Everybody on the Eastern Shore knows oysters matter. They clean the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, support watermen and oyster farmers, and sustain working waterfronts. After decades of effort, oyster populations in Maryland waters have roughly tripled since 2005, and Bay states recently met long-term goals for restoring reefs in key tributaries. That progress did not happen by accident — and it will not continue by accident.

Recent reporting in The Baltimore Banner detailed how the Trump administration, through the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), is cutting federal funding to the Horn Point Laboratory. Horn Point, on the Choptank River just outside Cambridge, operates the largest oyster hatchery on the East Coast and is part of the University of Maryland Center for Environmental Science. Over the past two decades, it has produced more than 18 billion juvenile oyster seed used to rebuild reefs across the Chesapeake and to support both sanctuary restoration and commercial oyster farming, with roughly a quarter of its production going to farms.

This is not a niche operation serving one county. Horn Point’s work has been studied and emulated by restoration efforts from Virginia to New York Harbor and beyond. It is applied science infrastructure, built here in Dorchester County, that supports a regional ecosystem and economy.

I have seen this work up close. In past seasons, I partnered with ShoreRivers and the Chesapeake Bay Foundation to grow oysters at my dock for sanctuary reefs, using spat set at Horn Point on recycled shell. The baby oysters were raised through their most vulnerable stage and returned in spring for planting on protected reefs. Like many volunteers, I spent cold winter weeks hauling cages out of the water and cleaning them so the juveniles could survive. It was hard, repetitive work — and a point of pride to support the Bay’s recovery in a tangible way.

NOAA has now reduced Horn Point’s annual federal support by about $340,000 — nearly a 45 percent cut from the roughly $740,000 it has received in recent years. Those dollars largely pay for the skilled staff who spawn oysters, run larval tanks, culture algae, and move spat onto reefs. The reduction hits in the final year of a four-year grant, and Horn Point scientists worry deeper cuts could follow. The hatchery now operates with what staff describe as a skeleton crew of eight full-time employees, and managers have warned that without replacement funding, layoffs may be unavoidable.

Some argue Maryland should simply replace the money, or that waterman fees should cover more of the cost. That misunderstands what Horn Point is. Oyster restoration in the Chesapeake has long been designed as a federal–state partnership because the Bay is a multi-state waterbody with national ecological and economic importance. NOAA’s Chesapeake Bay program funds work that benefits Maryland watermen, Virginia fisheries, upriver communities that depend on cleaner water, and downstream economies across the region. Treating Horn Point as a purely local subsidy ignores the broader public value it creates.

That is why this cut cannot be dismissed as “Maryland’s problem.” When Washington pulls back from shared investment in science and restoration, it leaves a few rural counties to absorb costs for work that benefits many. The result is not efficiency — it is erosion of a system that has taken decades to build.

That brings us to our congressional representative. Rep. Andy Harris supports an administration whose budget priorities include deep cuts to environmental and science agencies. When those priorities land on the Eastern Shore, he has chosen not to meet them with visible public opposition. Reporting indicates his office helped arrange a meeting between NOAA officials and Horn Point leadership after the cut became known, but there has been no public statement opposing the reduction, no announced effort to restore funding in Congress, and no clear plan to mitigate the harm locally. When asked for comment, his office did not respond.

Members of Congress do not sign every grant, but they do shape budgets and decide when to defend critical institutions in their districts. Fewer staff at Horn Point means fewer oysters produced, fewer sanctuary reefs rebuilt, and fewer opportunities for commercial growers who rely on hatchery seed — undercutting the work of volunteers, watermen, nonprofits, and state partners alike. At a moment when scientists believe the Bay’s oysters may be approaching a tipping point toward self-sustaining recovery, federal support is being pulled back from one of the institutions that made that possibility real.

Eastern Shore residents have invested too much — in tax dollars, time, and hard work — to watch that progress quietly erode. Silence, in the face of cuts like these, is not neutrality. It is a governing choice. And it carries real consequences for the Bay we are trying to restore.

Sarah Gavian lives in Dorchester County and has participated in oyster restoration efforts with ShoreRivers and the Chesapeake Bay Foundation.

One of the great, little-known crimes against humanity in 2025 was the BBC’s decision to block access to its radio broadcasts outside the United Kingdom. The stated reason was copyright concerns and the threat of litigation, which effectively shut down the BBC Sounds app for international listeners. Whatever the legal rationale, the result has been the loss of access to some of the most enriching and engaging programming in radio—particularly the documentaries and series produced by BBC Radio 3 and Radio 4.

There is, however, a simple workaround. By using a VPN to make your computer or phone appear as though it is located in England rather than, say, the Eastern Shore of Maryland, full access is restored. I encourage Spy readers to do just that and hear for themselves some of the best moments of our shared Western culture. I’ve included a brief “how-to” link below for anyone with a bit of holiday time and curiosity to spare.

There are countless programs to recommend, but the one I have been listening to over the past two days, which has given me so much personal joy, is BBC Radio 4’s series celebrating the 100th anniversary of the publication of A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, entitled Who Are You in Winnie-the-Pooh?

Illustration by Albertine Randall Wheelan

It includes interviews with well-known British children’s writers who spoke about why A. A. Milne’s stories still matter and why every human being should love this bear.

While I can’t recall any parental readings of the classic during my childhood, my family had a well-established love of bears, starting with one of our most cherished family objects: my great-grandmother’s illustration in St. Nicholas magazine in February 1909, long before Pooh ever existed.

I’ve had a soft spot for bears ever since.

In the early 1980s, during long drives through rural New England with my then-wife’s friend Karen, we often found ourselves without radio reception. To pass the time, we took turns reading aloud to each other and quickly agreed that humor was important. It was Karen who suggested we read Winnie-the-Pooh. Upon revisiting it as an adult, I discovered that it contains some of the sharpest, kindest, and most enduring humor imaginable, regardless of age.

Like many readers of the stories and guests on the show, I aspire (but rarely succeed) in being a bit like Pooh. Humble in intellectual capacity (“I am a Bear of Very Little Brain”), devoted to his friends (“We’ll be friends forever, won’t we, Pooh?” said Piglet. “Even longer,” Pooh answered), ready for revelry (“Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon”), and yes, always finding time for a “little something” to eat (“I wasn’t going to eat it; I was just going to taste it.”)

The ideal Pooh moves through the world without edge or pretense. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t scheme, and rarely rushes.

And Pooh gives us advice as we grow older and friends depart.

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”

Pooh thought for a little.

“How old shall I be then?”

“Ninety-nine.”

Pooh nodded.

“I promise,” he said.

Still with his eyes on the world, Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw.

“Pooh,” said Christopher Robin earnestly, “if I—if I’m not quite——” he stopped and tried again—“Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?”

“Understand what?”

“Oh, nothing.” He laughed and jumped to his feet. “Come on!”

“Where?” said Pooh.

“Anywhere,” said Christopher Robin.

So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

In the end, Winnie-the-Pooh endures not because it is clever, but because it is kind. It reminds us that friendship matters, that joy can be found in small rituals, and that being present for one another is its own form of wisdom. As the world grows louder, faster, and more certain of itself, Pooh offers a quieter example—one rooted in patience, affection, and the simple grace of showing up. Returning, even briefly, to the Hundred Acre Wood is not an escape from adulthood, but a way of remembering what makes it bearable.

You can learn how to get BBC radio in the United States by watching this video.