitous meetings, the reason we met was based on the sorrow we both had in our lives.

Lila Line

I don’t remember the precise moment we met, but I know how we met. It was the summer of 1988 at the Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings held in Easton. My late uncle thought it would be great for the both of us to attend the meetings together.

This was the era when Al-Alon wasn’t enough, and adults used these classes to exorcise their old ghosts.

At the very beginning, I found Lila very interesting. She was about 5’4, with gray hair cut in a bob, tanned skin, a prominent nose, and a very kind face, especially her eyes. For some reason her speaking voice reminded me of Barbra Streisand at times with its sweet, girlish, East-Coast lilt and charm. It was at once high yet deep. When Lila spoke, in joy or seriousness, you listened — very intently.

The meetings were filled with upper-middle-class people, so I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew there. My uncle could talk the paint off the walls so he was right at home. For better or worse, my uncle didn’t like to tell the same story twice, so he left the meetings, and I stayed.

Oddly enough, I don’t remember Lila in the meetings themselves. The time was often taken by flashier speakers with their lines at times rehearsed and filled with cinematic gestures. In fact an infamous artist who left a trail of tears on both the Eastern and Western Shore was at the meetings acting like he was auditioning for Ryan’s Hope.

Regardless of the theater, Lila and I found one another quickly and hit it off immediately. It turned out she lived not more than a mile away from me in Royal Oak.

I was interested in writing and little did I know I’d have someone so close by with such an enviable career and an interesting life. And what a life it was…

Lila Levinson Line was born in Brooklyn in 1924. Lila was a well-to-do yet down-to-earth housewife with three sons when she decided to go for her dream of being a writer at 36 years old. This wasn’t always done as Lila recounted in a 1982 article from The Star Democrat.

“….I realized I was bored with television, and I needed something stimulating. I decided to go to college at the University of Maryland after my third child was born.” Lila continued…

“I knew I loved to write. There was something sitting there that needed to come out.”

That’s the way a lot of writers feel and the life that Lila personified. After all, she started writing at 14, wrote a novel during that time, and she also wrote poetry and short stories. 

Lila was an editor at the Naval Ship and Development Center. If anyone’s ever read their work, it’s difficult to decipher, and no doubt Lila makes it easier to grasp. Lila took years of writing classes at the University of Maryland and Montgomery College.

After living in Washington, DC, Lila became a freelance writer at almost 50 and started to teach at Chesapeake College. 

She won the Queen Anne Literary Press Award for her 1982 book Waterwomen in which she wrote and did photography. The prestigious award was under the aegis of Arthur Houghton. This book, in particular, got Lila write-ups in The Washington Post and The Baltimore Sun.

During the time we met, Lila had released her next book, Granddaddy Builds A Bugeye. Lila was working on books, teaching and I was handwriting the world’s worst poetry in Mead notebooks and later hunting and pecking on my typewriter.

After a while I let Lila see my work. She liked it. What I loved about Lila is that she told the truth, she went through my poems with a red marker, putting lines through extra words and commenting on lines she particularly liked. I still have few of the poems she worked on with me, her notes were as good as a byline.

In a way, Lila gave me an upfront view of what a writer was, and I liked it. It was fortuitous that I met Lila when I did. The area didn’t have a lot of opportunities for people who wanted to write and sometimes wanted to read.

The 80’s were often rough to navigate in the area. In comparison the 70’s were halcyon days. As I stumbled into young adulthood the area often wasn’t as kind as it could have been, I was followed in stores from broken down junk shops to JCPenney. Meeting Lila was a lifeline, respite and just a breath of fresh air in an often stagnant community.

Immediately Lila and our friendship was “different.” I never called her “Ms. Line” the or any variations thereof. We never talked about race, she never mentioned it and neither did I.

Since Royal Oak is a small town, especially so in those days, I got to see Lila in her element on an often daily basis, driving to and fro. She had a brown Honda Accord with a bike rack, I’d always be happy to see it on the road. She would also ride her bicycle on the roads.

Our lives seemed to intersect in more than a few instances. To add to the list of similarities, we both were in psychotherapy and we both needed it. For about two minutes, we even shared the same psychotherapist; she didn’t like him, and I saw him for years.

What I got from Lila even early on was a sense of the truth and a kindness. I invited her to my house and I remember how kind she looked and how she acted with my mother.

Although I didn’t quite grasp it then, it was really special to have someone of Lila’s stature to look at my work, tell the truth about it and most importantly not be cruel about my nascent dream. I remember Lila was giving me instructions on how to submit to magazines and papers, she told me to send the work and include a “SASE.” I didn’t know what a “SASE” was until she told me it was a self-addressed stamp envelope.

At the same time I had interactions with writers that weren’t so charmed. My psychotherapist whose cousin was a well-known poet looked at my words and wasn’t pleasant at all. Another poet whose book I carried around with me like a diary visited the Talbot County Free Library, I don’t remember a single word he said but I remember the indifference in his eyes when I asked a question. In comparison Lila was gentle with me.

In all the years we knew one another, there was never one cross word. She always took time even though her schedule was always full.

Lila took extended vacations to see fellow people from her religion, the Quaker faith. She attended the Third Haven Meeting House in Easton. It wasn’t uncommon to see her car there. The religion and the meeting place provided sustenance. 

Talbot County’s bucolic scenery also provided calm. Lila described how she felt in the aforementioned 1982 Star Democrat article that featured her…

“ Nobody told me about Easton and Oxford and Tilghman Island. I fell in love with all of it.” Lila continued…

“My sister hated it down here. She told me not to come down. I had to see what I would hate.”

There wasn’t much to hate in Talbot County. Although she was a habitue of New York and later Washington DC, she truly took to life on the Eastern Shore. Unlike some of the transplants, she didn’t lose her identity and with her keen writer’s eye she knew what made the area work and what was its backbone, the water, the water men and water women who became the subjects of her books and stories.

Lila made a home on the Eastern Shore, in Royal Oak. Her water view cottage was called, “A Place For Lila” and she told that the home was finally a place, for her.

After knowing Lila a few years, I truly grew comfortable with her. I felt very comfortable in her home. To me, it was the archetypal writers home, a bit lived-in with family photos, lots of paper, a typewriter nearby and clips not far from view.

Lila supposedly retired from teaching in 1992, but her teaching continued, and she often advertised in The Star Democrat, offering writing lessons for crafting biographies and later autobiographies. She still taught classes for Chesapeake College and Washington College Academy of Life Long Learning.

Any fans of the late 80’s and 90’s Star Democrat and or fans of Lila Line remember her appearances in the Letters To The Editor section. Lila’s comments were often terse, humorous and correct. She offered a lot of passion in her words whether it was supporting a local teacher friend who was dismissed or lamenting at how friend and renowned poet Gilbert Byron was treated in this area.

As the proverb goes, it takes a village, and it took a village to get me from point A to point B. A close group of people, including my mother, Dr. Robert Lea, and family and friends, kept me afloat through debilitating illness, false starts, and depression. In fact when I was having trouble living in the same household as my grandfather, Lila offered me a place to stay. I had to decline like her house was a sanctuary. In the best of times, mine was too.

Lila’s steady hand guided me as I stopped writing poetry and began writing other things like album reviews. In short, it didn’t matter what I did, she loved to see me active. In fact one time she said that when she was driving past my house at night she’s look to my window to see if the light was on to see if I was listening into music or writing. That was one of the sweetest things anyone has said to me.

By this point, it had been about ten years since we first met. We had a nice shorthand with our conversations. She gave me dating tips and told me nothing was wrong with me, except for the way I walked. A lot of times when I’m walking, I’ll think Lila and try not to walk like a duck.

After publishing a good amount of articles, I finally went to one of Lila’s classes. For some reason, I wasn’t all that into it. She knew it and looked at me with a bit of exasperation, but we couldn’t hide the fact that we were glad to see one another. Of all of the teachers I’ve had, I loved to see Lila in his element. All of the shyness she had disappeared as her voice became more firm and her countenance more imposing. I can still see her hovering over her students and answering questions, it’s one of the best times I’ve ever had.

Lila continued to stay busy and wrote an article about The Fields family for the Star Democrat. It followed the leads of Waterwomen by giving the subject integrity and put a face on one of Bellevue’s most known and loved families. Lila featured the family patriarch and gave a face and presence to people whose virtues had often go unsung.

By the late 90’s Lila started to have an acrimonious relationship with the person who owned her house as the rent started skyrocketing. She talked about it a few times and before I knew she was planning to move to Chestertown. Oddly enough, it was a place where I had family. I never saw them and it’s a place that was longer than a bike ride away.

To be honest, I was a bit resentful that she was leaving, although I understood. She visited me in my yard where I used to play records at an ear-splitting volume, we talked a while and said so long. She knew I loved records, so she gave me a copy of Barbra Streisand’s A Happening At Central Park that she found while she was packing her things.

Her energy and charm loomed large. The area wasn’t ever quite the same without seeing her wave from her car or telling me stories about what she saw on her bike rides. The scenery became less eventful and the language tin-eared.

Not surprisingly, Lila took to her new environment very quickly and continued writing, teaching and advising. Lila later wrote an article for the Three Haven Newsletter called  “Quakers Are Friends” it was about where she’d been and her recent travels.

“One of the functions I attended in Chestertown, which I will long remember and value, was a memorial service for 12-year-old Lucy the Goose, where the Mayor of Chestertown delivered a heart-rendering sermon in honor of Lucy she delivered beside a bridge laden with dozens of visitors, a service I shall never forget.”

That was Lila’s gift, making a reader hang on every word. As a good friend, I was happy that she did get some comfort in her new environment. To be honest, I wasn’t overcome with joy about her new life and digs. I was jealous and missed my friend. I never let on though, I sent her clips from articles and reviews I did and she always reminded encouraging.

We had exchanged letters and I always kept them and I called her on one Sunday when I was hardly working at the Chesapeake Center. It was great to hear her voice again. Out of all things she said, I was struck when she said I sounded mature. It was something I had been putting off for years, to hear it from Lila was great. I wasn’t writing poetry or much of anything, but I was existing which is something she helped me with.

Lila was always in my thoughts, I had talked about her to a friend and for longer than I care to admit, I put off searching for her online. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of the fact that I hadn’t heard from her in so long and I didn’t want to see bad news. I decided to look her up and saw her obituary. I wasn’t surprised. It was like I already knew. I didn’t take her death well then and I don’t now. It still breaks my heart that someone with such wonder, distinct energy and life is no longer here. But then again, maybe she is.

Writers like actors and such seem to have an immortality. Within the click of a channel or visiting a website, the artist’s work is alive. That kind of omnipresence and longevity is what a lot of writers strive for.

Lila’s work still is being referenced in present day articles, YouTube videos and on display at the Maritime Museum. Lila’s life still impacts the ones who knew her, the students she touched and the friends she made. When I talked with a friend, local and renown writer Helen Chappell she said simply, 

“Lila was totally original, there never was and never will be another one like her.” 

To know Lila was to love her and I was lucky to meet someone so caring to me and so unique to this world.

 Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop culture historian.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Reflections from the Front Lines of Compassion: Navigating Homelessness and Hope in Easton

by

When I was driving around the streets of Easton, I saw three clearly homeless men sitting around the park. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Certainly homelessness happened for a few of us, but Easton is a prosperous town but the gulf between the have and have nots has seemed to broaden in these changing times. As a former worker in a shelter, my heart barely could take it. We have to do better.

My work in a shelter started in earnest, very unexpectedly. I saw there was a job available when I was at the unemployment center. I decided to call the number, and a family friend was part of the Neighborhood Service Center. I later got an interview, was asked about how I would approach working in a shelter and working with residents and then began training. I immediately liked the job.

Although I was hired by The Neighborhood Service Center, most of my work would be directly at the shelter. Lucky for me, my old friend Joanna was already employed there and she showed me the ropes. My main hours were on the weekends, and I’d be put on the schedule whenever there was a need.

During the early days, I’d work Saturday 8 am to Monday 8 am. I had never really given the homeless community a lot of thought but they were there.

The first set of residents I worked with were an interesting lot, very disparate characters with the added complication of having two former friends inside the house at the same time. Like most of the sets of residents, I found someone who was a great help. 

In short, Louise was one of the sweetest people I ever encountered on the job. She helped me to maneuver within the house and she was always very helpful. During this time, the residents had to go through job searches to prove they are serious about getting employment, housing and moving forward. Despite her gifts, she had multiple job search papers, limited call backs and she was at the shelter for a year.

Louise finally got permanent housing and although I was sad to see her leave, I was also happy, she remained a great example and an example other residents were capable of following.

Near the beginning of my shift at the shelter, I made rookie mistakes, getting too close, sharing too much. I remember one couple in particular had concocted a story about working at night together repossessing vehicles after midnight. Looking back it made no sense and yet people bought it.

That’s the thing about learning a lesson working in a shelter, you’ll learn it multiple times.

My first supervisor was often gone more than she was there and so the hours were juggled and I worked more than I ever planned. I noticed that the time she was there, the respective residents were at loose ends and couldn’t quite get comfortable. Chaos is contagious.

At this point I often sat with groups of residents and just listened. Although doing chores specifically on the weekends was a big part of the responsibility for the residents, I never saw the gateway from cleaning the bathroom to permanent housing. I’d rather do all of the work myself. And doing that, I could also be in close proximity to the clients belongings to see if everything was “OK.”

Surprisingly, my job was going to consist of more than cleaning and cooking roasts in the crock pot on Sundays. I’d have to learn more hard lessons while meeting a myriad of people at the shelter.

By this point I encountered a “shelter hopper,” someone who goes from shelter to shelter without much interest in implementing the plans and strategies that lead to permanent housing.

Francis was a seemingly good natured man but another resident called him “an emotional vampire.” Francis would talk about his tales of woe, family and relationship related. He seemed to be making some progress but he left abruptly to leave for Chicago. Within three weeks he was back. He came back and asked to be allowed back in the shelter, but it was full — and a resident would have to wait a year before reentry.

After our tense conversation, I was in the office and saw Francis on the video camera trying to break the door down. I had to call the police and he was escorted off the premises. This was one of the first calls I made to law enforcement, but sadly not the last. This is how the numbers are according to the 2022 Annual Homelessness Assessment Report:

21 percent of individuals experiencing homelessness reported having a serious mental illness, and 16 percent reported having a substance use disorder

The fortunes changed when the shelter was changed to a low-barrier shelter. In layman’s terms, “low-barrier” means that the shelter can’t deny anyone entry and drug tests and case search checks were a thing of the past. To be honest, I thought this wasn’t a great idea and probably exacerbated ongoing issues. The good thing was that the shelter workers still had the power to remove people with specifically bad behavior especially when they were a danger to the residents or staff.

David was one resident who had a difficult time with drug abuse and the law. I always got along with him though he could be a bit aloof. A resident and I used to get a kick out of the fact that David looked like Tom Cruise when he wore his Ray-Bans.

I remember one afternoon when Joanna and I were talking with David and saw him speaking in an agitated manner about his daughter and talking about not making the mistakes his brother made. A little later on another shift he was removed from the after it was found that he had drugs on the premises.

I also saw how mental issues could impede a resident’s progress and their path to employment and permanent housing. I certainly saw that with Evelyn. Evelyn was a well spoken, well traveled woman with ties to the community. When I first saw her, I was amazed she was at the shelter, but there she was. She had an immediate way of talking and a very soft voice. Evelyn also seemed to have difficulties with the residents, the staff and mild cognitive issues but I got along with her. I saw her subsequently and she was doing well. That’s what I always loved about the shelter, the people, the unique lives and the great stories.

By 2018, the shelter went through a few supervisors. After a few years I learned to conduct myself a little bit better. The examples of supervisors left a large impression, I saw the things I didn’t want to do. I had grown into a certain comfort in the job, I wasn’t the supervisor and it was easy to navigate between the residents.

The Point In Time numbers went up a bit with the Mid Shore recording 642 homeless residents. I did see a lot more faces, more turnover but the exits were mostly calm yet still sad and often avoidable.

Like many agencies, Ridgeway had to contend with its own issues often due in part to its perception in the neighborhood, benign neglect and simple red tape.

It’s difficult for many to understand but the shelter could be a great place to work. I grew accustomed to the seasonal changes, expected to work extra hours in the summer and winter due to the respective high and low temperatures. I especially enjoyed working in the spring at the shelter. Even though it was a homeless shelter with a great number of sad things going on, spring suggests a renewal, new beginnings, fresh air.

I liked to clean during this time, sweeping the porch, de-weatherizing the windows, greeting visitors and churches with lunches, and changing the front door glass to a screen. The porch was a great place to get to learn about people and spend time talking with them.

I remember having philosophical conversations on the porch with Grant, he was a veteran who got caught up dealing drugs and when he was released from prison, the steps of the shelter were his first stop.

I grew attached to a lot of the residents and that makes it hard when they leave. I always hope for a good outcome. Sadly I’ve learned that a lot of struggles led to homelessness and it took a toll on their minds and bodies in ways I didn’t anticipate. The following is from The Mortality of the US Homeless Population  by Bruce D. Meyer, Angela Wyse and Illana Logani (University of Chicago): 

Non-elderly people who have experienced homelessness face 3.5 times higher mortality risk than people who are housed, accounting for differences in demographic characteristics and geography.

The one thing that amazed me was the deaths of a few clients I had worked with. At the time, the majority of them were in their 40’s and 50’s and seemed to me to be at least taking care of their health with doctor’s visits.

I often will see the local obituaries and see their pics and facts in there and would be stunned. In death and in life, I see them at their best, laughing in the old shelter’s kitchen, coming into the office for a private chat or on the porch animated in conversation.

David passed away in 2020 and I saw his video services online. Grant died in 2021 and eventually lived close to his wife again. Francis died in January 2024. A few more have died as well and I mourn them all.

After a few years it dawned on me that it was thought of as “less than” as opposed to the other one in the neighborhood. Talbot Interfaith got more plans, better structure, accolades and gifts and Ridgeway just “existed.” The locale didn’t help. The shelter was located in a not-so-great part of town with a not-so-great view of a graveyard that some residents would travel to for any number of reasons.

My friend and fellow worker Joanna was always afraid that that shelter would close, she had been there so many more years than me, I thought that Ridgeway was a local institution and therefore would always be open…

The Neighborhood Service Center started acquired a rental property and it was called Webb’s Hope. Webb’s Hope opened in 2019. This was to offer rooms for low-income residents in the area. I thought, perhaps selfishly, that Webb’s Hope would take away the kind of residents that provide a good example for the other residents.

This one particular spring had a surprise in store that I didn’t see coming. My supervisor at the time Amanda wanted to work less hours. I suggested that I could work my normal  Saturday and Sunday 8 A-8 P plus Monday and Tuesday 4 -12.

The office decided to go in a different direction. I became the supervisor before I knew it. Turns out the hours were good and I had great fellow shelter workers to rely on.

As shelter manager I could access the HMIS which is the Homeless Management Information System. The database had complete histories of the shelter residents’ experiences in shelters, their times there and their exit stories good and bad.

During these days, I worked with Mrs. Thomas, she was in charge of sheltered oversight. Although she was younger, I never called her by her first name with the fellow shelter staff, she was my boss. Mrs. Thomas’s boss was the head director, Ms Neal. Going through Mrs. Thomas as a liaison between the shelter and the main office could work to the shelter’s advantage as well as mitigating the stress that buckled prior shelter managers.

I wasn’t quite off the hook and there was some things I still had to do. Being a shelter manager meant that I’d have to attend the Mid Shore Roundtable on Homelessness. This is a monthly meeting of the Mid Shore Behavioral Health. I was a bundle of nerves throughout the meetings and totally felt out of the place. If anything, my years at the shelter had made me have even more rough edges. But if the shelter had an especially good month, I was proud to share.

Everything was off to a promising start. I was happy when I saw repairs being done to the house, new floors, more new appliances, the paint job but part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that it was done for the next tenant. Actually, I did get the sense that Ridgeway could be done with altogether and it could be a sanctioned home for a family.

Of course the low level chaos didn’t dissuade me of the notion. The kind of residents that entered seemed to change year by year. We lost most of our clients on Friday night Saturday mornings because they stayed out too late, got drunk or high or sometimes just never came back. During this time more calls had to be made to the police, so much so that I wouldn’t have minded having a substation nearby.

The end of 2019 found the shelter during a period of relative calm.  Christmas 2019 at the shelter probably had the last cohesive and calm set of residents at Ridgeway. Two of the residents gave me a birthday cake and the times were good. However 2020 found two prevalent issues taking over the shelter and the community itself.

The house was quiet but of course true peace was difficult to come by. Like everywhere else, the shelter was impacted by COVID. The decision was made to keep the shelter open with a decreased number of residents. The shelter also closed for a while to deal with the virus and then stayed open 24 hours to prevent the residents from catching the disease and bringing it to the shelter. All of this impacts shelter protocol, admittance and the work itself. Andrew Hall mentioned this in his article Impacts of COVID-19 Relief on Sheltered Homelessness.

“Social distancing protocols instigated transitions to non-congregate shelter models, and some shelters closed or restricted capacity to prevent the spread of the virus. Some people experiencing homelessness may have been hesitant to seek shelter services for health reasons. Tremendous strain on frontline staff throughout the pandemic also worsened homeless service systems’ ability to serve people experiencing homelessness.”

At the beginning of the outbreak, the shelter had 3 residents and then it was down to 2 with the residents taking both the entire rooms segregated to males and females. I thought it was a great idea to allow less people in but then I realized that the shelter’s very existence was contingent on the number of people who were served during the year.

Through this period there was good and bad. A resident named Tom came into the shelter very unkempt and down on his luck. During the intake process, I thought he might last a night at the shelter. It turns out that Tom became a favorite resident for the workers. Tom was a textbook example of Ridgeway truly helping people and gave us an example to strive for.

At the same time however, we lost Joanna as a shelter worker and steadying presence. I felt very bad about it, I missed her advice and watching her interact with the residents. For the most part the shelter didn’t quite work as a place for just one or two people, but we had to proceed.

Within a few years, Ridgeway seemed to lose its agency and given our good reputation, we had a lot of people wanting to get in. The problem was when potential residents came from multiple agencies and Ridgeway often had little or no say even when our workers and residents were in danger and or felt uneasy.

The Christmas was dire. The house usually could muster some cheer but there was little. I had remembered past years of happiness or at least a reasonable facsimile of it. At this point it was much less of everything and I felt a constant state of unease.

By early 2021, the writing was on the wall. The shelter had a particular difficult time and I didn’t know if it could survive. I had a meeting at the shelter with Mrs. Thomas and Ms. Neal and they told me the shelter was set to close.

I remember when I heard the words, I expelled a bit of breath, like I was going to say something. And to be honest, I choked back a few tears. Certainly losing a livelihood in a matter of seconds can be daunting and losing a job can be debilitating. What I felt at that moment was the loss of the possibilities, more good outcomes, great days like they used to be. Ms. Neal mentioned a safety concern and all of the police calls flashed through my mind. I understood…

It’s been a few years and I’m surprised at the things I miss about Ridgeway. I miss working with Hugh, Olivia and Syrinthia. I certainly miss working with Joanna. I miss seeing Mr. Donald Brown at the front door with a smile on his face and a lot of food. I also miss making breakfast for the residents. There’s quite a few places that help the homeless in the area and I hope they feel as lucky, rewarded and inspired as I was.

Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop culture historian living in Easton

 

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.