Years ago, when we owned General Tanuki’s Restaurant, the health inspector, Margaret, stopped by for one of her routine visits. It was a raw, icy winter day, the kind when the cold rain seeps into your bones and the sidewalks glisten with a deceptively evil, slippery, shine. I remember greeting her at the door and grumbling about the miserable weather as she entered, her coat dripping, her clipboard tucked safely beneath her arm.

We had a wonderful rapport with Margaret; she was thorough, fair, and kind, a rare combination in her line of work. I tried to make light of the dreariness, muttering something about how days like this made me wish I’d stayed home by the fire. She smiled warmly, brushing the ice from her sleeves, and said, “You know, after surviving breast cancer, I don’t take a single day, or its weather, for granted.”

Her words stunned me. The hum of the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, even the hiss of the fryer seemed to fade for a moment. Here I was, fussing about the rain, while she had stared down something infinitely more daunting, and come out the other side with gratitude rather than complaint.

I never forgot that moment. Years later, karma had its quiet way of reminding me of her wisdom. After more than fifty days as a care partner to my husband during his stay at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I found myself needing time outside every single day, rain or shine, for my own sanity. The weather no longer felt like something to endure, but something to embrace, each drop of rain or ray of light a small reminder that I was still standing, still breathing, still grateful.

A study written by the Oncology Nursing Society has shown that Americans typically spend 90% of their time indoors. During the stress of the COVID-19 pandemic, many sought relief in the safety of the outdoors. Green spaces became a popular space for leisure, with a 291% increase in use during the shelter in place order. The study went on to state the mental health benefits of spending time outdoors, but most of us have reverted to the pre-pandemic lifestyle, more time inside and more stress.

Now that I’m home, I find myself outside as much as possible. The air is cooler now, perfect for long walks with my dog, the kind that quiet the mind and loosen what’s been held too tightly. It feels strange to realize that I completely missed most of August and September, as if those weeks were swallowed by hospital corridors and worry. There’s a gap in my memory, a stretch of time that exists only in fragments, the onslaught of doctors and technicians tapping on the door at all hours of the day or night, fluorescent lights, hushed voices, and the constant beeping of machines. The days and nights blurred into one long stretch of worry and waiting. Being outdoors again, I’m slowly remembering how to breathe in full sentences.

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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. 

Agent 99 made their way to Dover Street in Easton to document the hundreds of Mid-Shore residents who joined the nationwide “No Kings” protests on Saturday. As the images show, the participants were unmistakably local—neighbors rather than rumored outside agitators. Americans of all ages turned out with signs and slogans celebrating 250 years of living in a nation with no kings.

This video is approximately two minutes in length.

This time of year, there are lots of beautiful days for a bike ride to Oxford to catch the Oxford Ferry! This undated picture is a Found in Collection Talbot Historical Society image. Can you help identify any of these people who were Oxford Ferry travelers?

Contact: Cathy Hill [email protected] to share your old photos and purchase our collections photos. Comment, Like our page and join the Talbot Historical Society!

In the 1980s, when I was raising my children, landline phones were our lifeline. My yellow rotary phone hung on the wall in the kitchen, its long, coiled cord stretched across the room while we talked. There were no text messages or FaceTime calls then, just the familiar hum of a dial tone and the comfort of a voice on the other end.

Most evenings, after my babies were tucked into bed and the house finally grew quiet, I would call my mom. At that time, I was living first in California and later in Hawaii, while she was all the way in Wyoming. The distance between us felt enormous, but somehow, the phone made it smaller.

We would talk for over an hour, about the children, our family, her friends, my friends, the weather, what I was cooking, and how her garden was doing. It wasn’t the big news that mattered most, but the sound of her steady, loving voice. After I called her, she always said the same thing: “Hang up, I’ll call you right back.” She insisted on paying for the long-distance call, never wanting me to worry about the cost.

I always kept a notebook next to the phone, part reminder pad, part sketchbook. While we talked, I would jot down to-do lists, calendar reminders, or phone numbers, then fill the margins with little doodles and swirls. Those pages became a quiet record of our nightly conversations, my drawings looping across the paper as her words filled the room.

While exploring and expanding my painting and knitting skills this fall, I found an article about the therapeutic value of doodling.  Research has shown that engaging in  creative activities can activate the brain’s reward center, releasing dopamine, the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitter.

One of the most beautiful aspects of doodling is its ability to transform chaos into creation.  Doodling taps into the part of the brain that fosters self reflection and introspection, which can be profoundly healing. In a world that often demands swift solutions and immediate results, the power of doodling offers a different perspective.

At the end of our lengthy talks, my mom would often laugh softly and say, “Well, we’ve solved the world’s problems, so the only thing left to say is, I love you.” And that’s how every conversation ended, with love that reached across the miles, carried by a simple landline phone, a tablet full of doodles, and a mother’s voice that I can still hear in my heart.

Another mystery to be solved! What is this complex of buildings that was built c. 1940s or 1950s? Just found from its high-resolution image at the Talbot Historical Society that the corner sign says Idlewild Ave. and Hanson Street! We know H. F. Hallock was the General Contractor for the project and that it was built at a school crossing. My first thought was the First Baptist Church in Easton, but the building’s roof line, which is built further back, doesn’t match. It also appears that a third big building is being constructed closer to the corner. P.S. From the larger scan, it becomes clear that the framed construction is the central part of the Baptist Church that faces Idlewild Ave.

Photo from the Talbot Historical Society’s H. Robins Hollyday Collection. Contact: Cathy Hill [email protected] to share your old photos and purchase our collections photos. Comment, Like our page and join the Talbot Historical Society!

In the first days of our stay at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I wandered through every garden on the visitor’s map, searching for something to bring tranquility to a situation that I lacked control of. I couldn’t find the elusive Koi Pond at first, but when I finally did, it became my sanctuary. I returned to it again and again, sitting in the quiet, letting the still water and graceful fish bring me the peace I so deeply needed. Just being in nature was rejuvenating.

Near the end of our time there, my husband learned about the great statue of Jesus in the administrative building. Together we went in search of Him, and when we found Him, I was awestruck. The statue’s size and presence were magnificent, but even more, it seemed to hold a quiet strength that reached out and steadied me in a different way than the pond had. It was a gift to experience this Jesus with my husband, just as we had The David Statue in Florence, Italy years ago.

Now that we’ve returned to Johns Hopkins, I make it a point to visit Jesus every day. It has become a ritual of comfort and grounding, a reminder that even in difficult places, harmony and strength can be found when we seek them.

As a child, I often found church services long and tedious. Sitting still in a pew, listening to the sermon, I felt time stretch endlessly. It was no surprise that children had their own shorter service, we weren’t made for long stretches of silence and stillness. And yet, even in the midst of restlessness, there were parts of the liturgy that held me. I especially loved the pieces I had memorized, like the Doxology that always followed the Lord’s Prayer and came before the presentation of the alms. That rhythm was steady, almost ritualistic, and gave me a sense of security.

But more than anything, it was the music that gave the service its magic. Hymns filled the sanctuary with a force greater than words alone. The sound of so many voices joined together seemed to lift us all into another realm. Even as a child, I could sense that something larger was happening, something beyond the ordinary.

My favorite hymn was Onward, Christian Soldiers. I knew every word by heart. Whenever it was sung, I felt not only joy but also a sense of belonging, as if I had a part to play in something important. The words stirred me, urging me toward kindness, courage, and faith. To my child’s mind, it was not just a hymn but a call, to do good work for God, to try to live as a better person, to march through life with purpose.

As I grew older, I began to realize that this hymn carried meaning far beyond the walls of my childhood church. Onward, Christian Soldiers had accompanied moments of history. It was sung at a special service when Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt met before the United States entered World War II, a time when the world stood on the brink of immense change. Later, in 1969, it was sung at the funeral of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man remembered for his leadership in war and in peace. Each of these occasions layered new weight onto the words I had sung so innocently as a child.

The most personal moment came in 1972, when the hymn was sung at my father’s funeral. The familiar melody that had once been a source of childhood inspiration suddenly became a bridge between memory and grief. Hearing it in that setting bound me forever to its message, not only as a song of faith but as a thread that wove together history, family, and personal loss. What began as a child’s favorite tune had become, by then, a hymn of legacy.

I’ve come to see that music is where faith takes its deepest root. It bypasses intellect and goes straight to the heart. The hymns of my childhood still live in me, carrying echoes of pews too long to endure, moments of restlessness softened by melody, and flashes of wonder when voices rose together. They carry also the memory of my father, of great leaders, and of times when faith steadied people through uncertainty.

For me, church was never simply about doctrine or ritual. It was about the way music could transform an ordinary Sunday into something transcendent. It was about the way a child could be inspired to live kindly and with purpose simply by singing words with a congregation. And it was about how those same words, carried across years and history, could bring comfort and courage in the face of loss.

Faith, I have learned, is often remembered not in sermons or lessons, but in song. It lives quietly in the rhythm of life, in the stillness of a hospital garden, in the hush of morning light, in the places where our hearts are most tender.

For me, faith took shape in a quiet school of fish gliding through the Koi Pond, their movement steady and unhurried, a reminder to breathe and trust. It deepened again in the presence of the great statue of Jesus, standing tall and radiant, arms open as if to gather all the worry and weariness from those who came to Him.

Between the garden filled with hostas and the still gaze of Jesus, I found what words and lessons in church, could not give me an understanding that faith is not something we learn, but something we remember when the world falls silent around us.

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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. 

Based on recent intelligence reports indicating that Rock Hall has become one of the most popular communities on the Eastern Shore in recent years, the Spy assigned Agent 86 to conduct aerial reconnaissance to capture the town and the nearby Eastern Neck Island Wildlife Refuge for a close examination of these remarkable assets.

This video is approximately two minutes in length.

This Talbot Historical Society H. Robins Hollyday Collection photo was taken probably sometime in the 1930’s or 1940’s? This interesting truck lift was found at the J. McKenny Willis and Son plant on Brookletts Ave. in Easton, Maryland! Do you have any knowledge about what fall harvest crop was being dumped and what happened to it next?

Contact: Cathy Hill [email protected] to share your old photos and purchase our collections photos. Comment, Like our page and join the Talbot Historical Society!

October opens with Saturn, just about a week past opposition, high up in the eastern sky after dark and visible all night.  Look for it just below the nearly Full Moon on October 5th.  Full Moon is one night later.

This month the tilt of Saturn’s rings narrows so that only larger telescopes will reveal them clearly.  The variation of Saturn’s and Earth’s orbital planes around the Sun cause this.  Most of the time we, on Earth, are either above Saturn’s orbital plane, or below it.  But now we coincide with its plane from our point of view.

Saturn’s continues to be the guide for our finding Neptun through binoculars.  Centering the ringed planet in a binoculars field of view, Neptune may be seen at the outer edge of that field.  That would be at 11:00 o’clock if the field of view were a clock face.  Currently Neptune is 2.7 billion miles from Earth, while Saturn is 816 million miles away!

On the night of October 9/10 the Moon, just 3 days past Full, will appear to pass through the Pleiades open star cluster in the eastern sky.  It will temporarily block several of the Pleiades stars, especially between 11 pm and 1 am that night.

Jupiter comes up in the eastern night sky around 12:30 am local time on October 1st but will be well up in the east before midnight by October 31st.  Jupiter appears below and left of Gemini’s two brightest stars, Castor and Pollux.  The waning crescent Moon will be above Jupiter in the early morning hours of October 13^th before dawn.

Jupiter always pleases sky-watchers with telescopes because of its colorful cloud bands.  Watching Jupiter with patience over several minutes through the eyepiece will reveal other swirling details in its active atmosphere.

Brilliant Venus continues to shine in the eastern sky before dawn, but its altitude is shrinking as its orbit is bringing it around between us and the Sun.  Next month it will be lost in the glare of the Sun for a while.  Note the crescent Moon near Venus on October 19^th and near Spica, brightest star in Virgo on October 31st.

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Dennis Herrmann developed a life-long interest in astronomy at an early age and got his first telescope at the age of 12. Through his 43 years of teaching at Kent County High School he taught Astronomy and Earth/Space Science and coached track and field and cross country. He led and participated in numerous workshops on astronomy at the Air and Space Museum (DC), the Maryland Science Center, and the Mid-Atlantic Planetarium Society. He loves sharing and explaining the night sky to increase understanding and enjoyment of it to folks of all ages.

Most people who know our family know, or quickly learn that my father-in-law was John General. John was not only a devoted husband, father, and grandfather, but also a man deeply committed to the life of his community. He loved his adopted hometown of Easton and worked tirelessly to give back to it. 

One of John’s proudest accomplishments was bringing the Avalon Theatre back to life. At a time when the Avalon’s doors were nearly closed for good, John and his wife, Ellen, refused to let it fade away. Despite many naysayers, they spearheaded its revival, shouldering the work, the responsibility, and very often, the cost. For a lengthy period, John personally paid many of the theater’s bills out of his own pocket to keep it afloat, because he believed Easton deserved a vibrant cultural space.

John’s commitment went far beyond writing checks. He would finish a full day at his office in Arlington, then drive all the way to Easton just to be at the Avalon for performances. It mattered deeply to him, not just that the theater survived, but that it thrived, that the lights stayed on, and that people could gather together in a place he loved.

John loved the town of Easton so much that he had a gorgeous, velvet Santa Claus costume custom made so he could take part in the yearly Christmas parade. He didn’t just want to support Easton, he wanted to bring joy to it. One year, his granddaughter, Cece walked alongside him as his elf, handing out candy canes to the children lining the streets. It’s a memory our family treasures and it perfectly captures the spirit of who John was: generous, playful, and deeply connected to his community.

In addition to the Avalon, John served his community in many other ways. He sat on numerous boards, always offering his time, expertise, and leadership whenever he saw an opportunity to make a difference. His influence extended well beyond the theater touching many aspects of community life in Easton. 

The truth is that without John and Ellen’s commitment, there might not even be an Avalon Theatre today. And yet, many of the current staff and patrons are unaware of this history. The thriving venue people enjoy now stands on the foundation they built with their vision, their labor, and their personal sacrifice. That history matters, and it deserves to be remembered.

As his family, we were proud to stand alongside John, volunteering our time whenever we could. My husband, Matt stuffed his six foot six inch frame into an Easter Bunny suit one year to greet theater goers at a children’s play, a sight that made everyone laugh but perfectly captured the spirit of the early days; doing whatever it took big or small to support John’s vision. Matt and my youngest son, Stuart were often seen out front of the Avalon placing the letters on the marquee announcing upcoming shows, often in inclement weather. It was never just about helping out, it was about supporting a dream that he made real through sheer determination.

That love of theater has carried forward. Our daughter, Cece, who earned her degree in theater at college in London, is now continuing that legacy in her own way. In its third year, her theater company, The Factory Arts Project nurtures creativity and supports the arts. Taking the baton from Marie U’Ren and Kate Levy, Cece has become the curator of Easton’s extensive costume  collection. The Factory, in its new location on Hansen Street in the Mill Place building proudly houses the costume shop, library, and prop and set piece inventory. Cece has also directed three original plays by Casey Rauch based on the ghost that haunts the Avalon. Each year, these productions played to sold-out audiences inside the Avalon itself, adding a new chapter of storytelling to the very place her grandfather fought so hard to save.

John’s legacy is woven into the Avalon and into Easton itself. The Avalon’s lights, its stage, and its community are all a reflection of his belief in the power of the arts to bring people together. His name and Ellen’s name should always be part of that story.

 

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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.