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Hiking the Liberal Arts: A Chat with Washington College’s Rich Gillin

February 8, 2023 by James Dissette Leave a Comment

What better place to study 19th-century English Romantic literature than to immerse oneself for a few summer weeks in England’s northwest Lake District, wake to a damp shawl of mist over glacial ribbon lakes and hike the rugged mountains while discussing Wordsworth and Coleridge?

Each summer for twenty years, Washington College Professor Emeritus Dr. Richard Gillin, his wife Barbara, and a dozen students from Washington College did just that as part of the Kiplin Hall program they co-founded and chaired.

The learning project’s mission was to connect “literature and landscape” using the our-hundred-year-old ancestral estate of Lord Calvert, whose son Cecil Calvert founded one of Maryland’s first settlements in the 1600s as a haven for persecuted Catholics.

Each day, the Gillins and students explored the surrounding countryside of North Yorkshire and West Cork, Ireland, an experience he would later describe in his book A Guide to Hiking the Liberal Arts as “an explanation of what the liberal arts are and how learning history, art, philosophy, literature are so important It’s not a matter of collecting numbers or gathering simple facts. It demands experience, time, and contemplation.

Princeton Review selected A Guide to Hiking the Liberal Arts as one of its 2020 Best 300 books. Publisher Robert Frank wrote that the book is a tribute to the extraordinary dedication of America’s best undergraduate college professors “and the vitally important role they play in our culture, and our democracy.

The Spy chatted with Dr. Gillin to talk about how the Kiplin Hall project came about and his reflections on why experiences like the summer learning tours are fundamental to a liberal arts education.

This video is approximately six minutes in length. The Bookplate bookstore’s ongoing Authors & Oysters series will feature Dr. Gillin at 6 pm. Wednesday, January 8 at the Retriever Bar at 337 ½ High Street. The event is free and open to the public.

Comrades in Arms By Laura J. Oliver

February 5, 2023 by Laura J. Oliver 12 Comments

Things that hop, dart, scurry or slither, are okay outside the house, but inside the house their natures are entirely changed. Crickets. Mice. Spiders. Amphibians. Reptiles. A salamander once ran in the front door and straight into the hall closet where he hid behind the vacuum cleaner for hours. Presto-chango. Was cute. Now scary. And my mother once pulled a hot cranky snake out of our clothes dryer along with the sheets.

Then there was this.

The storm had been gathering all evening and bursts of lightning flashed brighter and brighter as the August sky darkened. The children’s father was in Western Australia on America’s Cup business. I was seven months pregnant and, for several weeks, the sole caretaker of our two small children. As I climbed the stairs to bed, I carried an oil lamp and matches with me in case we lost the electricity. My uncharacteristic forethought made me feel self-sufficient, like the grownup in charge, and I liked knowing that Audra and Andrew were safely asleep in their beds as the rain and thunder finally began.

Setting the oil lamp on the bedside table, I slipped under the sheets comforted by the thought that there were many nearby trees taller than our house to deflect the lightning. As if to prove the point, a brilliant bolt of electricity slammed into a 48-foot maple in the front yard and in the aftermath of the explosion the hum of the clock and the air conditioner fell silent. With the wind knocked out of her the house was unable to take her next breath.

As I lay in bed collecting my wits in the dark, a small form materialized by my side. My seven-year-old daughter wanted to join me until the storm was over. I threw back the sheet to welcome her, turning my back to the wind and rain now pounding at the window. Wedging pillows under the weight of my pregnancy, I fell asleep grateful for the sweetness of her company.

About 2 a.m., I awoke. Outside, the lightning and thunder had stalled directly overhead. Inside, the house was hot and unnaturally still. I rolled belly first out of bed, opened two bedroom windows, and a rain-freshened breeze immediately filled the room. Having built the house ourselves we still had no screens, so I vowed to close the windows as soon as the room cooled off.

I had been back asleep for only a few minutes when I sensed that someone or something had slipped into the room. Above the bed, a clicking sound had abruptly stopped then started again, this time closer. In my half-dreaming state, I imagined that a gigantic dragonfly had flown through the window. I considered going back to sleep in spite of the noise, but its strangeness compelled me to identify the intruder. Lighting the oil lamp, I turned to see what was making menacing shadows dip and sway against the wall.

A bat, its bony wings spread like a black cape, plunged towards my sleeping daughter, missing her face by inches, then careened toward the ceiling only to dive again. With a yelp, I shoved Audra off her side of the bed, grabbed her hand and a cotton robe, and together in the flickering light that made the peonies on the wallpaper dance, we made an awkward, weaving dash for the bedroom door.

Bursting into the hall, I turned to see that I had left the flaming oil lamp burning next to the bed, and three bats were now strafing it like F-14’s in a dogfight. With no other choice, I took dipping, ducking steps back into the room, fending off the bats now flapping in a frenzied circle like moths in a jar. Lamp in hand, I made my way back to the hall and pulled the door closed again, worried that the wooden frame had swollen in the humidity, preventing it from closing securely.

With the bats contained at least until morning, Audra and I padded barefoot down the hall to sleep in the pink and white sanctuary of her room. I decided, with all the clarity of pregnancy-brain, to permanently seal off the master bedroom. Audra and I had each taken a twin bed in her room when a tight, high voice rang out.

“Mommy—a bat’s flying down the hall.”

“No, Audra, just a shadow,” I assured her, as the baby inside gave my ribs a wallop.

“No it’s not, Mommy! It’s here! In my room!”

We exited as if by osmosis, slamming the door almost before we were through it, and went to wake 5-year-old Andrew. Disappointed that he’d slept through the excitement, but impressed by our situation, he joined us, and we crept downstairs, the flaming lamp held high.

With its high ceilings, polished oak floors, and night-black windows reflecting the flames, the whole house had become a cavern in which shadows flew ominously over us. Instinctively, we reached for each other, seeking and offering protection in a single gesture. We moved like one body, each hanging on to some part of the other—an elbow, a hand, a ruffle of nightgown—taking comfort in a connection with one another we could feel but not see. In an ungainly procession, we bumped our way into the kitchen.

By now it was 3 a.m., the storm still raging, I was heavy with pregnancy and exhausted. Two children were helpfully suggesting we call Daddy, who was 9,800 miles away, the electricity was off, and all my clothes were in a room filled with bats. The family cat, cross and bedraggled, appeared at the sliding glass doors, and we stared at her a minute, then lumbered over as one entity to let her in. No one was willing to function independently, even for a minute. Equally helpless, we felt braver as a unit.

With sudden inspiration, I picked up the phonebook and looked in the Yellow Pages under Exterminators. Unbelievably, there was a listing under the subhead “Bats” with a 24-hour emergency-service number. “You’ve got to help me,” I pleaded, explaining the crisis when a man answered. If he were nice to me, I knew I would cry.

“Well now,” he theorized, “I’ll bet those bats rode the current in when you opened the windows. Bet you’ve got a dozen up there by now. If you wait until the storm ends, they’ll probably ride the breeze back out. I can come look for them in the morning, or you can save yourself $150 and look on your own, but be careful! A bat with an 18-inch wingspan folds up to the size of a mouse when he’s sleeping. They get behind picture frames, in folds of clothes hanging in your closet, just about anywhere.”

I hadn’t heard much after “rode the current in,” but he had more good news. “You think they’re gone, but they come out again when it gets dark. But they’re nothing to be afraid of,” he concluded with good cheer. “That’s a myth that they’re going to make a nest in your hair.”

I eyed the car keys and hung up. A short field trip, en masse, into the living room, procured sofa cushions and a blue and yellow afghan my grandmother had crocheted for me before I was in charge of small people. Dragging our provisions into the kitchen, we arranged ourselves on the floor like an intricate puzzle. The children were unusually kind to each other and if one of us moved, we all changed position to maintain our connection.

In the morning, with the electricity restored, I made coffee, told the children they could stay home from school, and called a friend. Armed with a broom and a cardboard box, she searched the house. The bats were gone she reported, swept back into the night on the breeze that brought them in. I wanted to believe her, but I poked all my sundresses with a hanger and kept a tennis racket by the bed for a week.

The children’s father returned and six weeks later we welcomed another daughter into our family. Life returned to normal, but the children loved to tell the bat story to guests. They’d interrupt each other to embellish the details, gleefully recounting the invasion and our retreat, the delicious danger. They were now veterans with a war story they would tell for years to come, just as I am telling you now.

It’s still easier to be brave as a unit. And I hope the instinct to be kind to each other in a crisis remains with us always.

What happens to distress decades after the event that caused it? What of our life’s dramas falls away and what resides in our hearts forever?

You tell me.

Because when we tell the bat story to visitors, we no longer remember we were afraid. We only recall we were comrades in arms, who served each other loyally, in the darkness of the night.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

Food Friday: Home Grown

February 3, 2023 by Jean Sanders Leave a Comment

I could not think of a better cook for Black History Month this month. Matthew Raiford, from coastal Georgia, has written an impressive cookbook. Bress ’n’ Nyam: Gullah Geechee Recipes from a Sixth-Generation Farmer. Gilliard Farms, the farm he runs with his sister, https://gilliardfarms.com/, is an organic farm in Brunswick, Georgia, on land bought and farmed by Raiford’s formerly enslaved great-great-great-grandfather. The family still works the farm, employing sustainable farming methods, and environment-friendly techniques.

I’ve written about Raiford before: his cooking, his family, his deep connection to the land he farms, his unique voice. Historically, African American foodways have shaped America, with little fanfare or praise for the Black cooks, for over three hundred years. The heritage of Raiford’s farm and family shows us the very beginnings of African American influence; seeds brought from Africa, ekeing out a life in a hostile world, to the tastes that are integral to present day America. As Raiford says in his book, “The legacy is in the soil.”

Raiford is the great-great-great-grandson of Jupiter Gilliard, who was born into slavery in South Carolina in 1812. After Emancipation he began to buy land. He raised squash, field peas and corn and a family. His son built a house and raised another generation of farmers and cooks. In search of education and jobs, the family dispersed and some moved north, during the Great Migration. Matthew, his parents and his younger sister moved back to the farm in the nineteen seventies.

Raiford grew up eating local, southern regional foods: soul food. It wasn’t until the nineties that African American cooks and chefs were accepted into the mainstream as talented creators of the foods of the American south. He wasn’t encouraged to pursue these unsophisticated southern foods while attending culinary school. Culturally, it wasn’t considered sophisticated. And yet, it was the hugely delicious, and unsung, part of the American diet.

Like most of us, Raiford remembers older family members cooking, bringing family recipes to life every day, while constantly adapting the recipes according to season and crop yield. Some years there might be an abundance of tomatoes, or a dearth of okra, but there was still a family to be fed. The self-sufficient cooks learned to improvise and adapt, to make do, and were inspired by necessity.

Rice was the foundation crop of the southern tidewater communities. The rice was brought to America by enslaved West Africans, who also had the knowledge and experitise to cultivate the difficult crop. First rice was raised as subsistence food, then as a cash crop, and rice and the food culture surrounding it, flourished. There were regional one-pot rice dishes, from gumbos, and jambalayas and perloos. Raimond has old family recipes for Gullah Rice, with a hearty vegetable stock and roasted vegetables; Reezy-Peezy, peas and vegetables; Cowpea Salad; Mess o’Greens; CheFarmer’s Gazpacho; and Effie’s Shrimp Creole, this week’s Food Friday.

Matthew Raiford’s mother’s recipe for shrimp creole: https://thelocalpalate.com/recipes/effies-shrimp-creole/

Raiford has plenty of recipes for seafood, crab and oysters, wild game, and hogs. I am rather drawn to some of the baking recipes that were also his grandmother’s. I love a nice simple cornbread, poundcake, or biscuits any time of the day. I also love that he remembers that his mother made meatloaf as a way to stretch beef further. His homage to his mother is also humble: Tomato Jam, that recalls the ketchup she used to “shellack” the meatloaf. Raiford uses it to dress up a lowly hamburger. Lucky hamburger!
https://georgefox.cafebonappetit.com/matthew-raiford-juneteenth-recipes/

There are many charming interviews with Raiford on YouTube. Go watch a couple and get to know him, and then go to your local independent bookstore and buy a copy of his book. You will be enchanted by its clean design and the heartwarming story of a successful Black American CheFarmer. Also: https://www.bonappetit.com/story/bress-n-nyam

“Seeds are no mere commercial product, but the embodiment of our living history.”
-Ira Wallace, Southern Exposure Seed Exchange

The Use of Makerspaces in Education at The Country School

February 1, 2023 by Val Cavalheri Leave a Comment

Ever heard the term “Makerspace?” If you are an educator, you probably already know all about it. For the rest of us, it’s a word we should keep in mind. We will be hearing about it in the future.

According to Campbell University, the word, simply defined, is “a place where students –sometimes alongside staff, parents, and mentors — can create, problem solve, and develop skills, talents, thinking, and mental rigor.”

But what does that mean, and why are so many schools so enthusiastic about establishing this non-traditional classroom space? That’s because at its core are elements of experiential learning, collaboration, and teamwork with an emphasis on offering a variety of tools, technology, and workspace not available in the traditional classroom.

One local school that has embraced this model is Easton’s The Country School, an independent private, coeducational school for pre-K through 8. The program, designed to enhance and provide additional enrichment to the current curriculum, was started this past fall and has been met with enthusiasm from students, teachers, and parents. Makerspace is STEAM-based, an acronym that means it’s reinforcing concepts of science, technology, engineering, art, and math.

The Country School has divided Makerspace into six zones: The Tech Den (featuring 3D printers, iPads, a green screen, computer programming station), Robotics Lab (Mbot, Lego Mindstorms, Dot-Dash Robots), Electronics/Circuits Workshop (Snap Circuits, Arduino), The Wood Shop (hammers, nails, screws, screwdrivers, saws, etc.), Manipulatives and Simple Machines Center (Legos, Marble Run, K’Nex, etc.), and Arts and Design Lab (craft supplies, recyclables, and building materials).

The Makerspace approach is promoted by presenting students with authentic challenges with undefined solutions. Teachers are present as facilitators of the process and provide students with the tools and flexibility to devise their own design plans, allowing them to learn the value of persistence and realize that real-world problems rarely have known solutions.

Annie Hasselgren, Director of Admissions, reports that the students get weekly exposure and hands-on experience that supplement their standard classroom curriculum. Hasselgren explains how it covers all components of the STEAM acronym, “The technology part in this is self-explanatory, as students interact with each of the zones,” she said, “In terms of engineering, they’re learning creative ways to build something, for instance, a bridge, making sure to plan a design that will actually work and will stay upright. Obviously, there’s a lot of math in engineering and science and just ensuring that things will work the way you plan them. This also requires artistic creativity because if you’re doing anything, from building a bridge to designing a basic video game, you want it to be visually attractive to users.”

All of these new study concepts have generated more engagement and interest from the students. “Even though it’s structured,” Hasselgren said, “instead of sitting at desks, they’re able to do more group work with their peers. They’re having conversations about their projects and have a slightly different level of freedom and purpose.” The process allows students to make and learn from mistakes and, once they succeed, to retain the knowledge for future endeavors. The program also addresses the diverse learning needs of students by promoting various styles of acquiring information, whether visual, auditory, or kinesthetic.

Makerspace is available to all students at The Country School, but eighth graders were the first to use the designated area for an experiment. They were challenged to design a package to “Ship a Chip” (a Pringle potato chip) across the country using only a flat sheet of cardboard and a few basic supplies, such as a cotton ball, string, tape, and a plastic bag. It was sent to various locations around the U.S., where recipients were asked to unwrap and reveal the effectiveness of the packaging. But regardless of the outcome, students learned the value of research.

Currently, seventh graders are programming robots, and kindergarteners will be working with 8th graders on a stEMPATHY project: creating a model city that embraces diversity and meets the needs of people of all abilities. All of these projects have been designed to encourage 21st-century skills that go beyond critical thinking and problem-solving. Flexibility, teamwork, adaptation, technology literacy, productivity, social skills, leadership, and other soft skills can be learned through tinkering and creation.

If there have been any challenges while implementing the program, The Country School sees it as a teachable moment rather than an obstacle. “Sometimes it gets a little noisy when students are doing group work,” Hasselgren said, “and sometimes they don’t agree on how to move forward with a certain stage of the process. But that’s how you learn life skills of cooperation and understanding the perspectives of others. And if you’re in a group, you’ll have to figure out a way to work together, even if that seems difficult at the time.”

The actual space for Makerspace was part of a resourceful effort on the part of the school when it turned a former teacher’s lounge into a place that would be used for the program. The funding came next. “We had a major donor who wanted to ensure that Makerspace was created and gave us the funds to make it happen. But it’s not just a one-and-done expense. Since it’s now a part of school life here, it will need to be accounted for in future budgets.”

Volunteers have also stepped up in other ways. Hasselgren said, “we have a parent who is a professor of robotics at Salisbury University, who will be holding after-school camps for kids. Other parents with expertise in some of these STEAM-related areas have volunteered their time to offer after-school opportunities for the kids.”

Of course, the support of teachers is a primary reason this has been such a success. According to Hasselgren, the two science teachers who were enthusiastic about it ‘took the baton and ran with it.’

“Guiding students through the engineering and design process, then witnessing their projects come to fruition is an incredibly rewarding experience,” said Melissa Grant, Lower School science teacher. “From 3D printing to robotics to woodworking, our students are gaining invaluable skills that prepare them for careers in our modern world and help them learn how to work through challenges with resilience.”

Upper School Science teacher, Kylie Schappeler, sums it up best. “It’s exciting to teach at a school that is so supportive of advancing its science and STEAM programs. We’re also extremely fortunate to have received donations of supplies such as science kits and robots, as well as time and talents from various families in our community as we build our Makerspace together. The absolute best part of the space, though, is the joy happening there when kids create, build, experiment, and ultimately grow through their experiences. It’s a happy place.”

Val Cavalheri is a writer and photographer. She has written for various publications, including The Washington Post. Previously she served as the editor of several magazines, including Bliss and Virginia Woman. Although her camera is never far from her reach, Val retired her photography studio when she moved from Northern Virginia to the Eastern Shore a few years ago.. She and her husband, Wayne Gaiteri, have two children and one grandchild.

The Art of Giving Back Locally Even if You’ve Left Town

January 30, 2023 by Val Cavalheri 1 Comment

It’s usually bittersweet–that time when someone retires. They wave goodbye to their friends, home, and job to begin a new life elsewhere, surrounded by sunshine, grandchildren, hobbies, and other leisure activities.

But for some, and it seems a growing number of adults, retirement is just the beginning of a new life cycle that sometimes involves the continuation of what they were doing before they retired, within the community they left.

Howard Freedlander

Take Howard Freedlander, former MD Deputy State Treasurer and current Spy essayist. Since he writes about the goings on in Talbot County, you probably think the Out and About (Sort of) columnist lived here. Well, he used to. Since 2020, Freedlander has been an Annapolis resident. But after 44 years in Easton, the roots are deep. “I cannot sever my ties to Talbot County,” he has said.

But does he have to?

For Freedlander, who is involved as a committee chair for BAAM (Building African American Minds) and still sits on local boards, that answer is a resounding ‘no.’ “It’s been great to be able to continue to serve Talbot County. And, every week when I write a column for the Spy, I feel as if I’m continuing to cultivate my roots.”

Because of those roots, people know him and seek him out even though he’s no longer a resident. Just in time for last year’s election, he was asked to host a Talbot County Council candidate forum. “When I was emceeing, both the candidates and the audience, which contained many people whom I knew, granted me a degree of credibility because I lived on the shore for so long and still love it.”

Despite how busy he’s kept on this side of the bridge, he’s also becoming well-known in his new home city. That’s not a surprise for someone who is used to being busy. “I’m on the board of Historic Annapolis and on the Advisory Council of the Anne Arundel Medical Center Foundation. I also serve on the finance committee where we live. And then I’ve been involved in a project that gives me a lot of personal satisfaction.” That project was a five-acre piece of land that had been earmarked as a site for 43 townhomes. With Freedlander’s intervention, $6.5 million was secured, and the property was purchased and turned into a passive park focused on the heritage of the historic port of Annapolis. “I was able to work effectively on this,” he said, “because of my experience with the Eastern Shore Land Conservancy, my time as Deputy Treasurer for the State of Maryland, and my firm belief in preservation.”

Not that he hasn’t experienced some changes. “I’ve left a place I loved, Freedlander said, “and moved to a far more populated area, with more traffic lights and longer waits.” There is also the transition to a retirement community. “We’re living in a wonderful retirement community where we own our unit but live by rules set by others, as opposed to living in your own home making your own rules. We had to get accustomed to that.”

Yet life in Annapolis has given him a deeper understanding and appreciation for the Eastern Shore and its people. “It seems that issues such as the Talbot boys and Lakeside have awakened Talbot County citizens. When I looked down on that audience during the forum, I saw people I knew and those I didn’t know. And every seat was occupied. I thought, well, this is really terrific; people in Talbot County are paying attention to a local election.”

Lani Seikaly

Another retiree has perhaps found a solution to continuing local involvement. Just ask Lani Seikaly where she lives, and she’ll tell you, “I live in Chestertown and McLean (Virginia).”

Until 2010, Seikaly lived on the Western Shore. She had worked as a principal through the Maryland State Department of Education and then spent years providing technical assistance and professional development to schools. When close to retirement age, she and her husband moved to Chestertown, a place where she was born but not raised. “Once there, I started getting involved in activities. I was looking for work that I thought had some meaning.” Seikaly created programs, sat on various boards, and got interested in the field of home insecurity. It was through this interest that she founded the Kent Attainable Housing (KAH), an organization dedicated to moving families out of poverty through the asset of homeownership. “We build affordable homes and have a financial literacy support program that helps families get their credit scores in a place where they could get a loan, and we could sell them a house.”

But here is the thing: when she started KAH a little over three years ago, she wasn’t entirely living on the Eastern Shore full-time. Like Freedlander, Seikaly wanted to be near her children. Eventually. But eventually came sooner than they expected when their Chestertown home sold quickly. Since they weren’t quite ready to move away full-time, Seikaly and her husband now have a house in McLean but rent in Chestertown–sort of. Seikaly explains, “We rent flexible nights per month from two different homeowners. One is the home of friends who are only here part-time, and the other is a cottage next to a home of a woman who uses the cottage for her family on occasion. That’s our Chestertown existence.”

Seikaly continues to be very involved in KAH. She feels there is a need here for this type of program. “It was easier to get that going here. I already love this place, and I already have roots in this place.” Yet, Chestertown is a little too far away from her family. “My decision is to be as involved here as possible. And it has its downside because it keeps me from being involved in the area where I now have a home.”

The Chestertown pull continues to be strong, however. She got involved in a project to document and record Chestertown’s black entrepreneurs from the 1960s and 70s. “I love giving voice to folks whose voices are not being heard. I was also involved with Chestertown River Arts and made an exhibit of about seven of these oral histories, where I took photos and used quotes from the interviews. It was gratifying work, and the one time we had more African American presence in the gallery than we did at any other time.”

Seikaly feels there is a difference in living on the Eastern Shore that is hard to find anywhere else, and it comes down to the people. “So often, I won’t know the full history of somebody’s work experience until I read an obituary. In McLean, if I went to a cocktail party, the chief question you get is, what do you do? That’s not how it is in Chestertown, where that’s usually only a curiosity question because what you do is not who you are. And so, I value that too.”

Yet Seikaly is also mindful of another difference. “I feel I’m unlike some of my friends. Some people here think retirement is just for enjoying the great environment, the water, the golf course, etc. I like all those things too, but that’s not what will make my life meaningful.”

Robert “Bob” Grill

Robert “Bob” Grill has also found a meaningful life he cannot entirely move away from. In 2010, he co founded a relief charity called Disaster Aid USA (DAUSA). What started as a Rotary Club project became a worldwide highly successful organization whose mission is to provide humanitarian relief to victims when disaster strikes.

Grill was Chairman of the Board and stepped down four years ago and took on the position of President and CEO of DAUSA. At the time, he and his wife lived in Davidsonville in Anne Arundel County. In 2019, faced with a bigger house than they needed, Grill and his wife moved to Easton.

Like Freedlander and Seikaly, Grill cannot ‘retire’ from the job he enjoys. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to. At 85 years of age, he no longer goes to help at different disaster sites, but he does whatever he can and continues being involved in what he loves.

Originally from Pennsylvania, Grill started his own construction company and remains somewhat active in this business, loaning out his construction yard as storage space to DAUSA. He’s still a Rotarian, although not as active as he used to be. But that’s because DAUSA keeps him pretty busy every day. “I can’t stay away,” he says. I do the bulk mailings, banking, and bookkeeping. I send out all the thank yous, make up all the mailings, do the brochures and stuff like that.”

As for his move to Easton, Grill is happy with the decision. “There are a lot of clubs here,” he says, “and all through the Eastern Shore that are very supportive of Disaster Aid USA. When there’s a disaster, they’ve always provided funds for us to go out and to do the work.”

Freedlander, Seikaly, and Grill are just three examples of a new breed of retirees who have redefined the word as they continue to do crucial and meaningful work despite their geographical location. After all, if you’re doing good work, does it matter where it’s being done and what you call it?

Let Go By Laura J. Oliver

January 29, 2023 by Laura J. Oliver 11 Comments

There are two words, that taken together, I am trying to love…self and care. Each word is okay individually, but together they’re a foreign concept. I do take a stab at the idea on occasion to imitate my friends who are more mature than I. They tell me that the notion of putting one’s own wellbeing before that of another should not make one cringe or judge. I cringe at myself. I judge them.

So, in an effort to get onboard the selfcare train, I’m making a commitment to daily exercise, and I’ve just hired JT, a personal trainer, to help me. There’s another reason I’ve come to JT as well, but I hold that close to my chest for now.

I introduce myself and drop into a chrome and black leather chair by his desk. His studio is a big airy room with scary contraptions. A masculine room. In Athleta leggings and a fitted white half-zip I look a bit like a child who wandered into the wrong neighborhood The walls are either mirrors or windows where a stratified sky, witness to first contact, shimmers in silver, dark blue, and pearlescence.

Me: “So, I’m here because I spend a lot of time at a computer and I’m getting inflexible. And I’m not as strong as I used to be,” I explain. “I look in shape but that’s genetics.” (I didn’t earn looking in shape, so it doesn’t count.)

“I looked like I’d be good at tennis too,” I continue, as JT takes notes, “but I could only hit honeybees on the tennis courts in college. (I’m sorry, bees.) Then early on, as a Navy wife, I tried tennis lessons again. The other wives were much faster studies. Then, in New Zealand, I tried for the final time with my American friend Melinda at a private club. Turns out there are 17 things you must remember just to hold the racket properly. I didn’t have the bandwidth. Melinda was very, very pretty.

“And I tried pickleball before it was a thing. I was excellent at running after the ball. Fast and intuitive—like a Labrador, actually. And I was exceptional at fooling opponents who expected the ball to land in their court.”

More me: “I looked like I’d be good at skiing too but broke my thumb on the first run at Whisp. And I couldn’t get off the ski lift in Wanaka, New Zealand. The kids yelled, ‘Just ski off, Mom!’ but it was too late, so I kind of fell off and rolled.”

JT: “Okay. Take off your jacket. Let’s see what you’ve got. Give me 12 reps.”

Me: Lifting free weights. “I don’t want to look like Popeye. Those forearms were disturbing.”

JT: “You won’t look like Popeye. Wow! Stop impressing me.”

Suddenly shy, and now committed to impressing him, I glance in the mirror alert to a new defect. “Are my arms abnormally short?”

JT: “I’ve seen shorter. Give me another 12 reps, here, start at your shoulders, then straight up over your head.”

My arms are starting to tremble. I look in the mirror again.

“Wait, is my neck too short?”

JT: “I’ve seen shorter. Twelve more.”

Me: smiling at him, my arms now on fire. “This is going to sound impolite, but I might be about to hate you.”

JT: “And you’re not the first.”

JT has been doing this so long there’s not one thing I can do or say that is original. I came in with my hair down and now need a ponytail tie. JT’s got one. He’s got lots of them.

I didn’t come with water. He’s got a fridge full.

After lifting a lot of weights, my arms feel like noodles, which I then demonstrate. I think it’s hilarious. JT has likely seen it before.

Here’s what I don’t tell JT: I’m not strong, I’m not flexible. What I am, is very sad. But when you are sad you can always move your body, right? Do something kind for someone else? I’m on an endorphin search. A fake-it-till-you-make-it quest.

We take a break from weights and try lunges and squats. I’m struggling with form because the correct position for a squat is the antithesis of ladylike. You know what I’m talking about. JT gets it that I’m a little embarrassed by the neutral scrutiny as I follow instructions. Again, he’s seen it before. Just as I’m sure he’s seen sad before.

Because he’s also intuitive. We like that, too. Back on weights he counts when I don’t think he’s counting, he’s a very sneaky counter, and he knows when to catch the cable pull that I don’t have the strength to release gracefully. I don’t have the strength to release anything gracefully, I think. That’s why I’m here. I’m a clinger. Wait. That’s attachment hunger, right? Or worse, attachment disorder? But doesn’t everyone have that? Can you genuinely love without attaching? Now I’m considering a new foreign, two-word combo: love and detachment. I decide they go together with all the appeal of selfcare.

So, I say silent mantras staring in the massive wall mirror as I try to lift burden after burden into the air. There is nowhere else to look. I certainly can’t look at JT. That would be awkward. So, I gaze in the mirror, and quote Florence Shinn to myself, “The Divine Design of my life now comes to pass. I now fill the place that only I can fill.”

JT can’t hear what I’m thinking, of course. So, he tells me to lie on a bench and adds five more pounds. “I am fully equipped for the Divine Plan of my life. I am more than equal to this situation.” My arms are going to break, and I don’t care. I hope something does break. Something visible.

I whisper, “All doors now open for happy surprises and the Divine Plan of my life is speeded up under grace.”

JT repeats, “Still impressing me.” Of course, I try harder.

He stands behind and over me now ready to catch the weights I could easily drop on my own head. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Let go. I’ve got you.” And it’s strangely intimate. I like thinking someone is standing behind me who is going to keep me from hurting myself, while I’m hurting myself.

I sit up and tell JT I write a column and he’s going to be in it. He hasn’t heard that before. “My sisters will tell you this is an unfortunate liability of being my friend,” I explain kindly. I do noodle arms again to make us laugh.

Before I leave, I hold a plank until I think I will die and say to myself, “My heart is a perfect idea in Divine Mind and it is now in its right place, doing its right work. It is a happy heart, a fearless heart, and a loving heart.

And I head home.

Food Friday: Sunday Cooking

January 27, 2023 by Jean Sanders Leave a Comment

This past Sunday was just the perfect sort of Sunday for us. Admittedly, we are still in COVID recovery mode, so we weren’t up for exuberant adventures. No running with the bulls in Pamplona. No cross country adventures in a vintage convertible that end with a fiery crash as we hurl ourselves toward freedom. It was a cool, gray, misty day; perfect for reading the newspapers, doing mountains of laundry, and making a Sunday spaghetti sauce.

We are competing again with the ghosts from our childhoods – which will haunt us forever with their elusive, never-quite-remembered ingredients – because we were kids and didn’t pay attention to every step in the process of meal creation. We followed our running, frozen noses into the warm house, pulled off our crusty snow suits and red rubber snow boots, washed our hands at the kitchen sink, and sat down to shovel the hot, delicious food into our gaping maws. It was steaming, it was tomato-y, and it was hard to twirl the spaghetti on the fork. Besides nostalgia, there is always the mystery flavor enhancer – why does food always taste better when someone else makes it?

When I was in middle school my best friend and I would alternate houses on the weekends for sleep overs. We always made popcorn. We used identical ingredients: Jolly Time popcorn, Mazola oil, grocery store butter, and Diamond Crystal salt. We cooked on gas stoves. I always swore it tasted better at Sheila’s house, she thought it tasted better at my house. It is another ineffable mystery for the ages. Which is another reason why we can never reproduce exactly the meals from our youth.

This past Sunday I tried for something new, a recipe by Ali Slagle, who at one time, worked with our friends at Food52. I bought her new book I Dream of Dinner (so you don’t have to) for Christmas. Then, last week I heard an interview with her on the Slate Magazine Working podcast. https://slate.com/podcasts/working/2023/01/recipe-developer-ali-slagle-easy-weeknight-meals
It must have been kismet, because the New York Times then printed her recipe for Sunday Sauce. Cross your fingers that this link works: https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1022972-sunday-sauce?unlocked_article_code=jmGiCoZ5baNYeOGKw8HkCn9Wl5e2-MAw3VqptpJ8GPlaEZkMSgbKACC4g3vyy3AccnIqBC5Wc4erEFIh4vgsSZ79Nv3We1hvNXHC0_HMiIaK0ndrbaDT2D17kcBDBks5i_33iXNHsqdvCIs8YILkNZOVxnQ0ga4Fjjm7fcEFLBUb-21KR8w2HhmlqjBWmAnPdiYdkD7_j296IflWG0zg1WA_dPlWrr7L79L1AZmWQ-dODGX3iYIOFF_QxP0XobBS7OOyeAzZ07TT2tRd5X33UPN2Po9T5QKCoFZvH3INVVK114ph5WjOQI6qchZua0Bs8g&smid=share-url

The complex flavors of the meats are slowly steeped into this sauce, as you stir it every half hour of so, over the course of the afternoon. The six cloves of garlic pervade the house, their magic aroma wafting back toward the bedrooms, and through the front door, welcoming the uninitiated to your warm and cosy retreat. Your house will smell like the finest, most inviting Italian trattoria. Mangia!

It took all my energy to make this sauce, but there are ways to simplify. You can leave out the pork shoulder, and just have meatballs and sausages. You can buy pre-made meatballs. If you do have a Sunday when all you have to do is laundry supervision, it is a good way to made a tasty, thoughts-of-home recipe. It takes too long simmering away on the stove to even think about doing as a weeknight meal. We also enjoyed two nights of re-heated leftovers, which is money in the bank.

Sometimes you need to simplify. All that meat in the Sunday Sauce recipe can be intimidating, and expensive. This is tasty, easy, and gives just as much pasta satisfaction: https://food52.com/recipes/13722-marcella-hazan-s-tomato-sauce-with-onion-butter

If you don’t have a leisurely Sunday stretching invitingly before you, or you just want some hot pasta, there is no shame in picking up a jar of Rao’s Marinara Sauce. It is almost as good as having dinner at someone else’s house. You will still have to wash up, but there is satisfaction to be had in scrubbing pots, and making order from the kitchen chaos. It is a good thing to do on a Sunday or a weeknight. Just add some garlic to make it your own.

Another friend believes you should always have a family-sized Stouffer’s lasagne in the freezer. It is good for pasta emergencies. We don’t judge.

“Italian cuisine, at its very best, is a math problem that doesn’t add up. A tangle of noodles, a few scraps of pork, a grating of cheese are transformed into something magical. 1+1=3: more alchemy than cooking.”
― Matt Goulding

Spy Profile: The Life-Changing YMCA Coach George Higley

January 27, 2023 by Val Cavalheri 6 Comments

John Wooden, considered the greatest NCAA basketball head coach of all time, once said, “A good coach can change a game; a great coach can change a life.” Wooden’s name may not crop up around town, but the name George Higley does. Higley, the Talbot County YMCA (TCY) swim coach, has been credited with significantly impacting the lives he’s touched.

Higley grew up in a swim family. He and his three sisters competed on swim teams, and his father was a college swim team coach. After school and a move to Virginia, Higley swam and did some coaching for a Masters program (competitive swimming for adults 18 years and older). He started working for Sodexo (a job he still holds), got married, and eventually moved to the Eastern Shore, where, for the past 34 years, he’s been the TCY Stingray’s coach. “I like long-term stuff,” he said. “Thirty-four years coaching, forty years on my job. I guess I’m a long-term type of guy.”

But it all started when his kids were taking swim lessons at the Y, and he got them involved in the sport he loved. He began as an assistant coach and eventually took over the team. Under Higley’s leadership, the group went to their first ever Districts meet, their first Regionals, and finally got to swim in the Nationals. Since then, he says, many swimmers have placed in the top eight at their District meet, and at least one swimmer has been going to the Nationals for the past 20 straight years. Just this past week, a freestyle relay team qualified for the Nationals. Additionally, numerous swimmers he’s coached have gone on to swim competitively in college.

Just how many swimmers have there been, we wondered. In doing some quick calculating, Higley told us that in the first year as head coach, there were 30 kids. After that, it expanded to an average of 90 to 100 per year – multiplied by 34 years. That’s a lot of kids. He speaks proudly about some of those kids — adults now — who have gone on to graduate from the Naval Academy or are submarine officers, others who work in fire departments or are teachers.

The record board at the Y, Peachblossom pool, is a tribute to all of them and the team Higley nurtures. Even though it’s been updated many times, there are still unbroken records dating back to the late 90s. He credits the YMCA, which he calls the ‘hub of the community,’ its staff, his assistants, and the swim families for their commitment and dedication. But it’s the kids that still surprise him.

Higley chokes up when talking about the resiliency of the swimmers, those that swam and made it even though they were sick or injured. He is particularly proud of the team that stayed together despite the pandemic. “Everything was getting canceled,” he said, “there were no championships or meets being run. These kids could have said, ‘OK, now we’re going to do something else.’ But they didn’t; they all stayed together.”

With strict safety parameters and the Y’s approval, the teams kept swimming. “We competed virtually against other USA/YMCA Swimming teams across the country. We did that for a couple of years, and then we finally went to West Virginia for our first in-person meeting.”

The important thing is the memories being created, Higley feels. “They may not remember how fast they swam, but they will remember being with friends. In the end, it’s not about me; it’s about them and the pursuit of their goals.”

Debbie Gardner, Communications Officer for Talbot County Public Schools, is among Higley’s many fans. She’s seen his impact on her children when her family moved to Talbot County and were looking for ways to connect with the community. Her oldest son, then seven, took a swim clinic at the Y from Higley and decided to join the team. Her two other children also joined when they came of age. Gardner became a team mom volunteer, a position she still holds today, even though she no longer has children swimming with the team.

But she’s not the only one still involved. That seven-year-old is grown up now and volunteers as an assistant coach, as does her daughter. Gardner volunteers because she believes in the sport and the spirit of giving back. But most of all, she admires what the Coach has accomplished. “He is a champion of the sport and how it helps kids develop as human beings. He wants kids to succeed and progress in the sport. But more important to him is that they have a good experience and see good examples in terms of character and leadership, and team spirit. For Coach, it’s an important part of his own fulfillment as a person to have this connection with kids and know that he’s impacting lives beyond the times you see on the record board.”

Besides providing a broad and full experience on the team, Higley is also very dedicated to YMCA swimming, specifically because of the character that the YMCA mission brings to the table. “It’s a lot easier to navigate,” he said, “when you have a Y that comes along and says, ‘OK, do what you need to do for these kids.’”

And that’s a commitment that Wendy Palmer, Executive Director of the Easton Family YWCA, is happy to make.

Palmer met Higley 15 years ago when her daughters swam for TCY. She remembers how he always encouraged the kids to do their best and have some fun along the way. “Which is why,” she said, “everybody’s so drawn to him. He’s such an unbelievable coach! Even those who didn’t stick it out with swimming still remember Coach Higley and their relationship with him.”

Palmer also knows that Higley is uncomfortable being acknowledged or credited for the swim team’s success. “I really feel there are heroes in our community that just go unnoticed,” she said. “And you know, all the families that have worked with him and have seen him take such great care of their kids are going to agree, ‘yes, it’s about time others knew about this man.’”

Like Gardner, she attributes Higley’s enthusiasm and love for the sport as a motivating factor for the group’s accomplishments. “I feel the biggest thing is how he inspires the kids to feel joy,” says Palmer. “They don’t dread coming to practice; you can hear the enthusiasm when they enter the doors. When I sit in my office, across the hall from the pool, I hear the music pumping and the happy voices. The kids are glad to be here.”

So, after all this time, how much longer is Higley expecting to stay? “I told my wife I’d stay until our daughter graduated, and that was 12 years ago. So maybe a couple more years, but I don’t know. It’s these kids; they just kind of keep you coming back.”

To learn more about the TCY program, go to: https://ymcachesapeake.org/swim-team

The Day Paul Newman Saved Wye River Plantation

January 23, 2023 by Dave Wheelan

It goes without saying that the Wye River Plantation in Queen Anne’s County is one of Maryland’s significant historical landmarks. The home of William Paca, signer of the Declaration of Independence and early governor of the state, this remarkable farm, with almost four miles of waterline, remains intact as one of the most valuable conservation sites on the Mid-Shore.

It also has had a remarkable history well after Governor Paca’s passing.

Purchased in 1939 by Corning Glass heir Arthur A. Houghton, Jr. as a place to raise the endangered Wye Angus cattle and later to house the Wye Institute, the farm would become an essential partner with the University of Maryland for agricultural and conservation research.

Perhaps its most significant era was when Houghton donated the property to the Aspen Institute for its primary East Coast conference center. And for almost 30 years, Aspen became famous for hosting presidents, foreign leaders, international scholars, faculty members from nearby Washington College, and dozens of Fortune 500 CEOs. It also remained the residence for Arthur and his wife Nina, where they entertained the likes of Princess Anne and more recently when Nina made world news by giving sanctuary to six-year-old Cuban refugee Elian Gonzalez in 1999.

Given this impressive background, it was of no small interest to the Mid-Shore community when it was announced a few years ago that Aspen would be closing down the Wye campus. Almost immediately, there were concerns about who might take over the site, with the worst fear that it might fall into the hands of the wrong developer.

One of the most worried about Wye’s future was Jeff Horstman. With both his step-father and mother now deceased, the founding executive director of ShoreRivers, assumed the role of the family’s lead representative in working with Aspen to ensure the future protection of the farm.

And over the last few years, several non-profit organizations and small LLC firms have expressed interest in the site, but for a variety of reasons, a fix failed to materialize, which left the principals feeling real pressure to find a solution. That’s when Paul Newman saved the day.

While Paul himself has indeed passed away, his brainchild, the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp (think Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid), did come knocking serendipitously.

The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp in Connecticut was Paul Newman’s most beloved of the dozens of organizations he supported through his “Newman’s Own” profits. Born with the specific mandate to provide “a different kind of healing” to children with serious illnesses and their families, it began as a summer camp in 1988 and it now serves over 20,000 children and parents yearly with year-long programming and outreach.

Based on this remarkable success, the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp saw a real opportunity to serve the Mid-Atlantic region in the same successful way they had reached so many New England kids. At the same time, Horstman and the Aspen Institute saw a partner dedicated to doing good things and sharing the ecological values that the Houghton family had embraced.

The Spy recently talked to Jeff and Hole in the Wall Gang Camp CEO Jimmy Canton and it’s Chief Strategy Officer Pádraig Barry about the remarkable new partnership, the legacy of Paul Newman, and the famed actor’s insistence that the Camp be financially self-sufficient by limiting the revenue coming from pasta sauce to only about 1% from the foundation.

This video is approximately seven minutes in length. For more information about The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp please go here.

Good Enough by Laura J. Oliver

January 22, 2023 by Laura J. Oliver

When I was a little girl, I was convinced that if my belief was strong enough and my motives were pure, I would be able to walk right off the end of the pier and not sink. I’d step off the garage roof and fly. I’d sail off the rope swing over the river at Scott’s Ravine and be suspended in the hand of God. If I were a truly good person, without one inkling of doubt, I’d be able to heal Billy Wilkins, my fifth-grade classmate at Lake Shore Elementary.

Billy was swimming in the river one Saturday in mid-May before the sea nettles had drifted in from the bay, when his uncle ran over him with a powerboat. It was actually a wooden rowboat with a 25-horsepower outboard. Billy was in a coma and going to die so his desperate parents called their priest who strode into the ICU and commanded, “Billy! Wake up!” and Billy did, just like that.

Billy returned to Ms. Tydings’ class many weeks later. A tender pink scar on his forehead disappeared into his hairline, and he now spoke with great effort. His left arm dangled uselessly, as if pinned to his shoulder. It seemed to have shrunk. He dragged his left foot slightly sideways, like an injured bird that could not stop trying to fly. My heart broke every time I looked at him across the classroom, every time he stood to make his way to his locker or lunch. A tall boy, he sat slightly sprawled along the bulletin board wall, beneath pictures of smiling Presidents; I sat by the windows gazing out at the blacktop and the basketball hoops. A few weeks later, school let out for the summer.

One Sunday after church, my father called up the stairs to my room where I was changing to navy shorts, a white tee shirt and sneakers, to tell me I had a visitor. We lived out in the country with few houses around, and I hadn’t heard the crunch of car tires in the lane, so I was shocked to discover Billy shuffling in place on our concrete porch. He smiled without looking at me from beneath the silky hank of blond hair that perpetually hung in his eyes. The pink petunias my mother had planted in a large square bed next to the porch watched us in silence. Beyond him, wild plum bushes shouldered the woodpile as I stepped out to greet him. Sweaty, purposeful, and immensely pleased with his accomplishment, Billy had limped over two miles down Eagle Hill Road by himself.

I didn’t know what he wanted or why he had come. I was both afraid of and drawn to his damage. I was both flattered and ashamed to have been singled out.

We sat cross-legged on the spikey dry grass of my midsummer front yard and watched bees bob on white clover blossoms while I thought of ways to say I had to go inside, and Billy haltingly constructed one thought at a time. I glanced at his skinny left arm and imagined it growing healthy and healed at my touch. I imagined laying my palms over his crippled leg and Billy shouting with joy as he stood straight and strong.

The instinct to heal was innate and intense. It had been present all my life, this impulse to place my hands on the injured. The woman in the broken wheelchair at the Glen Burnie bus station, the drunk, crumpled to the sidewalk on a Baltimore street corner. But I was an anxious ten-year old. I worried about failing. I worried about succeeding and becoming full of myself. I worried about wasps trapped inside my bedroom window screens, math quizzes and leprosy.

I worried about having to marry Billy just to be polite.

After Billy’s visit I had a dream. I wanted to tell someone. I’ll tell you.

I was watching the sun set over the pasture behind our house, a blaze of rose, orange and gold. Suddenly the hand of God descended right through the clouds. I don’t know what else it could have been or how else to describe it. It just stayed there, poised over the neighboring lane and the bordering locust trees, the burden of their sweet blossoms, hanging low over the wide- plank fence. In my dream I witnessed this remarkable event from my bedroom window, sitting on my circus animal bedspread with the ball fringe.

God’s hand was huge, and it just stayed there without explanation–there was nothing to prove, no test to pass.

Looking back, I think that if it had been turned palm down, it would have been a blessing, a benediction over the whole bright-broken world. But it was extended palm up, which seemed to imply an invitation of some kind—not just for me, but for everyone. A possibility, a mystery, suspended over the world like a held breath.

Maybe love is an instinct to heal others in all of us. Maybe the longing we carry is to make each other whole.

To know that if we step off the edge of our fear of failure, we’ll fly.

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