Music has always been an indispensable backdrop to my life. According to Corinthians, music is intentional, designed by God to move both spirit and mind

Glen Campbell’s, The Wichita Lineman album and a record player were treasured gifts from Santa when I was nine. It was my first foray into choosing my own music. Listening to Wichita Lineman can still stimulate memories that wrap themselves around me. Every penny of my allowance went to the local music store buying 45’s. My taste in music included, These Boots are Made for Walking by Nancy Sinatra, The Ballad of the Green Berets by Barry Sadler, Daydream by The Lovin’ Spoonful, Winchester Cathedral by The New Vaudeville Band, I Am a Rock and Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel, and Charlie on the M.T.A. by the Kingston Trio.

The Monkees television show became my pre-teen obsession. I forced my poor family to sit through the group’s insipid antics every week. The series centered on the adventures of four members of a struggling rock band from Los Angeles. Micky, (my favorite), Davy, Michael, and Peter would have surreal encounters while searching for their big break. Each episode would include at least one musical “romp” that might have nothing to do with the storyline. My family was very patient and indulged my devotion. My aunt and uncle bought tickets for us, my younger brother and me, to The Monkees concert at The Boston Garden. I wore my new mini dress with epaulets and the matching shoulder bag. The four of us sat very politely listening to the music.

In my ninth-grade year, I was a huge fan of Gordon Lightfoot. I still know every word to most of his songs. His ballads resonated with the angst that I felt at that point in my life. If You Could Read, My Mind can still evoke memories of my fourteen-year-old self, trying to find my path in the world. I was lucky enough to attend his concert at The University of Wyoming Field House – where rodeos and basketball events were held. Gordon sounded great live and enlightened the audience with explanations of his songs.

In high school, my favorite albums were John Denver, James Taylor, Carole King, Paul McCartney, Three Dog Night, Jethro Tull, The Bee Gees, Elton John and Neil Diamond. I inherited my parent’s RCA stereo console, the sound was first rate. My Dad’s new Pontiac Le Mans convertible came with an 8 Track tape player. His taste in car music was Neil Diamond and Tom Jones, my Mom loved The Carpenter’s.

In college, I added Willy Nelson, Linda Ronstadt, Journey, Michael Jackson, The Police, and anything Disco. Cassettes were my method of listening to music, mainly in my car. I was able to record my favorite songs on one tape to play over and over again.

In the early 1980’s, Lionel Ritchie, Kenny Rogers’s, Dolly Parton, Genesis, Tina Turner, and Cindy Lauper were included in my music rotation. I would crank up the volume in the stereo while cleaning my house. My Walkman was the most important accessory during my running career, the music prompted me to keep going despite wanting to give up.

In 1985, music videos on MTV and VH1 were all the rage. On Saturday I’d tune in to the weekly Top 20 Video Countdown. The Highwaymen with Kris Kristoffersen, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings was one of my favorites.

By the 1990’s, we graduated to CD players in our home and car. Our five disc CD player was replaced with a 100 CD “Jukebox” that would shuffle the CD’s. My children began to have opinions about music and would make requests for specific driving songs: Nirvana, R.E.M., U2, The Grateful Dead, Sarah McLachlan, Pearl Jam, Jewel, Fiona Apple, Prince, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Macy Gray, Hootie and the Blowfish, The Wallflowers, Don Henley, and The Spice Girls. My husband introduced us to UB40, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Ziggy Marley, Talking Heads, Squeeze, AC/DC, Annie Lennox, Elvis Costello, and Soundgarden.

With my husband’s purchase of our first iPod in 2005, I began a daily routine of loading CD’s into our iMac, then importing the songs to the iPod. In a few short months, these mornings changed our listening life from CD’s and LP’s to completely digital. Binders full of hundreds of CD’s were reduced to a tiny handheld music library. We moved the stereo out of its place of honor and were grateful for the many free corners in our house that once housed large speakers.

We still have the iMac that is the keeper of all of our precious music, our history. Our original iPod sits on a breadbox sized speaker in our kitchen, a tribute to the days when Apple made quality products. We tap the Genres menu several times a day to play a group of songs from the massive queue that I loaded so many years ago.

In September of 2022, Apple declared its most popular gadget obsolete: goodbye iPod.

I have Pandora on my phone, but most mornings, driving to work, I listen to the local radio station. A random song can trigger powerful memories, taking me back to who and where I was when that particular song was so important in my life. I see my life in terms of music: joining my Dad at the Symphony, the Broadway plays with my family, the kitchen dance parties, the rock concerts, and the family dinners.

According to the Washington Post, music can take you back in time and act like a jolt of electricity that can fire up your brain and get it going. Music is suitable for your memory. In nursing homes, they started using musical therapy to let the elderly remember things of their past that they couldn’t remember without listening to music.

Utah State University Extension shares that close relationships between grand children and their grandparents are mutually beneficial when it comes to the health and wellbeing of both. Children who grow up with greater emotional closeness to their grandparents are less likely to be depressed as adults. For grandparents, a close relationship with their grand children can boost brain function, protect against depression and increase their lifespan.

Week two of grandparent camp was an exhausting success. I knew that I needed to have a plan and rhythm for each day to avoid summer boredom. Upon arrival, the children help me make smoothies, then we do yoga and spend a few minutes on the vibration plate to aid in our lymphatic drainage. Everyone loves the vibration plate, singing and talking sounds silly when we’re being shaken.

We started the week with a visit to the Dorchester County public pool, it was the perfect antidote on a hot, muggy afternoon. It was very crowded but the pristine pool is huge and beautiful. My three youngest grandchildren have different swimming abilities so the zero degree entry with its fountains and the shallow end accommodated everyone. The water temperature was perfect. The price is very affordable, $2 for children and $3 for adults.
There is a playground area, a snack bar and picnic tables under a pavilion.

On Tuesday, we visited the Dorchester County Library to sign up for the summer reading program. This year’s theme is Adventure begins at Your Library. The librarian was so kind and excited to enroll my granddaughters age seven and five. After completing a scavenger hunt throughout the library, a treasure chest was brought out and the girls were able to choose a small prize. This year’s reading log is a bingo board with different activities. Fifteen minutes of reading is one of the squares on the board. Do something crafty is another space on the board that we were able to check off with a fairy garden stepping stone craft given to the children from the library. The girls were able to choose their own book to keep as a gift for joining the reading program.

Our excursion on Friday was a trip to Emily’s for fresh corn for lunch. We added cherries, zucchini, chocolate milk, heirloom tomatoes, and a big basil plant to our shopping cart. Emily herself checked us out and was so sweet. We got a photo on the huge, yellow Adirondack chair and pet the goats. A very large turkey came over to us gobbling for attention.

We finished our chapter book, Heartwood Hotel, about a mouse named Mona. Mona and the rest of her woodland friends have many magical adventures. The consensus was two thumbs up, we’ve ordered another book in the series about Mona for next week.

We painted a Secret garden using watercolors to celebrate summer solstice and picked some flowers for our lunch table. We baked bread for lunch and added cinnamon sugar, pretending that the bread was a fairy cake. The Mermaid ice cream cones were a huge hit for dessert. We watched the new Kung Fu Panda and we played “slap Jack” during quiet time.

Next week will be spent quietly in Easton as my seven-year-old granddaughter is having a tonsillectomy. I think we’ll re-visit the Madeline books for girl power and bravery. We’ll definitely paint, adding some oil pastels to our artwork. Sewing the mouse, Mona from The Heartwood Hotel is another peaceful activity for a convalescing child. Luckily, ice cream will be available all day.

“Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.” – Alexis Haley

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Most K-12 schools are now in session for 180 days a year. Schools in Colonial times were a year round event, even as late as 1841, schools in Boston and Philadelphia were having classes 240-250 days a year. While the length of the school year is relatively consistent across the states today, there were wide variations in the early 19th century. At that time, schools in cities were typically open year round while schools in rural areas had two terms, one in winter and another in summer. Schools in rural districts had far fewer days of class than those in the cities. Children took time off in the fall for harvesting and in the spring for planting.

There was a time when summer meant the freedom of running loose. School was dismissed for the summer on the Friday before Memorial Day, my friends and I would almost run home carrying a brown grocery bag full of notebooks, broken crayons, and pencils. In the late 1960’s, long before specialized camps, hyper-scheduling, and the internet, kids like me managed to have lots of fun.

The distinctive smell of Coppertone or Sea and Ski suntan lotion being lathered on by my Mom at the beach is a summer vacation memory. Sand would stick to the thick and oily lotion that wasn’t effectively rubbed into the skin. Most children in the 1960’s and ‘70’s remember the cooling effect of Solarcaine being applied to sunburned shoulders and noses that resisted the suntan lotion. I am lucky to have many wonderful summer vacation memories with my family through the years but my favorite are the lazy days spent with friends.

These days is takes a lot of planning to get a child to a play date, but in the ‘60’s you just shouted goodbye after breakfast to your Mom as you went out the door and hopped on your bike, no helmet or shoes required. Our bikes were equipped with baskets for towels, sneakers, and tennis rackets. Playing cards were attached with clothespins to the spokes for a cool motorcycle sound.

There were water fountains at the park or hoses if you got thirsty, no water bottles. My parents had a charge account at Fred’s, a local grocery, and we had permission to get a snack there. Our favorites were Red Vines, candy cigarettes, bubblegum cigars, Sugar Babies, or a Big Hunk bar. The sugar rush from the candy sustained us during our morning excursions. We’d stop at one of the wading pools on our way to the tennis court, walking in the water to cool off. After tennis, we would check the creek for Water striders, fascinating insects that appear to “walk” on water. When it got really hot and we were hungry, we’d head home for lunch.

Afternoon reading for an hour was a Mom rule that I loved. Mom would take us to the local bookstore or the library once a week to select a book, two of my favorites were Harriet the Spy and Eight Cousins.

After our “rest period,” we’d ride our bikes to the pool (over three miles from our house), the lifeguards were our babysitters. Having taken swimming lessons at the local YMCA, we were able to pass the test for swimming in the “deep end.” We would spend most of the afternoon in the pool, diving, having underwater tea parties, perfecting our handstands, and playing Marco Polo. My older brother and his friends were always getting kicked out of the pool for doing cannonballs off of the high dive. Mom gave me money that went in my green squeeze coin purse for the soda machine (7UP or Orange Crush were my drink of choice) and to play Putt Putt golf.

Dinner was at 6:30, our parents who never really knew where we were all day, would listen to us tell of the day’s exploits. It was back outside after dinner to explore our favorite sledding hill, Deadhorse Hill in search of Horned Lizards, we called them, “horney toads.” The lizards, with their camouflaged bodies, were fond of hiding in the sagebrush or the yucca that grew wild on the hill. The “toads” would sit quietly in our hands for a second then jump and run. The soft dirt from running up and sliding down the hill would turn our bare feet a reddish brown.

Now and then, after dinner, our neighbor would drive us to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone. We would pile into his Volkswagen Beetle, standing on the back seat like sardines, so that we could hang out of the sunroof.

We’d play hide and seek with the neighborhood kids until it got so dark that the fireflies would be flying about, our mothers yelling for us to come in.

Some nights our daily bath was considered the hours spent in the chlorine at the pool, my blonde hair developing a shiny green tinge in summer. Our calloused feet were washed by spraying the garden hose on each other. Calamine was applied to random mosquito bites. After putting on our summer pajamas and brushing our teeth, Mom or Dad would read Swiss Family Robinson or Gulliver’s travels to us in our beds. We’d fall asleep with the anticipation of another perfect day of play ahead of us.

“I live for summer.” – Sandra Boynton

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I may have finally found what I want to be when I grow up.

A clear passion for a profession was not in my purview, ever. Most of my high school friends knew what they were going to study at college, but I didn’t have a clue. Teaching wasn’t one of the career paths suggested by my college advisor, but social work was so I began years of psychology classes. I might have enjoyed social work as a job but I could not wrap my brain around statistics at all, so I graduated with a Liberal Arts degree. My electives were heavy with English classes so my major was English and my minor was Psychology.

A Liberal Arts degree includes the study of history, English, sociology, philosophy, psychology, and creative arts according to the University of Wyoming course catalog. “Studying liberal arts can equip you with a myriad of colors to paint with to create a vibrant career picture,” said Torian Parker, an instructional college advisor.

I took Ballet and piano every year but I wasn’t remarkable at either. I loved my scuba diving class but I didn’t have a goal of swimming in the coral reefs or working with Jacques Cousteau in my future. The best part of my platform diving class (for non sports majors) was practicing the flips on the trampoline, obviously, the Olympics weren’t the plan, I just wanted to learn something new. I waited for something to point me in the direction of my life’s path.

College ruined Shakespeare for me by analyzing every sonnet with its quatrains, couplet and iambic pentameter, obviously, a job as a college English professor was out. I wanted to take a pottery class but it wasn’t offered to a non Fine Arts major so I took a stenography class. I was fascinated with the foreign language of the shorthand symbols, they began to appear in my dreams at night so the next semester I signed up for an office machines class. For my typing final, my words per minute score was an acceptable 55, enough to secure a summer job as an executive secretary at a local real estate office. I was a successful secretary, good at filing, making coffee, typing, and answering the phone. I was offered the job full time in the fall but I declined, my boss was a little too “touchy-feely” to choose that career.

One summer was spent working the switchboard and front desk at a local hotel. I quickly discovered the monotony of that work, every shift was similar to the one before. My nightly dreams were peppered with stacks of invoices displaying the daily room rate of $35.95 stamped by the huge cash register. I did enjoy the credit card swiper and the guests. I read novels at every break sitting in the hotel coffee shop eating fried egg sandwiches and french fries, I had been starved reading only college textbooks all year.

It wasn’t until my first pregnancy at age nineteen, that I discovered what I could give 100% to. I read every book on pregnancy and childbirth in the university library. Childbirth and breastfeeding were tough the first time around but I became a pro at both by the time my fourth baby was born. I researched and bought the best children’s read-aloud books for every age. Goodnight Moon became a favorite. At age twenty-nine I had four beautiful children, two boys and two girls. All were extremely successful in school, sports, and with friends. My entire day was focused on them, I was a room mother and volunteer at their school. I would grocery shop with their favorite meals in mind, the same food that my parents would cook during my childhood. My favorite time of the day was bedtime, alone reading to each child, snuggling in their bed, reviewing their day. Being a mother is my favorite job and being a grandmother is the best job.

When my youngest was five and in kindergarten, I applied and was hired for two part-time jobs. I taught English as a Second Language and I worked at the local health department administering a drug prevention grant for elementary-aged children. Both jobs were wonderful. I chose to go full-time with the health department and worked there for several years.

After the health department, I worked as a preschool teacher and loved the creativity of that job. In the evening, I taught Ballet classes. My husband and father-in-law opened their restaurant, General Tanuki’s, and I became the “back office person,” once again a secretary who handled bank deposits, bill paying, and payroll. I was the hostess also. When our sushi chef resigned I took over that job, I had taken classes with a Master Sushi Chef while living in Honolulu. I became the pastry chef, making cheesecakes, crème brûlées, hot chocolate chip cookies, and our own version of molten chocolate cake (we called it petit gateau). I loved working with my family but restaurant work is stressful and backbreaking.

After closing General Tanuki’s I went back to teaching four-year-olds. I took classes and became an aromatherapist. For this part-time job, I measured and mixed five-gallon buckets of essential oils. The essential oils were the only good thing about the job, my boss was a lunatic.

This year I moved to a new school as a kindergarten teacher and have felt that this is definitely where I belong, I might excel at it.

An old interview with Kurt Vonnegut recently caught my eye and sort of validated my working life. When asked some “getting to know you questions” as a teenager, Vonnegut listed many of his favorite activities but said that he wasn’t good at any of them. The adult interviewer remarked, “I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them.”

I don’t know if I’m an interesting person but I do know that I’m an interested person that’s why I keep trying new things.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

One day, an old man was walking along a beach that was littered with thousands of starfish that had been washed ashore by the high tide. As he walked, he came upon a young boy who was eagerly throwing the starfish back into the ocean, one by one. Puzzled, the man looked at the boy and asked what he was doing. Without looking up from his task, the boy simply replied, “I’m saving these starfish, Sir.” The old man chuckled aloud, “Son, there are thousands of starfish and only one of you. What difference can you make?” The boy picked up a starfish, gently tossed it in the water and, turning to the man, said, “I made a difference to that one!” -author unknown

The 2023-2024 academic year is coming to an end for me this Friday. Last August, I was trusted with five precious five year olds in my first kindergarten class in my new school. We became a very tight-knit family for six hours a day, five days a week. My class is now graduating to first grade in the fall and the anticipation of the newness and unknown of it all is palatable. Knowing that our time together is getting shorter, my students have been pausing in their work several times a day now to give me a very tight hug/squeeze, holding on a bit longer each time. We’re all feeling the impending loss of each other.

Testing is complete and I have digital proof that my students have not only met State goals, but have achieved and excelled over these nine months. It’s gratifying to see growth and be the primary person responsible for a child’s learning. Teaching is my passion, I love learning and sharing that with others.

I began my teaching life at Head Start as an intern during my sophomore year in college. I was tasked with developing an at home reading program for toddlers and their families. I still remember the joy of shopping for children’s books, reading the books to children in their homes, and then giving the book to the child. Our simple study showed language growth amongst the children who were read to each day. By the end of my internship, many of the children were reciting some of their favorite parts of these books.

My first challenge this year was finding and developing that spark and love of reading in my students. It simply wasn’t there, in fact a couple of children absolutely hated being read aloud to. It has become the norm for a child of this generation to fall asleep at night clutching a tablet. Parents reading to their child after tucking them in their bed is rare these days.

In an effort to get our students to read books, our school began a D.E.A.R. program (Drop Everything and Read); children are read to or read for twenty minutes a day. D.E.A.R. is a national celebration of reading designed to remind families to make reading a priority activity in their lives. Studies have shown that children who are read develop the ability to think, explore, problem-solve, and expand their memory. Reading can improve children’s imagination and creativity. Reading can help children develop their attention and concentration, which can help them sit still for longer periods of time.

I can’t say that every student in my class came to love books this year, but they all sit quietly now during storytelling and each of them has actually discovered a couple of favorite books.

As teachers, we are a bit like the boy in the starfish story, helping one student at a time. Taking care of each one we come in contact with and hope they will do better, grow up, learn more, and try something new.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

It was July when we got the call that my grandfather, Big Harris, had died, he had been diagnosed with colon cancer months before. It was 1960, my grandmother, in an effort to keep his spirits up had decided to tell him that it was dysentery from his travels to South America earlier in the year. The cancer metastasized to his liver a few months before his death but doctors had strict orders not to tell him. Apparently there was a stigma attached to discussion of a cancer diagnosis then. My grandmother was afraid that Big Harris would lose hope, then give up and die. He was sixty one years old. He was born in Texas, a decorated Navy pilot in WWl, who earned his Geology degree from Rice University, where he lettered in basketball. At the time of his death he was Senior Vice President of Texaco Oil.

The night my grandfather died, I watched my Mom walk across the house like a zombie. In her hands was her bedroom phone held protectively like an injured animal with a really long tail (cord), she quietly crawled under the grand piano in the living room. I remember the emptiness of her tearful kiss goodnight. Dad quietly put us to bed, I was four, my siblings were eight, six, and almost one. Dad answered our questions about Mom being so sad, Big Harris (my grandfather) was now in heaven and Mom was going to miss him. My Uncle Hutch was a psychiatrist and was the family member elected to call my mom with the news.

Years later, my Mom told the story of Big Harris’ illness and death. She had visited him after his diagnosis and in one of their lengthy conversations, he had said that he knew that he was dying. My grandmother was in denial. My Mom stayed under the piano all night, paralyzed, on the phone with my uncle. She flew to New York City early the next day, alone (my Dad would take a flight a couple of days later). Hutch had ordered some tranquilizers for Mom for the flight.

Life and Mom were back to normal upon her return home, we celebrated birthdays and bought school supplies.

Several times a year, my family would travel to the Star Plunge Hot Springs swimming pool in Thermopolis, Wyoming. My Dad would honk the car’s horn as we drove through three tunnels between Shoshone and Thermopolis, the sound echoing from the first tunnel to the third. Those tunnels signaled that our happy destination was in sight. We’d swim all day, enjoying a lunch of footlong hotdogs and ice cream. Before heading to dinner and then the motel, we’d walk over to the Hot Springs State Park.

The Big Horn Hot Springs State Reserve became Wyoming’s first park in 1897 and quickly became a popular tourist destination for those seeking healing in the therapeutic mineral hot springs. The springs are open to the public for free as part of an 1896 treaty signed with the Shoshone and Arapaho tribes when they sold the land to the federal government.

Hot Springs State Park is home to a herd of Bison. The Bison are featured at a respectful distance in our “home movies,” quietly (no stampedes) watching us watch them. This herd is cared for by the Wyoming State Parks.

Dad was an avid photographer, I have boxes of movie reels, slides, Polaroids, and photos taken during his life. My memories of that trip the summer my grandfather died are all on Super 8 home movies. The bison, the playground, the colorful terrace where the hot springs flow, four small children running and playing, and my mom walking towards the Wind River Canyon, alone.

Only a crazy, daredevil would choose to navigate the swinging footbridge over the Bighorn river that connected both sides of the Wind River Canyon. The bridge literally was made of wood planks and cables from an oil field. Every step caused the entire bridge to swing. The eight-foot-wide bridge was originally built by a rancher (not an engineer), who used a postcard of The Golden Gate Bridge as a guide.

My dad and his movie camera followed my mom as she approached the bridge. He then filmed her as she walked to the other side of the canyon and back. At one point, on her return trip, my mom stopped, took a deep breath, put her hand to her forehead to better see the foothills in the distance and the water flowing beneath. A train traveling in the background, the big, blue Wyoming sky, and the river at The Wedding of the Waters, the point where the Wind River becomes the Bighorn River are part of the movie memory that day.

My mom lived all over the world as a child but Wyoming was in her heart from the moment she moved there at age twenty two until the day she died. It’s so obvious watching the movie of my mom on that bridge that day that she was breathing in the beauty of her surroundings and it was healing her broken heart.

Everything about Thermopolis is still magical, the tunnels, the Star Plunge, the bison and the swinging bridge. I wish I could visit more often.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

“If a sailor was meant to have a family, he would have been issued one with a sea bag.”Most of my twenties were spent as a Naval Officer’s wife. It was a complete test of endurance and independence. I was a single mother of three children under the age of three for three of those years. There were three different duty stations in the first year, Pensacola, Denver, and San Diego.

My twenty-month-old son, Marshall, and I managed to rent a car and an apartment after flying alone to Pensacola. We became adept at maneuvering around the base, finding the Naval Hospital, shopping at the commissary and the Navy Exchange. Our mornings were spent at the gorgeous, powdery white sand beach, building sand castles and swimming in the warm turquoise water. After a nap, we’d drive over to the Naval Air Station to walk around the jets. Marshall, who pulled his little Fisher Price “Busy” airplane everywhere, taught himself to salute adults in uniforms, especially the Marine guards at the entry gate, the response was very gratifying for him.

I attended Naval Officer wife training at NAS Pensacola, which included learning the meaning of thousands of acronyms, military phonetic alphabet, military time, and recognition of rank and uniforms. White gloves were no longer required but calling cards were still a must. I was grateful for my strict parents and their concentration on formal manners. I knew all about the necessity of a silver salver (the word salve is French for a tray presenting objects to the King) for calling cards in the foyer of one’s home.

Our second duty station was in Denver at a joint command for additional training. My family in Wyoming visited often, which was wonderful. I gave birth to my daughter, Jenny at Fitzsimmons Army Medical Hospital in February. Two hours after giving birth, I was doing calisthenics with other postpartum Moms in the Maternity Ward’s lobby. The maternity ward was a solarium with floor-to-ceiling windows that was built for recovering tuberculosis patients. The dry Colorado air and vitamin D from the sunlight were beneficial for the lungs. For the two days in the hospital, I changed my own sheets, carried my own tray from the cafeteria, and twice a day, I pushed Jenny’s bassinet to the nursery before the required exercise classes. I was delighted to be discharged, I couldn’t wait to get home and get some rest. I was however, able to walk out of the hospital in my pre-pregnancy jeans with a hospital bill for ten dollars stamped, paid-in-full.

The Naval Air Station North Island in San Diego was going to be our home for three years. Three gigantic aircraft carriers were practically (three blocks away) in our backyard, living bayside on Coronado. Coronado was the perfect town for families. We could ride bikes or walk everywhere. Many of our days were spent at the public beach or on the base swimming at the Officer’s Club pool. Marshall at two and a half, would ride his tricycle on the back patio having in depth conversations with his imaginary friend. We became close friends with our civilian neighbors, the houses on most streets were old beach cottages that were built very close together. We were thrilled to be reunited with Navy friends from Pensacola and Denver.

I was elected secretary of the Navy Wives Club and one of my duties was writing the monthly newsletter. I bought my first electric typewriter and I quickly remembered how much I had enjoyed my typing classes in high school and college. I would spend a few evenings a month, after the children were asleep, listening to music on the stereo, while typing the newsletter. When I finished, I would make copies, individually stamp, then mail the newsletter to each member. During each six month deployment, the commanding officer’s wife was the lifeline to the wives, she would give us all the “news” of the ship via a “phone tree.” Wine and cheese parties were another form of fellowship and information gathering amongst the wives. My fellow Navy wives taught me about string cheese and wine coolers, life was good.

During the three years in Coronado I began volunteering one day a week for the Naval Relief Society. I worked directly with Sailors and their families providing assistance for unexpected and emergency needs. I was lucky to have found a great babysitter so I looked forward to getting out of the house, knowing that my two small children were well taken care of.

After two years, we moved to the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado Officer’s housing. Ours was a duplex with a Navy Seal and his family living next door. The Navy Seal and his kids were fond of repelling off the roof of their house at sunrise, wearing combat boots and khaki uniform swimsuits. We would be greeted every morning with Reveille, a lone bugle call that signals the start of duty on Military bases. Taps was played at 2100 hours (9:00) to indicate “lights out”. If outside during Reveille or Taps, children and adults alike would face the flag and pause, respectively.

I joined the YWCA in downtown San Diego after learning that it offered exercise classes for pregnant women. The class was taught by a member of the Sikh community and included yoga, kick-boxing, and meditation. I felt better than I ever had during my first two pregnancies. I made the decision to give birth at a birthing center in La Jolla after taking The Bradley Method of Childbirth classes. My labor and delivery were short, three hours total. Unlike my military hospital birth, I was pampered in my private suite for my short stay with my third child.

With three children in tow, my family moved to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. My life was an absolute dream, the weather was perfect, I enjoyed every day, swimming, riding my bike, running, horseback riding, and eating delicious food, with dear friends. At age twenty eight while training for the Ironman triathlon, I found out that I was pregnant with my fourth child. It was a brutally hot summer and I was suffering with morning sickness when my two youngest children got the chicken pox. Eventually, we all felt one hundred percent again and were able to swim and ride bikes. I gave birth to my baby girl at home with two nurse midwives in attendance. Four months later we moved to Virginia.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Five mornings a week I leave home before 7:00, I usually approach the Frederick Malkus Bridge five minutes later. Some months I watch the sun rise over the Choptank and it is a breathtaking, golden gift. Lately, the sun rises early, 6:00 ish, so I miss that, but the Choptank is still always breathtaking. One morning in March, the River was a “down comforter” of fog that made me think of Carl Sandburg’s poem: “The fog comes in on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” Some mornings, the river is so choppy that I imagine that the waves are aggressive animals punching and beating the water. Other mornings, the river looks like polished glass. I whisper a thank you for its calming beauty as I drive across the Choptank. I feel it’s centering energy as I head to work, teaching five and six year olds.

Thursday morning, I saw the break lights of a semi-truck and some cars and knew that an accident had happened right in front of me. Traffic was paralyzed for an hour, I watched ambulances, State Police, fire trucks, and other emergency vehicles fly by. A helicopter hovered then landed beyond my view. After the helicopter took off, Police officers began moving those of us stuck on the bridge. I was informed by a very polite officer that I was expected to back up and exit the bridge. It was a huge relief to be driving again.

The detour through East New Market and Preston was a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. For two and a half hours it was stop and go, my maximum speed was six miles per hour. Thankfully, the rural drive provided charm and beauty with its green, springtime farms and cool breeze. I tuned to Country Radio and sang along with Garth, Johnny, Willie, and Crystal. The left turn on the “T” at Preston Ford took an hour and a half. It was reassuring to approach the Choptank River once again, this time upriver, crossing on the Dover Bridge.

As the end of the school day approached I suddenly realized that the bridge could still be closed, the thought of another detour was almost too much to handle, mentally. The police officer that directed my way off of the bridge in the morning had warned that it would take hours to reconstruct the accident scene then clear the debris. I hadn’t had time all day to think about it, which was good, my students have 100% of my attention when I’m with them. I hadn’t really processed how traumatic it all was and I felt selfish for complaining about the inconvenience that the accident caused me. I was relieved to learn that the two injured drivers were in stable condition. I texted my son who lives and works in Cambridge, he quickly responded with an all clear-both lanes are open.

Driving home was as if I was seeing Route 50 with new eyes. I was happy to see each of the homeward-bound landmarks. Hole in the Wall, Paris Foods’ igloo, High’s, and finally the Malkus Bridge. I felt a sigh of relief as I approached the eastbound span. The Choptank River is home to me, welcoming like a mother’s arms waiting for a hug. Returning to Cambridge, I’m always thankful for such a beautiful body of water that is such an important part of my life.

According to The National Weather Service, March is traditionally the rainiest month of the year in Maryland, April is the fifth wettest month. During the month of April, a band of strong winds, known as the jet stream, moves northward. This changes the air pressure and leads to an explosion of cumulus clouds, the type of clouds that create rain showers. April showers bring May flowers.

The rainfall and the rising temperatures during the month of April do help flowers grow, especially perennials that have been dormant during the long, cold winter months. The real reason that we find wisdom in saying, “April showers bring May flowers,” has less to do with a literal reading of the proverb and more to do with our need for hopefulness. The proverb assures us that there is a reward for our patience, it is a gentle reminder that all good things come to those who wait.

May is a month of transformation, the bridge between spring and summer. May is rich with possibilities, in our gardens we are finally enjoying a host of blooms. The earth is almost vibrating with energy pent up during the winter months and all around us life feels new. The leaves appear on trees, flowers bloom, and weeds seem to pop up overnight in the first weeks of spring.

Learning to read weeds as clues to our garden soil’s condition can help the soil recover. Weeds are an indicator of your soil’s heath. If you have large patches of one kind of weed, your garden is trying to tell you something. Dandelions and fleabane are the two “weeds” that popped up in my garden in April.

Dandelions get their name from the French term “dent de lion” which means “tooth of the lion.” The teeth are in reference to the deeply toothed leaves.

Although dandelions are vilified by the “lawn care” industry as weeds, they are the first food source in spring for hibernating pollinators and our disappearing bees. Unlike most other plants, dandelions have both pollen and nectar, not merely one or the other.

Dandelions generally indicate poor soil that is compacted and low in calcium. Dandelions pull nutrients such as calcium deep in the soil and make them available to other plants. Dandelion taproots do a great job of loosening hard-packed soil, aerating the earth, and reducing erosion. Dandelions are also great fertilizers for your garden.

Dandelions are world-famous for their beauty. They were a common and beloved garden flower in Europe and the subject of many poems. In Japan, horticultural societies were formed to enjoy the beauty of dandelions and to develop exciting new varieties for gardeners.

Dandelions are more nutritious than many garden vegetables. The flower is packed with iron, calcium, potassium, and magnesium. It has more vitamin C than tomatoes and more vitamin A than spinach.

Native to Asia and Europe, the dandelion has been recorded in ancient writings. Ancient Arabian physicians used dandelions to treat liver diseases and digestive problems. The dandelion arrived in the Americas at the time of the Mayflower.

At the end of the day, dandelions are just plain fun; they seem to be earmarked for children. It’s the only flower that children can pick without getting into trouble. A child in a field of dandelions can spend the day blowing on the puffballs while making wishes with the seeds.

Superstition led to the name fleabane, it was believed that dried clusters of the plant could rid your home of fleas. Fleabane is a North American native. It is a pretty daisy-like wildflower that can be found in fields, against buildings and fences, and along roadsides in early spring. After wildfires or other major destructive events, fleabane is often the first wildflower to sprout. You may see it growing in charred fields of a once vibrant forest or the field of a recently chopped forest.

Fleabane flower heads range from white to pinkish to pale purple. Fleabane is easy to control through mowing or pulling, making it the ideal “weed.” Fleabane is a member of the aster family which includes sunflowers, cosmos, mums, zinnias, and marigolds.
Fleabane, a pollinator’s best friend, provides nectar for hungry, overworked bees, butterflies, and moths. The seeds are a favorite snack of the American goldfinch, sparrows, and ground finches.

Fleabane’s presence is a boon for garden biodiversity, ensuring that a garden isn’t just a visual treat but a thriving ecosystem. Fleabane’s root system is a natural warrior against soil erosion. Fleabane safeguards your garden’s topsoil from the ravages of wind and water. In the face of drought, fleabane stands tall, thriving while other plants wilt.

Many years ago my husband and I made the decision to discontinue the maintenance of a traditional lawn, one dominated by a single grass cultivar. By embracing a biodiverse garden, we are saving money and no longer have the frustration of fertilizing and mowing our lawn. Our ground cover includes purple creeping thyme, clover, and vinca. Our garden is filled with assorted plants that promote biodiversity. There are azaleas, black-eyed Susan’s, daisies, lamb’s ears, wildflowers, echinacea, lemon balm, mint, sage, Rosemary, oregano, potatoes, garlic, dusty miller, peonies, and tomatoes, to name a few. These different plant species support microorganisms in the soil. Diversity helps mitigate harmful pathogens, increasing available nutrients and improving the soil.

Our garden definitely looks messy and wild with patches of flowers growing in between the raised vegetable beds. Its wildness offers food and a habitat for a variety of species. With the help of compost, dandelions, and fleabane, I look forward to another abundant growing season.

“Cough in your corner” was the mantra repeated over and over in my kindergarten classroom upon our return from spring break. We had a healthy January and February but travel and a week apart introduced a new strain of germs to our group.

COVID took a big bite out of me over two weeks ago. It began innocently enough with laryngitis and a stuffy nose. The third day brought a throbbing headache which I recognized as a COVID symptom. The fourth night was wrought with night sweats. High fevers and brain fog were next. The final symptom was the loss of my sense of smell. I was exhausted despite sleeping over fourteen hours a day.

Sitting in an Ancient Minerals magnesium bath for twenty minutes helped with my recovery. According to PubMed Central, magnesium is an essential mineral or element for immune health. Our bodies can’t “make” magnesium, we must get it from outside our body. Transdermal sprays and creams are a quick and effective way to replenish magnesium levels and prevent deficiency. Vitamins C, D, and zinc are also recommended by PubMed Central to boost the immune system while recovering from COVID.

Unity Point Health suggests eating a teaspoon of local honey and gargling with salt water to soothe a sore throat and cough. Hot tea and broth are also recommended to ease COVID symptoms.

Amy Galper, noted aromatherapist, has a protocol for regaining one’s sense of smell after COVID. Olfactory dysfunction affected five to fifteen percent of COVID patients in a review by the CDC in 2022. That number has increased to sixty percent in 2024.

Four times a day I individually inhale jasmine, lime, eucalyptus, and cinnamon essential oils. This process is a treatment option for people with olfactory dysfunction. I have been sniffing the oils for several days now and I can actually get little whiffs of coffee brewing.

Regaining one’s sense of smell is important for a patient’s quality of life, and it is a safety issue. Smell is a form of emotional support, but it also warns you about gas leaks, rotten food, and other dangers.

The new CDC Covid guidelines recommend returning to work after 24 hours of being fever free without taking fever-reducing medication. The key change is five days versus ten days of isolation. My symptoms started improving so back to work I went, not 100% but better.

When the first cases of COVID emerged in March of 2020, the WHO stated that none of the American population had any specific immunity against the COVID pathogen. At least 98% of the U.S. population now has some degree of protective immunity against this severe illness. The CDC 2024 Yellow Book states that hybrid immunity protects with long-term durability against severe COVID illness.

In the spring of 2023, the federal declaration of Covid-19 as a public health emergency ended. As of the end of 2023, nearly one in four adults had still not caught COVID . The CDC stopped its case counting as part of its Covid tracker because states stopped reporting the information. Despite elevated levels of COVID, hospitals are reporting that they have avoided large-scale spikes in admissions.

“That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.