Well, friends, the world sure got a little crazier since I was here last week. I mean, can you believe it? The new Pope is an American, and from the South Side of Chicago, no less! Pope Leo XIV may have spent a third of his life serving the people of Peru, and another third of his life deep in the quiet recesses of the Vatican, but c’mon: the White Sox haven’t looked this good since Shoeless Joe Jackson was in the lineup!

Meanwhile, over at the White House, Santa Clause apparently no longer resides at the North Pole but instead in Doha, Qatar, and he just delivered an early Christmas gift to the President: a brand, spanking new Air Force One that comes with absolutely no strings attached, even to the reindeer who’ll be pulling it on countless trips to Mr. Trump’s personal golf properties or down to Mar-a-Lago for the weekend! Thank you, Sheik Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, and a very merry Christmas to you, too!

Closer to home, our very own little property here on the Eastern Shore continued to observe its own special Mother’s Day tradition. We call Mother’s Day “Mulching Day” and we celebrate it by loading eleven inordinately heavy bags of black mulch into the back of the car, then unloading and opening the same into several iterations of a broken plastic wheelbarrow so that my wife—mother of two, grandmother of eight—can spread it all around the back and front yards under my patient and loving supervision. We also planted four new boxwoods in front of the porch, a new row of white begonias in front of them, and all kinds of bright new flowers in the big stone planters by the front steps. The lawn got mowed (I did that!), and another large bag of weeds went out to the curb, ready for pickup. My back is tired and my fingernails are dirty. Believe me: it’s not easy being a supervisor!

But then, of course, we had to clean up. We put away all the tools (which really means we had to reorganize the shed again), swept another dune of pollen off the porch, and recoiled at least a mile-and-a-half of garden hose because, as I’m sure you know, no project is really ever done until there’s no evidence there was a project in the first place. We aim for the appearance of effortless upkeep, a skill many dream of, but only a lucky few ever master.

But I have to say: I love seeing our house emerge from its annual winter doldrums and step sprightly into spring. Apparently, passersby do, too. My wife is far too modest to boast about all her hard work, but I enjoy basking in the glow of all the compliments we get from the folk who stop to admire her handiwork. I just flick a little water on my face to make it look like I’m sweaty and humbly accept the kudos they toss over the fence. “Yes; it really does look nice, doesn’t it? Thank you!”

And meanwhile, this crazy world continues to spin. This just in: remember those 145% tariffs the President imposed on China? Well, they just got slashed to 30% because “neither side wanted a decoupling.” Even Shoeless Joe wouldn’t take that bet!

So stay tuned: it really is a crazy world out there! I wonder what’s next…

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. 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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s that time of year: some atavistic impulse kicks in and we all go off on a cleaning tear. Maybe we’re just shaking off the winter doldrums, or maybe it’s all that green pollen that coats everything, our noses and throats included. Or maybe it’s just that we want a clean, fresh start, and what better time to do that than now, when this lovely planet is doing its own version of spring cleaning: trees in bud, bulbs blooming, grass growing—everything is regenerating and rejuvenating after months of dormancy and despair.

At home, I should have seen it coming. A week ago, my wife said she wanted to touch up a “one or two” spots in the kitchen with some fresh paint. Well, give a mouse a cookie and pretty soon, everything was off the walls and a major project was underway. A few days later, same thing, same room, but in our other home over on the Western Shore, except this time, everything had to come off all the counters and out of all the kitchen drawers and cabinets. All the silverware, all the plates and glassware, the coffee pot, the blender, the toaster oven, the fruit bowl…EVERYTHING. Them, of course, EVERYTHING needed a temporary place to reside which means that the dining room began to look like the Beltway during rush hour—all backed up with no place to go. Fortunately, two professional painters came to our rescue, so my wife was promoted to supervisor and the work got done in just two days. However, three more days later, the mouse and I are still in the process of moving things back to where they were, albeit with a little culling of the herd. Decluttering is good for the soul.

Remember that mouse who wanted a cookie? Now, she wants a glass of milk. This time her target is the porch that’s covered with last year’s dead leaves and this year’s whirligigs and pollen. That means everything has to come off so that our handyman friend can now paint the floor of the porch (we’re still over on the Western Shore, mind you) while we hose off all the wicker furniture which we’ve temporarily stacked in the driveway where the cars used to be. At one point,  I couldn’t find something I needed and began to mutter and moan. “What’s the matter?” my wife asked. I said, “Nothing, dear,” never daring for a moment to tell her that what I wanted to do was to stake my claim in the easy chair in front of the television so I could celebrate Easter by watching another golf tournament. Nothing says “Christ is risen!” like watching golf on TV.

Anyway, it’s probably true that once everything gets reassembled and properly stowed away, we’ll feel a modicum of satisfaction because we’ve done our duty and are on track to properly greet the new season. Nope; not so fast. Now that Mother Nature is awake and active again on the Eastern Shore, there’s a backyard full of work to do over there: weeds to pull, edges to cut, mulch to spread, and grass to mow. Fortunately, we know another guy whose back is strong and whose rates are reasonable so, like a baseball manager making his second trip to the mound in the same inning, I’ve signaled to the bullpen for my ace relief pitcher without a pang of regret or remorse. We’ll share the fun!

John Wesley, the father of Methodism, claimed that “cleanliness is next to godliness.” Well right now, I’m feeling especially godly, so on this spring Sunday afternoon, I’m finally going to sit down and watch a few grown men attempt to roll a small white ball into a hole with a flat stick. The mouse and her next spring cleaning project will just have to wait.

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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

I admit it: I spent most of last weekend watching The Masters. I assume most everyone is familiar with The Masters—the first of the golfing world’s four annual “major” tournaments. It takes place at the Augusta National Golf Club, a storied property in Georgia, and it comes at a time when those of us who live “up north” are desperate for spring. The Masters more than delivers spring in all its color and glory. Each of the eighteen holes on the property are named for a tree or flowering shrub, and the lush green fairways are always a promise of better weather ahead. Add to that splendid vernal picture, the history of the game, our nostalgia for its past champions, and the soothing theme music written by Dave Loggins that seems to waft thought the tall Georgia pines that line the fairways, and you find yourself transported to another, more peaceful world, a place without tariffs or even a hint of malice. It doesn’t last forever, but it is a welcome respite from the din and constant chaos of the moment.

And this year, there was another compelling storyline to The Masters. Rory McIlroy, an Ulsterman and one of golf’s most popular superstars, was on a quest to complete the Career ‘Grand Slam,’ a victory in each of golf’s four major tournaments. The Career Grand Slam is the holy grail of professional golf; only five players had ever achieved the prize: Gene Sarazan, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tiger Woods. By 2014, Rory had three of the four majors under his belt, but the fourth—The Masters—has eluded him for the past eleven years. He had come tantalizingly close, only to fail at the last. Would he ever finally reach the summit?

I don’t want to bore you with the details leading up to Sunday’s final showdown. Rory had played well, and at the start of the final day, he had a two-shot lead over Bryson DeChambeau. Other notables—Scottie Scheffler, Ludvig Åberg, Patrick Reed, and Justin Rose—were well within striking distance. Would this finally be Rory’s year, or would he stumble again? We would know soon enough.

When Rory doubled bogeyed the first hole on Sunday and his playing partner Bryson made par, there was suddenly a tie atop the leader board. And there was a feeling in my throat, a lump, that fear of failure that haunt us all. Some people may find golf boring or elitist or both, but the final round of this year’s Masters had all the toppings of a consummate Greek tragedy. The gods on Olympus were once again conspiring to thwart Rory’s dream, denying this mere mortal his dream of joining golf’s pantheon. And even worse: they would make Brash Bryson the cupbearer of defeat.

But that didn’t happen. DeChambeau crashed and burned, while Rory was all grit and resilience. He rose, he fell, and rose again. And on the final hole of regulation play, when only a putt of a few feet stood between him and victory, he fell again. He looked painfully drained, maybe even defeated.

And now Rory is in a sudden-death playoff with Justin Rose, a worthy opponent who had seen his own share of ups and downs over the previous three days. At the end of his round, Rose sunk a difficult twenty-foot putt to reach 11 under par. Twenty minutes later, when Rory missed his par putt on 18, there was another tie atop the leader board. A playoff, sudden-death; the gods could not have written a better script.

On the first playoff hole, both men hit commendable drives and then even better approach shots. Rose had about twelve feet for his birdie; Rory was inside him, only five feet away. Rose’s putt just missed; he tapped in for par. Now it was Rory and history, face to face. The nerves, the lifelong dream, all the hard work and disappointments along the way. But then, with a single sure stroke, Rory’s putt dropped in the hole and it was over. Rory won. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. It all came pouring out and now there are six members of the Career Grand Slam Club.

Golf is a silly game. If you ever want a good laugh, watch Robin Williams’ monologue on the genesis of golf in Scotland. It’s profane, it’s ribald, it’s maniacal, but it will make you laugh until you cry. Just like the game itself.

Congratulations, Rory!

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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

One of the many reasons I like this time of year is that it’s when we emerge from our winter burrows and begin to sniff spring. We’re tentative at first; we know how ephemeral, how quirky, spring can be. All this talk about lions and lambs, April showers and May flowers leaves us wondering if any part of spring is reliable. But with each new day, we come closer to the truth of spring: its effervescence, it’s optimism, its annual promise. And what really seals the spring deal for me is night talking, particularly with friends on the front porch in hushed voices. Makes me feel like we’re all by ourselves in some candle-lit Gothic cathedral, whispering secrets only the angels can hear.

Of course, sometimes the conversation can get a little rowdy; spring has that effect on people. Blame it on the wine, or maybe some medicinal herbs, or just plain old-fashioned human enthusiasm. Whatever or whoever turns up the dial doesn’t really matter; it’s a common enough reaction to the end of a long, cold winter and the beginning of that time of year when we shed all those heavy, dull clothes for something lighter and more colorful, and boots and wool socks for flip-flops or bare feet. Passers-by must wonder: what time do those people go to bed? Don’t they have to work tomorrow? Good questions!

Night talking—the porch variety—comes in many different shapes and sizes, It can be light or heavy; moody or cheerful; funny or serious; secretive or public. Perhaps we think that because it’s dark outside, we need to be more forthcoming than we do in daylight. Facial expressions don’t carry much weight after nightfall, so words have to be more like meteors arcing through the nighttime sky. And touch means more after dark…but you knew that.

I haven’t dabbled much with Artificial Intelligence, but what the heck, I thought, let’s give it a try; might find a nugget. So, I requested a poem about night talking and this is what I got about one second later:

The world is hushed, a somber scene,

As twilight fades and darkness keen

Invades the air, a velvet cloak,

Where secrets sleep, and shadows spoke.

 

But in this hush, a different sound,

A gentle murmur, soft and profound,

Two voices rise, a whispered plea,

In the quiet space, just you and me. 

 

No need for words, a knowing glance,

A shared emotion, a silent dance,

The night unfolds, a canvas wide,

Where hearts connect, side by side. 

 

The moonbeams dance, a silver stream,

Reflecting thoughts, a waking dream,

In this hushed hour, we find our space,

In the quiet night, a loving embrace.

 

The stars above, like watchful eyes,

Observe our words, as time flies,

A symphony of shared delight,

In the magic of the silent night.

I was, you might say, gobsmacked. OK, so maybe it’s not Shakespearean or even Nashian, but I did begin to wonder if maybe there was something to this AI magic after all. Here I sit, week after week, year after year, struggling to produce another week’s Musing for you and you and you, but now, all of a sudden, with just the touch of a button or two, out pops a few verses worthy of recitation…to friends…on the porch…late at night.

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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

Harry Truman was my first President. I don’t remember much about him. After all, I was only two months old when he held up that newspaper headline that said “DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN,” so not much about the little haberdasher from Missouri made its way into my infant skull.

Ike was next. Like everyone else, I liked him: his golf spikes, his love for playing bridge with Mamie, his passion for Western novels. I even saw him once when he came to Pittsburgh in 1959 with Nikita Khrushchev, riding up Forbes Avenue, smiling and waving from the back seat of his convertible. I was with my fifth-grade teacher at the time. “Why is the President with that bad man who wants to drop a bomb on us?” I asked. I don’t remember her response, but it just didn’t make sense why President Ike would look so happy sitting next to such a bad man.

Things changed. I grew up in a Republican household, but I was smitten with John F. Kennedy. He was handsome, athletic, funny; he had a pretty wife. That’s when I began to wean myself away from the Grand Old Party. I had nothing against it per se, but Kennedy’s opponent that year scowled a lot and perspired under pressure, so I presumed that all Republicans scowled and sweated.

I was at boarding school when President Kennedy was assassinated, in fact, the same school he had once attended. I remember every second of that day: my trip to the laundry, the faces of the ladies who worked there as they stared at the television, my own shock and the tears that ran down my cheeks that afternoon as I sat alone in the chapel. To this day, it may well have been the seminal moment of my life.

LBJ came next. I didn’t much like him: too many jowls and he was President only because my hero had been murdered. However, there were some good things about him—his commitment to civil rights, for example—but in the end, he was too engulfed in Vietnam, and the Chicago police were cracking too many protestor heads. I wavered.

I had come of age. For the first time, I could vote in a Presidential election. But I didn’t much like any of the choices: the scowler/sweater, the bigot from Alabama, and LBJ’s Vice-President, Hubert Humphrey. He seemed nice enough, just uninspiring. I voted for him anyway.

The next go-round it was ABN: anybody but Nixon who was still sweating, still scowling.  I liked George McGovern and his running mate, Sargent Shriver, had, like me, Peace Corps credentials. I lost again.

In 1976, I think I voted for Jimmy Carter, but I’m not sure. I sure would vote for him today: what an amazing post-Presidency!

I entered the wilderness: I bet on John Anderson in 1980 and lost. I lost again in 1984 when I cast my vote for Jesse Jackson instead of Walter Mondale. Lost again in 1988 with tank-riding Mike Dukakis. But in 1992, things finally went my way with the Arkansans. I remember thinking I had finally crawled out of the desert and could take a shower.

Eight years is not a long time in politics. Soon enough, the worm turned again when George Bush beat Al Gore by a hanging chad. Four years later, he beat John Kerry. Once again, I was back in the desert, only this time with some dubious types who got us into deserts of their own making in Iraq and Afghanistan because we were told they had weapons of mass destruction. Only they didn’t.

Then, just when I was beginning to think I would never be smitten again, along comes Barak Obama and I was back on the winning side.

I felt good about my chances in 2016, but I underestimated the man. Hilary underestimated him, too, and went down in flames. All of a sudden, I was back in the desert. No; not a desert; an alternate universe which made absolutely no sense. Nothing could be worse, or so I thought…

Joe Biden was a good and decent man. I was happy when he prevailed in 2020. But by the summer of 2024, it was apparent to me, he was fading. I thought Ms. Harris would prevail, but once again, I underestimated the man and the fervor of his base.

And so here we are, sitting in a chat room full of frat boys, playing with our phones, smeared with shade, on a ship of April Fools. Sigh.

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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

Last month, America’s most famous rodent, Phil, emerged from his den, turned around, and went right back to bed. I think I know how he felt. I want to go back to bed, too. Not for a few weeks, mind you, but for the next three-plus years.

Phil lives up on Gobbler’s Knob, near Punxsutawney in Pennsylvania. Tradition has it that if Phil emerges from his den on February 2nd—his very own day!—and sees his shadow, somehow he concludes there will be six more weeks of winter and goes back to bed. That’s a surprisingly logical conclusion for a rodent. The whole show—which is organized by a shadowy group of tuxedoed and top-hatted men known as the “Inner Circle,”—is based on a light-hearted communal suspension of belief founded on the assumption that Phil knows what he’s talking about because he is the same groundhog who has been predicting the weather since 1887. That would make Phil 138 years old, and while I have no idea what the lifespan of a groundhog is, 138 seems a bit much to me. I guess I need to learn how to suspend my belief.

Phil has quite a cult following. His “Inner Circle” of friends ostensibly speak Phil’s language. They know what he’s saying and how to translate his mumble chuck which is called ‘Groundhogese’ into a coherent message the rest of us can comprehend. However, it is only the President of the Inner Circle who truly understands what Phil is saying because only he possesses the mystical cane made of acacia wood that translates Phil’s gobbledygook into words his press secretary can understand, enabling him (or her) to read the proper scroll that will inform the entire world about the duration of winter. The message is then dictated to all Phil’s ‘phaithphil phollowers’ around the world, especially the ones carefully listening in Russia who certainly know a thing or two about winter.

You’ll be glad to know that Phil is not a lonely phellow. He is married to Phyllis, a sultry female groundhog who was once an “actress” in adult philms. For most of the year, Phil and Phyllis live in a climate-controlled environment in the back of the Punxsutawney Public Library. (I’m not making this up!) But wait! Just last year, Phil stunned his Inner Circle by siring two babies, I assume with Phyllis. Before that time, the Inner Circle believed that groundhogs would not breed in captivity, but they must have underestimated Phil’s powers of persuasion. As a result of the babies’ birth, Phil and Phyllis will soon permanently move to a climate-controlled burrow up on Gobbler’s Knob. The Inner Circle has made it clear that neither of the two babies can ever inherit their father’s prognosticating position. Phil is Groundhog for Life and remember, he’s 138 years old and shows no signs of slowing down!

I know this all sounds like a lot of hooey, but nearly half of America believe in Phil and think they understand his strange Groundhogese. As for me, I’m done with this long, cold, lonely winter. Maybe now that we’ve sprung an hour ahead, things will begin to change. I’ve seen plenty of signs. In fact, just a few days ago, two 19th Century sailors were walking down the street in front of our house, toting the mast of Sultana, the town’s schooner, which was derigged back in November.

Take that, Phil.

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 most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.