In case you haven’t noticed, change is in the wind. For some, it’s welcome; for others, it’s more than change. It’s chaos, and it’s frightening. But whether you like change or not, we’re in for a wild ride.

So, let’s pivot to permanence. Something rock-solid, something unmovable, maybe a place that will stand the test of time. A place of safety, a retreat, a refuge, protection from the gales that are starting to blow. I know: a castle!

The one pictured above is Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye in northwest Scotland. (You know how partial I am to Scotland.) The castle was first built in the 14th Century, and has developed piecemeal over the centuries. If you’re into genealogy or ancestry, Dunvegan is the seat of Clan MacLeod and the ancestral home of the MacLeod of MacLeod, chief of his clan. Some say it is the oldest continually inhabited castle in Scotland, and if that’s not permanence, I don’t know what is.

I know: stasis—equilibrium, if you will—is a rare commodity these days. Our attention spans are shrinking almost as fast as our insatiable appetite for change is expanding. Permanence is in short supply. More to the point, it’s becoming irrelevant. The world is bent on adaptation and change. After all, if things didn’t change, we’d all still be in the trees peeling bananas.

There was a time in my life when I craved change. Fluidity was exciting, and since time hadn’t yet become an issue for me, I surfed that wave. But no more. Now, I’m perfectly happy with my supper of peas and carrots (read ‘peace and quiet’) while I enjoy the immutable elements of my life: my home, my friends, my family. Oh sure, even these pieces of the puzzle are subject to evolution and change, but at least I retain the illusion that the pace of these life changes is slow enough that I won’t get trampled by them.

It was the French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr who coined the adage, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” (The more things change, the more they stay the same.) I wonder if Monsieur Karr would feel the same these days. It’s not just that the pace of change has accelerated, the scope of change has, too. Change is no longer incremental; it’s leapfrogging everything in its path, and if you don’t believe me, just fiddle with artificial intelligence and explore where we’ll all be ten years from now.

So, call me a dinosaur, but I’m disregarding the meteor that’s heading straight at us, and embracing what permanence I still can. In the wake of the election, I even tried to talk my wife into moving to Scotland, but that dog wouldn’t hunt unless the grandchildren came, too. I understood that, but I did go so far as to search through my photos for something that reassured me that permanence has not gone completely out of fashion, that basic values are not subject to whim, and that there is still a place where I can stand and move this troublesome earth, one small Musing at a time.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

The tall ships have come and gone. We’re no longer dreaming of the19th Century; we’re back to the harsh realities of the 21st…

Today is Tuesday; Election Day. For the past several weeks, we’ve been inundated with “I approved this message” attack ads and by all manner of political reporting. Each day is more venomous than the previous one. I’d like to think that we could get through today and begin to move on—to heal—but I know that’s a pipe dream. We’re in for another grotesque round of recrimination and violence so buckle up.

When the tall ships were on parade and in port over the weekend, it was easy to believe that our history was a pleasant dream, but we know that for many, it was a nightmare, living hell. Only a thin and fragile line separates good and evil, hope and horror. For the past few days, I lived in the dream that everything was going to be alright, but once all the tall ships sailed away, I found myself standing on a wobbly dock, wondering what’s coming around the bend just downriver from here, the place we call “Devil’s Reach.”

There is so much we take for granted: safe schools, good health, and fair elections with peaceful transitions of power spring immediately to my mind. The philosophy of Solipsism was founded in ancient Greece, and is based on the belief that everything in the universe happens only in the mind and is, therefore, just an illusion. At one time, I would have declared myself a realist, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe only good is an illusion; evil is the real way of this world.

No. We’ve come too far to give up now. Winston Churchill, an avowed monarchist, described democracy as “the worst form of government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.” John Adams was much less sanguine: “Remember: democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide. It is in vain to say that democracy is less vain, less proud, less selfish, less ambitious or less avaricious than aristocracy or monarchy.”

Despite the reality of climate change and global warming, I believe our lives are lived on thin ice. Sometimes it’s the decisions we make that influence the course of human events, but at other times, it seems to me that maybe the universe is at the mercy of Brownian Movement, those erratic, random motes of dust that are constantly swirling around us that turn the tide. I would like to think that my faith in my fellow citizens is strong enough to pull me through the next few days, but that’s the thing about dreams: sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish between what is real and what isn’t.

Those tall ships were real. And they were beautiful. They reminded me of what once was, not in any Pollyannish sense, but as a living snapshot of our past, for better or for worse. And I want to believe that this election is neither a dream nor a nightmare; that democracy won’t murder itself and that everything will be alright.

Please, God, make it so.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two couples—long-standing (not old)—friends came to visit us last weekend. None had ever been to Chestertown before. They had heard all the stories and probably wanted to see the town for themselves, and, in particular, to visit our porch which has been the scene of many fun gatherings over the years. Neither disappointed.

My wife and I enjoy showing off Chestertown. The weather certainly cooperated as we walked around town: the river sparkled and the trees blazed in all their autumnal splendor. The shops, galleries, and restaurants were their usual welcoming selves. The Halloween parade added just the right touch of nostalgia: memories of a simpler time when we dressed in costumes and went trick-or-treating. This place can leave a lump in your throat; it’s as American as pumpkin pie.

But the best was yet to come. As evening came creeping in, we dressed warmly and gathered on the front porch while we waited for the town to join us. My wife had prepared well: there was a warming buffet of chili, breads and cheeses, charcuterie, and spiced shrimp if we got hungry; plenty of libations if we needed to slake our thirst. But what mattered most, what made the evening glow, were the friends who stopped by, introducing themselves to the newcomers and making them feel welcome and at home. If laughter and stories are the paving stones of the roads to new friendships, our first-time visitors were well on their way.

Do you want to know what really shows off this town? It’s not just the architecture, or our thriving college, or our history and charm, our food and drink, or even the lovely merchandise in the shops, or our wonderful sidewalks made for strolling: these are the sights and sounds and smells that are the frosting on the cake that is an Indian summer afternoon. To me, what best shows off our town is all that lies beneath it: the folk that are from here and the people (like us) who have come here. It’s the spider’s web of human relationships that is stronger than steel here, a connectivity that is at once both delicate and unbreakable. It’s the bonds that hold us together.

I tried to put this into words for one of our guests, but it’s a difficult concept to express. This is an unpretentious town but it’s a town with aspirations. We don’t need a big box store; a revived riverside restaurant and a repurposed boutique hotel would do us just fine, thank you. I know we’re far from perfect; we may quibble and quarrel, but it never seems to get out of hand here. Underneath our differences, there is a layer of respect that provides for a soft landing. We opt for compromise, not confrontation. Tolerance and civility supersede indifference and partisanship.

When all is said and done, it’s the friends I have made here that anchor me to this porch, this home, this town. You can keep all the tea in China, just give me that fresh cup of friendship that is always brewing on the back burner here. I may not be as chatty as you-know-who, but it’s safe to say that when you walk by, I’m glad to see you and happy to share what I have with you.

I think that by the time our first-time friends left on Sunday, they took something of Chestertown home with them. I know they had a good time by what I took to the recycling center. But more than that, I think they “got” this place and when they said, “We should do this again,” they meant it.

In the days to come, let’s do everything we can to keep it that way.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

 

It’s October and pumpkins are everywhere: in patches, on porches, in pies, even in our coffee. (But not mine; I draw a sharp line after “black.”) Pumpkins are to October what turkeys are to November and the Grinch is to December. In a word, at least for the next couple of weeks, pumpkins are as ubiquitous as all those political attack ads polluting the airwaves in the remaining weeks leading up to the second Tuesday in November. Along with the aroma of pumpkin-spice lattes, there’s venom in the air.

According to Wikipedia—so it must be true, right?—pumpkins belong to the Cucurbitacae family which means they’re first cousins to cucumbers and melons. They are technically a fruit, yet nutritionally speaking, they’re more similar to vegetables. Pumpkins are starchy little devils, but they’re also rich in fiber and energy-providing carbohydrates. Because they’e loaded with potassium, vitamin A, and beta-carotene, pumpkins, ubiquitous as they are, do more good than harm.

Alas; the same cannot be said of attack ads. They are the devil’s sermons. They perpetuate hate, spread lies, and instead of educating voters, they drive a wedge between friends and neighbors. Even worse (if that’s possible), they create a tsunami of misinformation that makes the destruction visited on folk down in North Carolina and Florida by the likes of Helene and Milton pale in comparison. Truth goes missing, buried in storm surge and debris, and no amount of FEMA aid will ever uncover it.

While attack ads are a national disgrace, they’re a double disgrace here in Maryland where two seemingly credible Senatorial candidates have spent millions of dollars ripping each other apart. Money that could have been spent on educating voters about the candidates respective policies and ideas have instead have been diverted like sludge into the storm sewer. Don’t the paid politicos running these two campaigns understand the simple truth that misinformation is a snake in the grass, and that hate only begets more hate? We deserve so much better; we deserve to be informed, not manipulated.

Second alas: this screed will fall off on deaf ears. Attack ads are advancing, not retreating. They have become the bones of a political campaign, given breath by dark money and flesh by mass media. To make matters worse, we have only ourselves to blame. Whether we ridicule the attack ads or believe them, they get our attention, and in this media-driven world, that’s all that really matters.

So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about pumpkins. They might be ubiquitous, but they’re harmless. There was a time when I’d beg my parents to buy an enormous pumpkin for our front porch and let me lop off the top, scoop out the insides, save the seeds for roasting, and carve a gap-tooth smile into its orange facade. Once the candle was inserted and lit, I could step back and admire my masterpiece. It was a spooky nightmare made real, and it held a place of honor right on my own front porch. Kind of like one of those ubiquitous lawn signs that have sprung up everywhere like giant autumnal weeds. Oops, there I go again…

You know who I am and I approved this message.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

 

(Author’s Note: This is the fifth and final chapter of “The Dreamcatcher,” a serial story in this space. All previous chapters are available on my website: musingjamie.net)

 The last two-and-a-half decades of Tatu’s DeSouza’s life were spent in quiet contemplation at his hacienda in Tesuque Pueblo, a secluded and shady enclave just north of Santa Fe. He had never married and had no natural heirs so, at age 65, Tatu simply walked away. He liquidated his holdings in Dreamcatcher, Inc., gave away all the money away to schools, universities, and museums, and hired a new generation of entrepreneurs to run the company. Despite the fact that almost all of Tatu’s cherished patents on his Dreamcatcher device had expired, and that the very idea of such a gizmo (Tatu’s favorite description of his own device) had become commonplace, Dreamcatchers, Inc. still dominated the market. Tatu became a mythical and mysterious figure, a 21st Century version of Howard Hughes or Greta Garbo. That was just fine with him.

Still, the public and the world’s media were consumed with Tatu and his Dreamcatcher. Young entrepreneurs would trek to the gates of Tatu’s hacienda in New Mexico hoping to catch a glimpse of their hero. Renowned authors and journalists pleaded for the chance to write his life’s story. Ken Burns wanted to make a documentary. Women all over the world wrote him love letters. Tatu politely declined all such requests; he was content to live simply on a diet of tofu, vegetables and spring water, tending his gardens, taking long walks, and reading tomes devoted to the lives of Catholic saints.

Then there came a day when Tatu simply disappeared. Gone; vanished like a dream at dawn. No one, not even his majordomo, knew why he disappeared or where he had gone. There was no evidence of foul play so, after several months of public and private investigations that led to one dead-end after another, Tatu simply passed on into the rarified air of legend. No one doubted his invention—his Dreamcatcher “gizmo”—had changed the world in a way not unlike the voyages of Christopher Columbus, or the inventions of Nikola Tesla, or the plays of William Shakespeare, or the the statues of Michelangelo. But Tatu himself? Was he alive or dead?  If the former, what was he doing? If the latter, where was the body? Tatu had always loved a good mystery; now, he was one.

Or was he? A year after Tatu disappeared, a young Goan police constable was walking along Galgibaga Beach at dawn, making sure no one was disturbing the nesting places of the Olive Ridley sea turtles that loved the soft white sand of one of the world’s most beautiful and pristine beaches. The sun was rising. Small waves lapped the shoreline, rippling the crystal blue water of the Arabian Sea; a gentle breeze rustled through the fronds of the tall coconut palms that fringed the half-moon bay. Everything was as it should be: perfect.

At the far end of the beach, the constable came upon an old man asleep on the beach under one of the palm trees. This was neither unusual nor prohibited, for Goa was a forgiving place, and the man, neatly dressed in a white linen dhoti, was certainly not causing any trouble or disturbing the sea turtle nests. In fact, he seemed to be smiling. But as the constable came to say a respectful “Good morning, sir” to the sleeper, she noticed a pair of broken black spectacles and a trickle of dried blood that had seeped into the sand. Nearby was a coconut. It didn’t take the constable long to figure out what had happened. She called for an ambulance, but the damage had already been done. Oddly, the deceased bore no papers of identification.

Back at the substation, the constable filed a succinct report: an unidentified elderly man, no known name or address, had been found on Galgibaga Beach, the apparent victim of a falling coconut. The only clue to his identity was a small tattoo on the back of his right hand: a spider’s web. It looked vaguely familiar; it reminded the constable of the logo on her dreamcatcher.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.