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November 26, 2022

The Talbot Spy

The nonprofit e-newspaper for the Talbot County Community

Arts Delmarva Review Top Story

Delmarva Review: The Entropy of Little Things by Martina Kado

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Author’s Note: I live just outside of Baltimore, in a historically blue-collar neighborhood surrounded by water and wildlife. Sometimes it feels like living in a novel Gabriel Garcia Márquez and Kurt Vonnegut could have written together: filled with the magic and tragicomedy of the universe. As people and animals were dying around me, I wrote this narrative meditation on the disheartening matter-of-factness of transience and finding comfort in tiny acts of kindness and each new day.

 

The Entropy of Little Things

PEOPLE GIVE US LIVING THINGS. Things I don’t know how to take care of. It is customary when one moves into a new home. A shamrock hibernates, I learned. It is also not Irish, but South American: people just call it “shamrock” because of how the leaves are shaped. The tomato plants love the sun: both of ours grew tall and bore fruit, which we heartily consumed in salads. The hydrangea is supposed to go to a shady spot in the ground. You can alter the color of the flower petals by adding different chemicals to the soil. The oak saplings, which were a gift meant to be a reminder of their centenarian namesake at our previous house, did not make it through winter. You have to pluck the dead flowers off a petunia to make room for more. The coxcomb rallied itself after wilting away at first. The orchid has not blossomed since I got it as a birthday present but has three keikis; getting it to bloom again will be my next challenge. 

I obsess over these things I don’t know how to take care of. The feeling of responsibility is overwhelming. 

We live at the end of a dead-end street, tucked away between two marinas, in the shadow of Bethlehem Steel and its blue-collar pride and mesothelioma. Marsh wedges through our property. A wall of trees, reeds, and honeysuckle surrounds us in summer, illuminated by fireflies; when the leaves are gone in winter, we can see the water and the boats. Our neighbors have roosters and guinea hens. Snapping turtles knock on our door in the morning, fighting our brooms as we gently coax them back into the marsh. Our home is a humbling battleground between human hubris and nature’s quiet, relentless patience. 

“What’s that swimming in the pool?” my Storyteller said. 

It was a rabbit. With no idea how long it had been drowning, he scooped it up immediately and cradled it in a towel. We spent the day taking turns nursing it and making sure the Domestic Long Hair didn’t notice. 

The Domestic Long Hair brings us living things. Things I don’t know how to save. The fledgling dove, accompanied by the mother as they walked carefully around the backyard looking for bushes in which to grow out of its adolescence, left as an offering at our front door. Countless mice, which served as toys before meeting their doom, beyond help. Multiple rabbits, still alive and injured in various places on their frail bodies, which we tried to patch up and nurse and release, but were dead and cold in the morning as I opened the door to the back bedroom where we kept each one. Domestic cats have a kill rate of 32 percent, and they only eat 28 percent of the kills. But to be honest, we haven’t really had a success story. 

I’m a country girl. I grew up on a farm, waking up to the sound of pigs being led to slaughter. I held chickens in my arms, tracing the bend of their wings with my fingers. When the time came, I watched my grandmother chop their heads off for soup. It was a treat to be given a boiled chicken foot as a snack as I ran around the yard looking for my next adventure. I plucked fleas off cats and popped them between my fingernails; picked full ticks off dogs and threw them in the fire (that’s where they go). Drank milk straight from the cow’s udder. Slept in a room with the top of the armoire filled with pickled vegetables, my hands smelling of dill and peppercorn. There is no perfume that could match the smell of horses for me. I understand the beauty and cruelty of life’s cycle. “We are all consumers,” a friend said recently. 

But I’m a country girl with a PhD, and I have never killed for sustenance. I didn’t have it in me to become a veterinarian. I don’t know how to grow food. I wrote a dissertation about ships and sailors, but I have never sailed. I drive past the Church Hospital where Edgar Allan Poe died on my way to work every day and study words for a living. 

Cottontails don’t burrow, I found out. They nest. If they are the size of a softball, they can fend for themselves. The best thing you can do for one is leave it alone or send it back to nature as soon as possible. 

The rabbit spent the day sleeping in a box. His heart was beating fast, and his breathing was shallow. He also became a “he” to us during this time. As evening approached, I realized we wouldn’t be able to release him yet, which diminished his chances of survival. We put him in the Domestic Long Hair’s crate for the night, snuggled in a new towel. I left baby spinach leaves in one corner and a plastic lid of water in another. He moved around, ate, and left tiny droppings all over the crate. He rallied. He would make it through the night, and we would release him first thing in the morning. 

“It’s a hard world out there for the little things,” my Storyteller said as we buried him next to the garage the following day. It’s Raising Arizona, but it’s true. 

I had found the rabbit’s little body cold and stiff in the crate, his eyes half-open. He had moved during the night and looked surreally comfortable, deceptively at peace. He had eaten, drunk water, left more droppings. An image of still life, the little machine with its inputs and outputs, the entire assemblage looked insultingly animated. The defeat was overwhelming. I had woken up hopeful, willing him to be alive, planning to release him back into the wild, all the while blowing raspberries at the Domestic Long Hair, “Some apex predator you are, oblivious of prey right under your nose!” 

We buried the rabbit as Storyteller’s Stepmother made arrangements for home hospice, in the shadow of her New England pride and multiple myeloma. Five years into stem cell transplant and chemotherapy, she took back the reins. She stopped eating and was seeing people outside the living room window, drifting between worlds. She was asking her spouse to come with her. 

My Storyteller is grieving. I have never seen him so sad. He believes in Yeatsian gyres and that the memory of one’s returns makes one better. I believe in physics. Bodies in space. Atoms repelling and attracting. Quantum entanglement. Any spirituality that can be explained with particles and waves, I will take it. 

But it’s the entropy that kills me. The tendency of the universe toward disorder. Of warmer bodies to get colder until the system reaches equilibrium. Life seems to be a permanent Redshift to me, a constant, irreversible moving away from one another. 

Ancient Greeks paid a lot of importance to how one died. The Iliad, I remember fondly, was little more than a collection of individual quests for the most noble, heroic death. It does decode one’s life in hindsight, doesn’t it? That first blood test, decades ago, when they told you there was a protein, element, or whatnot that would eventually show itself. The prophecy and its fulfillment. 

Should I not have fed him spinach? Or given him water— perhaps he was still suckling and I have no idea what size softballs are? Should we have released him right away? Or not had a pool in the first place? (We are not rich; it came with the house.) Different choices that in a different multiverse would have led to different outcomes raced through my brain as we both wiped away tears and Storyteller shoveled dirt on top of his little body wrapped in the towel in which he’d died. They are stress- ridden animals and can expire at the drop of a hat. There are many of them. There would be more. It’s the equilibrium of nature. 

The Domestic Long Hair kills for sustenance, but also for sport. We give him blues nicknames like Mudfoot and Waterbelly as he drags the marsh into the house. We also call him Mr. Murder. He doesn’t need us to survive, but he, too, is a little thing. There are so many big things out there that could hurt him. He will chase a rival cat up a tree and stare down a boxer three times his size, then hide in the closet at the faint sound of a lawnmower and meow frantically to be let in the house when Labor Day fireworks go off. 

That just might be the only thing I’m good at: taking care of apex predators because they take care of themselves. 

She never got in the hospital bed. She died in her recliner, with one of her cats in her lap. She wore jewelry to the last, shifting rings from the fingers of one hand to the other. As she passed, a bouquet of heart-shaped Mylar balloons in all colors of the rainbow floated from the kitchen, through the living room, and upstairs to the bedrooms. 

Jai Guru Deva, om
Nothing’s gonna change my world 

Nothing’s gonna change my world 

Nothing’s gonna change my world 

Nothing’s gonna change my world 

Two days later, I heard a familiar growl outside the front door. The Domestic Long Hair was wrestling another little thing, and I didn’t have it in me to look at the state of it. I did nevertheless—had to—with more instinct than anticipated: it was a baby rabbit, and it was still alive. I jumped, chasing the Domestic Long Hair all the way to the neighbor’s yard as he zig- zagged in front of me. (Storyteller was impressed by my speed.) In a moment of distracted growling at me, he let the rabbit go, and it ran away into the marsh. Our first success story. 

The Domestic Long Hair slept on Storyteller’s chest through the night, guarding him. One living thing left this world. Another got to spend one more day in it. 

I don’t know if that means that the system is in equilibrium. 

I’m a country girl, and I just want to be there for the little things. 

⧫

Martina Kado is director of publications at the Maryland Center for History and Culture, in Baltimore, where she serves as editor-in-chief of Maryland Historical Magazine. Researching maritime narratives for her PhD in English turned her life into a “traveling genre.” A Fulbright Fellow, translator, and flamenco dancer, she gets stir-crazy when exposed to only one language for too long. Her work has appeared in Atlantic Studies: Global Currents, Overland, and The Quill Magazine. Website: www.martinakado.com 

Delmarva Review, now in its sixteenth year, publishes the most compelling new prose  and poetry selected from thousands of submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding new writing, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent. Financial support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org

 

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False Memories by Angela Rieck

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Our memories are important. They make us who we are. They allow us to be a part of our world, and our friends and families’ too. Most importantly, they allow us to have a common experience, and share a common bond.

But what is memory?

When I was in graduate school, psychologists had developed the constructs of long-term and short-term memory. Short-term memory was famously codified by George Miller in his seminal paper The Magical Number Seven Plus or Minus Two. (It was a good paper, an even better title.) I say codified because in fact humans had figured this out. Phone numbers were 7 digits, zip codes were 5, etc. After reviewing the research, Miller concluded that humans can easily remember between 5-9 digits…but these numbers did not always get into long-term memory.

At the time, we assumed that long-term memory was like a filing cabinet, where we stored each memory. An inability to remember was due to the filing cabinet being full or being unable to find the “file.”

Without measures of brain functioning, all we could do were studies on memory, creating hypotheses based on recall or recognition and how memories were acquired, e.g., classical conditioning (where we pair two stimuli) and operant conditioning (where we reward behavior).

As usual in science, the advent of measurement allowed us to learn more about memory and made scientists aware that these views were way too simplistic.

Brain imaging studies revealed that a single memory is actually stored in multiple places. We have separate places in the brain where we store the sensory part of memory (taste, smell, sound, touch, visual), others where we store observations or events, and still others that store automatic memories (e.g., how to tie a shoe; how to drive a car).

The act of remembering requires the brain to locate and coordinate all of the information associated with that single memory from multiple parts of the brain. Instead of a single file we have multiple files of the same event and a mechanism for knowing which memories are connected to each other.

Even the amygdala gets involved. As many know, the primary function of the amygdala is to regulate emotions, such as fear and aggression. The amygdala plays a part in how memories are stored because storage is influenced by stress hormones. Also, we store that feeling from that event (e.g., phobias). In a study, researchers encoded fear memories in mice using classical conditioning, in this case pairing a shock with a tone. The amygdala allowed the mice to remember that a tone is associated with a shock, and they learned to fear the tone. It is suspected that this amygdala encoding is a source of anxiety, PTSD, phobias, and other psychological conditions. Some researchers have been successful in eliminating phobias using repeated exposure, and, more recently with lasers and injected drugs to directly impact the neurotransmitters and eliminating the association of the fear response.

The concepts of short and long-term memory are based on how long we store the memory. Before reaching long or short-term memory, information perceived by our senses and may be encoded into sensory memory (e.g., recognizing a red fire truck), which is immediate and fleeting. If we pay attention to that sensory memory (e.g., the fire truck) we can bring it to short-term memory (which lasts for 15-30 seconds). Then, in some cases, short-term memory transfers that memory to long-term memory.

Working memory is a type of memory that is often confused with short-term memory. Working memory uses both short-term information and requisite memories from long-term memory. (For example, when adding two numbers; the brain combines the short-term memory for the 2 numbers, plus the long-term memory of how to add.)

There are many types of long-term memory. For example, the memory to do an automatic task, such as tying a shoelace, involves different parts of the brain than recalling what we had for dinner last night.

The memory for tying a shoelace is called procedural memory or implicit memory. These are tasks we don’t need to consciously think about before we do them, for example, typing (if you learned how to type), writing, pouring water into a glass. Multiple parts of the brain are used to process and coordinate the muscle movements and steps. The basal ganglia (in the middle of the brain) and the cerebellum (near the brain stem) are most involved in coordinating the memories required to perform an automatic task. (But don’t forget the amygdala, if this task generates a fear response, such as pouring boiling water.)

Declarative or explicit memories, on the other hand, are consciously remembered events (such as someone’s name); basically, what most of us think of when we think of memory. It uses the hippocampus, which is a seahorse-shaped structure in the middle of the brain and the prefrontal cortex, located in the front of the brain.

And yes, there are other types of memories (we are rounding the curve, folks, I promise). Spatial memories capture geographically where an object is.

Semantic memory stores explicit facts and pieces of knowledge (e.g., what a horse looks like, your son’s birthday), while episodic memory stores events and occurrences (e.g., riding a horse, his 2nd birthday party).

Then there are the sensory memories: echoic memory, iconic memory, and haptic memory. Iconic memory retains sight information, echoic memory retains auditory information and haptic memory retains sensation or touch information.

Autobiographical memories are the memories that make us human and connect to others. They are typically combinations of semantic and episodic memories that contribute to our sense of self—your own life history and identity (Am I smart? Am I nice?).

See how complex it is? And, I believe that we are just getting started. The better the tools, the more we will learn.

My big question is “Okay, we know where memory is stored, but how does it get stored? How does the brain remember?”

Scientists believe that memories are created at synapses, by building new neurological connections. Simplistically, neurotransmitters connect the synapses, and the hippocampus helps the brain build new connections.

But here is the rub. And it is very, very important.

Scientists have discovered that the same neurotransmitters used to build memory connections are also used to recall a memory. And these neurotransmitters continue to build connections during recall, which enables the building of new connections capable of changing the original memory. That means that simply the act of recalling a memory can cause us to alter the original memory by using the same neural transmitters to add new connections to that memory.

Think about that, and its implications. Just the act of recalling a memory can cause us to change any of those types of memories!

The process allows us to add features of the present day to the original memory. I have done this many times. For example, when I am trying to recall where I left something, let’s say, my phone. I frequently create a memory that I placed it in a location that I did not. I can “recall” the color of the table, the room, the time of day, and the sound of it ringing. I created this false memory as part of the act of trying to recall where I left my phone.

Scientists have been able to successfully implant false memories in most subjects just through suggestion. Some “memories” are outlandish and can even go against that person’s nature.

For example, one gentle subject “remembered” that she had been in a fight with a friend and the police were called. That never happened. The researchers did this by telling the subject about this fight while the subject was recalling a related memory. In this example, the subject was asked the year, the park, and the name of the friend. The researcher then asked her, “Don’t you remember the fight you had with your friend in that park? Your parents described a fight with this friend where the police were called.” At first, the subject denied it. But over several sessions, the researcher continued to ask the subject about that fight while asking her to recall the related information. Over time, the subject added that false memory to hre original memory.

Think about the implications for us. It is one of the reasons that eyewitness testimony is often inaccurate. We build new connections for sensory, semantic, autobiographical, explicit, geographical, and other memories into the actual memory when we recall the event. How many times have you spoken to a person where you shared a “memory” and you had different dates, locations, etc.? You had the event memory of being together, but everything else was changed.

Today, we have video on cell phones to the capture the actual event. It can only help all of us because our memories have too many opportunities to fail.

Scary, isn’t it?

Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.

Looking at the Masters: Jaune Quick-to-See-Smith

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Jaune Quick-to-See-Smith, (b.1940, St. Ignatius Flathead Reservation, Montana) is an enrolled member of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, and also is of French-Cree, Metis, and Shoshone descent. She was named Jaune, the French word for yellow, in recognition of her French Cree ancestry. Her grandmother gave her the name Quick-to-See because of her ability to understand things quickly. Smith received a BA in Art Education (1976) from Framingham State College in Massachusetts. She was told that she was more skilled than the men in her class but could not expect a career as an artist. Undaunted, she began earning a living as an artist in the 1970’s. In1980, she received an MFA from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque.

Untitled (From Portfolio of Indian Self Rule) (1983)

Untitled (From Portfolio of Indian Self Rule) (1983) (24” x10’’) (color lithograph) (Smithsonian American Art Museum) depicts five buffalo, for Smith a symbol for Native Americans. The print features a yellow frame around a field of red ochre, Indian red. The buffalo at the top is brown and black, but the inclusion of yellow indicates a tanned hide. The red circles on its back may represent wounds. Smith’s use of black represents smoke or charcoal. The second buffalo is yellow and blue with seven black wounds. Smith uses blue to represent America. The third buffalo hide has blue stars and red bars of the American flag. The two lower buffalo are blue, yellow, red, and black. The herds of living brown buffalo have disappeared. This print was included in the book Indian Self Rule: First-Hand Accounts of Indian-White Relations from Roosevelt to Reagan (1983). 

Smith’s paintings developed to include drawing and collage. Collaged items incorporated were taken from mass media, advertisements, maps, cartoons, scientific articles, newspapers, photographs, and other materials that seemed appropriate for her subject. Her time in graduate school had introduced her to Abstract Expressionist artists including Pollock, Still, and Rothko, thus her use of patches of color and drips of paint. Smith researches her subjects until she fully forms her intention for the work.

“Indian, Indio, Indigenous” (1992)

“Indian, Indio, Indigenous (1992) (60’’x 100’’) (National Museum of Women in the Arts) is part of Smith’s series The Quincentenary Non-Celebration, created in 1992. It was a response to the celebration of the 500th anniversary of the arrival of Columbus in America. Spain and Italy held celebrations for Columbus in 1992, and the United States Mint struck a Columbus Quincentenary one-dollar coin. However, Indigenous People’s Day honoring Native Americans was a popular American response.

Smith collaged the masthead of her tribal newspaper Char-Koosta, and next to it collaged a drawing of a bear. She placed in the center a gray wash drawing of an Indian. The title of the painting is written boldly in red capital letters. Smith includes a smaller drawing of an Indian warrior’s head with the words OH! ZONE in a cartoon bubble. A reindeer petroglyph is placed at the top of the work. 

“Indian, Indio, Indigenous” (detail)

Beneath the drawing of the Indian is a flower with leaves drawn in black and the words IT TAKES HARD WORK TO KEEP RACISM ALIVE. 

Indian, Indio, Indigenous” (detail)

Farther right are the words MONEY IS GREEN/ IT TAKES PRECEDENCE OVER NATURE and a black and white photo print of an Indian. Below the Indian, Smith has collaged part of a BLONDIE comic strip.   

“State Names” (2000)

Smith began painting a series of American maps in 1992, and she continues to add pieces. In 2000 she painted the map “Browning of America.” The 2001 “Tribal Map” includes the names of Native American tribes. “State Names” (2000) (48”x72’’) (SAAM) includes the names of 27 states that have Indian names. Among the state names included are Connecticut (from the Algonquin language meaning long tidal river), Idaho (from the Apache language), Michigan (meaning large lake), Mississippi (from the Choctaw language meaning great water, or father of waters), and Oklahoma (also from the Choctaw language meaning red people). 

Discussing the maps in 2004, Smith stated, “We are the original owners of this country. Our land was stolen from us by the Euro-American invaders…. I can’t say strongly enough that my maps are about stolen lands, our very heritage, our cultures, our worldview, our being. Every map is a political map and tells a story — that we are alive everywhere across this nation. …”

“War is Heck” (2002)

Smith’s work consistently responds to world events. “War is Heck” (2002) (lithograph) (59”x 57”) (Whitney Museum, New York) includes Native American images as a protest to war. She frequently uses the image of a horse as a stand-in for herself. The horse does not run, but it prances proudly in the center of the composition. 

The center of the composition is light blue and includes the image of an Indian with wings riding the horse. In this work blue was not intended to represent America, but peace.  Faintly written at the top are the words peace pipe. Below are four small buffalo and a peace pipe. A double image of the American flag, with a bird perched on a tree branch is next to the peace pipe.  

The small light red area at the left speaks of blood and war, and a black bull running forward may indicate a rush to war. Below, rows of smaller bulls are stopped with an upraised hand. A small image labeled IL SOLDADO (soldier) appears at the top left. Numbers of buffalo walk behind the major images. 

Smith’s comments regarding this print are timeless: “Are we so inured to war that we accept it as the way to solve problems between countries? Americans have come to believe that we can single out some international bad guys and with high tech equipment ‘take them out,’ neatly, cleanly solving problems for the whole planet…. People are herded from their homelands and treated like sub-humans by corporate governments who value oil over humanity.”

“I See Red” (1992)

The National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, purchased “I See Red” (1992) (11’x 42’’) in 2020. It was the first work by a Native American artist purchased by the Gallery. Above the painting is a dart board with the darts arranged in a semi-circle around the target to resemble feathers in an Indian headpiece. The eleven-foot painting is complex and is divided into ten layers alternating painted red sections with a repeated patterns of Indian photographs taken from the Flathead reservation newspaper Char-Koosta News. The text COMMUNITY SERVICES, FIND INTERESTS, COURSES WORKSHOPS appears at the top of each photograph. Under the target are the words Destroy the Myth, which Smith has stated mean, “The myth is that Native warriors were at war all the time like the Europeans. Only we didn’t have horses or steel swords or guns.”    

“I See Red” (detail)

Very clearly in the second red section is a Redskins Super Bowl XXVI Champions pennant, and an image of the team’s helmet.  The Redskins’ victory was over the Buffalo Bills on January 26, 1992. Smith includes her usual images of buffalo as an additional comment. Beneath the pennant are the words FOR PEOPLE WHO INHERITED BRAINS INSTEAD OF WEALTH. Smith states, “I reference Indians being the Target of the corporate world of mascots and consumer goods.”

The misuse of Indian names was a long-standing issue for Native Americans. It was not until 2021, when the National Gallery purchased this painting, that the Redskins organization agreed to change the Team name. 

“I See Red” (detail)

 

The fourth red section begins with the words Operation Déjà Vu and the cover of Son of Tomahawk, one of a DC comic series published from the 1950’s through the 1970’s. In one text bubble GET INTO THE GUTTER…WHERE YOU BELONG INJUN!” gets a response in another text bubble, TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY BROTHER. At the right side of the painting are the words Guarding Your Good Name. At the lower left side of the painting is an announcement of the 2nd Annual Flathead Reservation Culture Fair. Smith’s use of color and text in her painting need little explanation. She stands strong for her people and the way they are perceived.

In 2022 Smith stated, “My painting is caught in a perfect storm: Black Lives Matter, the death of George Floyd, Covid-19, the presidential election, the Standing Rock Sioux temporarily winning a stay on the pipeline and add to that the supreme court saying the Creek Indians do exist and their treaty is valid.”  

Smith refers to the purchase of “I See Red” as breaking the buckskin ceiling: “Those of us who went to college were overlooked or disqualified as not being authentic. So, our artwork was considered to be bastardized. Many of our museums are filled with antiquities, but no contemporary art made by living Indians.”

Smith’s contributions include more than her enormous production of paintings and prints. She has been the recipient of numerous awards and grants. She brought indigenous artists from all over to participate in organized symposiums and collectives, and she curated over 30 exhibitions of their work. She has had more than 125 solo exhibitions and participated in over 680 group shows. Her work is in numerous museums and she has lectured at 200 universities, museums, and conferences.

Beverly Hall Smith was a professor of art history for 40 years.  Since retiring with her husband Kurt to Chestertown in 2014, she has taught art history classes at WC-ALL. She is also an artist whose work is sometimes in exhibitions at Chestertown RiverArts and she paints sets for the Garfield Center for the Arts.

 

 

The Uncageable by Al Sikes

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Repetition is not my favorite activity. But, like all of humanity I have my habits. They revolve around the physical—eating, bathing, sleeping and the like. When it comes to the mind and its variable emotions and reason, repetition is something I mostly avoid. 

I read that many have watched The Godfather dozens of times. I have watched it once. Variations on The Godfather’s themes saturate movies and television. None are as well done, but I digress. My tendency with much of what is dramatized is to pause, enjoy and then move on.

Yet, I have always had an unquenchable interest in God—yes, the upper-case one. My interest in God is in part due to my knowledge of gods and the inescapable struggles we all have. The gods of temptations are especially challenging and too often degrading. Our underlying weaknesses need an upper-case god; of that, I am sure. 

An especially interesting feature of God or the possibility of God is mystery. Good mystery writers have trouble avoiding formula and after a couple of books by the same author the protagonist becomes predictable. But, for me, I do find authors who engage and probe the mystery of life an unyielding attraction.

Curiosity about God and necessary mysteries are limitless subjects. And, infinitely important. Take The Trinity, for example. It is a central tenet of the Christian faith. At its most basic it is a belief in derivatives—that is there is a God and He chose to communicate with us through a sentient being, Jesus Christ, and a perpetual presence, the spirit or what credal readings call the “Holy Spirit”. 

At the risk of becoming too personal and to some, opaque, I know there is a spiritual influence in my life. As my mind spins, the rotation and direction draw energy from forces easily and not so easily understood.  Somewhere, deeply embedded in the operating system (OS) of my mind is a voice that influences and certainly transcends the OS.

The room in which I write surrounds me with pictures and various artifacts from a long life. As I look out the window, for me a necessary diversion, I can identify most of the plants and birds. What I struggle to pin down is what believers, indeed most of us, think of as the spiritual dimension. And I am not thinking about the occult.

My sense of order tells me I should now consult a dictionary and give you a well-ordered definition of spirit. I have chosen not to do that; I know that a dictionary definition will strive to cage the uncageable.

So let me turn to a vivid experience in my own life. Every person comes to the same end—death. It is often preceded by weeks or months of anticipation. Impending death occupies the deepest interiors of our mind and is unrelenting. My bout with cancer was instructive.

Society seeks to find institutional responses. Hospice, for example. And increasingly laws are being re-shaped to allow euthanasia—presumably a shortening of agony. 

My Dad opted for neither—he chose what I think of as the spiritual option. Dad was not an overtly religious person; his interior life was quiet and in his final chapter I learned of its depth. I recall vividly a scene in a small room just off Mom and Dad’s bedroom. His friend and pastor and me talking about what comes next and then Dad’s surprising request that we hold hands and pray.

Final chapters are deeply personal. And, of course, a spiritual presence is not a pharmaceutical. Yet, we cannot help but celebrate the spirit as we talk about the spirit of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, there you have it. I could riff on expressions of faith and maybe I will at another time. But beyond the urgings of biblical history and its many interpreters (theologians) for me engagement with the spiritual is the enduring and essential mystery. It is there, but what is it? What is its source? What does it urge? How should I respond?

We humans have a need to sort things out. But, how do we categorize what we can’t see or reach out and grab? Or, using analytical methods, conclude? The next time you are in a bookstore (physical or virtual) search out those who help us puzzle through the mystery of the transcendent—the spiritual dimension. It is enduringly interesting and infinitely important.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books. 

  

Much To Be Thankful for This Year by J.E. Dean

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While 2022 has had its ups and downs, as Thanksgiving arrives, I am thankful. Perhaps because the Eastern Shore has been exceptionally beautiful this year, I am, for a change, focused on the positive. The glasses I see are half-full, and I am grateful for that.

Let’s start with the scenic beauty around us. Despite having been on the Eastern Shore for more than a decade, I remain in awe of the water. It still excites me to see herons in motion, and I treasure seeing sailboats race in the distance. I am grateful that, in my area, there are no tall buildings as it remains easy to imagine what parts of the Eastern Shore looked like 100 or more years ago.

I am equally thankful for those in our community who work to keep the Eastern Shore beautiful. They also work to keep development in check. And they remind us that the bay is fragile and only a few bad decisions can change the uniqueness of the Eastern Shore forever. 

As I witnessed directly in recent elections, pushing back on the idea that all economic development is good is not easy. Fortunately, resistance is not futile. I see signs that even those who support economic development recognize the value in projects being rigorously evaluated for their impact on the environment, roads, healthcare, schools, and social services. This is a welcome sign for which I am grateful. 

I am especially thankful this year for everyone who voted in this month’s elections, including those whose votes were different than mine. The only thing worse than “the other side” winning is voter indifference. If a critical mass ever throws the towel in on democracy, we are all in trouble. That is why I smiled every time I passed hundreds of road signs for candidates that “decorated” our landscape earlier this month. May I also express thanks that most of those signs have now been removed? I am grateful for those who help maintain a clean and uncluttered environment. 

In the First District, an exceptional candidate, Heather Mizeur, ran for Congress and lost. I am grateful that she took on a race that was a long-shot and worked tirelessly on a campaign that focused on the Eastern Shore rather than something else. I thank Mizeur for running. I hope her loss this year will not deter her or someone of similar quality from trying again. Every time an exceptionally qualified candidate runs for Congress, the political process is improved. That is why Heather Mizeur deserves our thanks.

I am also grateful for my neighbors. I am originally from D.C. When I moved here, I was not prepared for neighbors to offer polite waves as I passed them on the road entering our community. I am also grateful to neighbors who are friendly to me even if they are not fond of D.C. and do not agree with what I usually write in this space. So, thank you neighbors.

This year (so far) I have been healthy. I am grateful for that. Thanks are due to helpful doctors and those who promote a healthy lifestyle. In particular, I am grateful that I attended a wellness retreat earlier this year and took some yoga classes which taught me that when I get angry or frustrated, I should take a deep breath, hold it, and then exhale. It works. 

I would be remiss if I did not mention The Spy and editor Dave Wheelan. I rely on The Spy to further my understanding of the Eastern Shore. I do not know what I would do without it. It has enhanced my perception of the Eastern Shore and solidified my gratitude for being here. So, thank you, Dave.

I also must thank Dave for the privilege of writing for The Spy. Dave has assembled a talented group of writers and contributors, many of whom are “real journalists,” experts in their fields, and have remarkable resumes. I am fortunate to be part of The Spy team.

J.E. Dean is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and other subjects. He thankful for being part of the Eastern Shore community.

 

Soup by Jamie Kirkpatrick

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When November arrived wearing shorts and flip-flops, I was lulled into believing that winter was still weeks away, and that I didn’t need to bring in the porch plants or shut off the hose bib. But then, just a couple of days ago, Buffalo was buried under several feet of lake-effect snow, Notre Dame and Boston College played football in a blizzard, and on a recent frosty morning, the very first thing I did upon waking was build a fire in the fireplace. Suddenly, it’s cold again.

The second thing I did that same morning was make soup: butternut squash soup with a liberal sprinkling of curry powder and some frozen peas and carrots. Chili and corn bread make a delicious winter dish and so does beef stew, but what’s more filling and better for you on a cold day than a big bowl of hot soup? Tomato bisque, clam chowder, chicken noodle, consommé; a steaming mug of soup is just what the doctor ordered. Fuel for the belly and, as any Jewish mother will remind you, good for the soul.

Soup has been around a long time. Our cave ancestors figured out how to boil water with hot rocks, and that plants or nuts tasted a lot better when liquified in it. In the 16th Century, street vendors in Paris sold a highly concentrated but inexpensive concoction they called ‘restaurant’ (meaning “something restoring”) and touted it as an antidote to physical exhaustion. A couple hundred years later, an enterprising Parisian opened a shop specializing in these steaming bowls and suddenly the word ‘restaurant’ had a more expansive meaning: any establishment devoted to eating. Thank you, soup!

Over on this side of the ocean, the first colonial cookbook, published in Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1745, contained several recipes for soup. Some thirty years later, another cookbook called “The Frugal Housewife” devoted an entire chapter to the savory subject of soup. In the 19th Century, waves of European immigrants arrived on these shores, bringing with them all manner of new recipes for hearty soups, just what we all needed to build a new country. 

The soup market boomed in the late 19th Century with the invention of canning. Suddenly making soup was easy, and almost overnight, it became a commercial success. In 1897, Mr. Campbell introduced Americans to a condensed version of his tangy tomato soup and today, that rich, red treat is still America’s favorite. Second and third prize go to Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom and Chicken Noodle; last year, we devoured about 2.5 billion bowls of those three alone!

Now, soup has its own international alphabet that runs the gamut from Aguadito, a Peruvian green soup that includes peas, carrots, cilantro and bites of chicken which is reputedly a good cure for a hangover, to Zurek, a Polish sour rye soup made with sausages, traditionally served in bowls made of bread. In between, there is bouillabaisse and borscht; gazpacho, goulash, and gumbo; spicy Vietnamese Phö and Philadelphia Pepper Pot, made with tripe. There are national specialties like Cock-a-leekie soup from Scotland, as well as regional delicacies like our very own Cream of Crab Soup, liberally seasoned, of course, with Old Bay. There are concoctions with exotic names like Bird’s Nest Soup, Egg Drop Soup, or Mulligatawny. The list goes on…

Yesterday, the grandkids came over for an after-school visit so I decided to conduct a little market research. “What’s your favorite soup?” I asked. They didn’t hesitate. “Maryland Crab with big lumps of crab meat” they all shouted—after all, they’re Marylanders. My wife was in the room helping the kids write letters to Santa, but I didn’t need to ask her; she can’t resist French Onion Soup with extra cheese. Me? I thought about stopping at the letter V for vichyssoise, a cold puree of potatoes, leeks, and cream, invented by a French chef at the Hotel Ritz in New York, but that’s a summertime favorite, out of season today.

But first things first. I went out to fetch some logs from the wood pile and rebuilt the fire in the hearth. Then I began to simmer a pot one of my favorite winter soups: Chippewa Soup, a redolent and creamy blend of tomato and pea soups, slightly curried and flavored with bay leaves, a smoked ham bone and some sautéed vegetables, strained away before serving. I’ll serve it with seasoned croutons, a hint of sherry, and a dollop of sour cream. Bon appetit!

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. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.net.

 

Out and About (Sort of): Military Crisis by Howard Freedlander

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Ever since the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection at the nation’s capital, I have become increasingly concerned about extremism in military ranks. At the same time, I believe that our defense structure is superior, serving our country adroitly and competently.

As I watched the disciplined assault on our capital, I saw men and women trained to operate effectively in a deliberately chaotic and dangerous situation. They were no ordinary rioters. They could wreak havoc with great efficiency. And they did, in front of a stunned nation.

Eighty of the 880, or 10 percent criminally charged participants were veterans. Five were active duty, including a Marine Corps officer and four reservists. The numbers are alarming.

The inflamed traitors did not disgrace a military uniform. They stormed our capital on their own time and dressed as civilians, hoping to overturn a legitimate presidential election. However, they dishonored the country that trained them by ignoring their oath to protect and preserve the Constitution and their nation. It mattered not to them; they were angry, feeling betrayed by their country.

The post 9-11 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have taken their toll. Men and women served and fought bravely, losing buddies and arriving home with psychological problems. They also lost faith in our nation because the wars seemingly accomplished nothing.

They returned home to economic distress and spotty care from veterans hospitals. They distrusted their civilian leaders. They noted that not all Americans served our nation, particularly those in the upper classes.

When well-intended Americans would spot a service member in uniform and then thank that person for his or her service, the greeting would be disdained, viewed as empty of any understanding about combat or overseas service. The social distance between the military and the civilian worlds consequently would grow after an authentic gesture of good-hearted gratitude.

The schism is just too wide. Our national divisiveness grows and festers. Alienation mushrooms. Tribalism abounds. Our culture and country suffer.

If the reader thinks that I am justifying the unconscionable attack on our beloved democracy, that perception would be dead wrong. I simply offer a context for the rise of extremism in our military ranks. The danger is real. We face the politicization of our Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force and Coast Guard. An undercurrent of unrest and distrust propels well-trained troops, still serving or retired, to act in a traitorously illegal way.

How does the defense establishment combat insidious extremism? Serious vetting is one way—that is, being more attuned to potentially un-American behavior on the part of recruits. Being more attentive to comments and prejudice expressed by troops is another way. While not trampling on free speech, officers and senior enlisted must counsel those with aberrant behavior.

Training, one of the military’s best attributes, must focus on hatred and anti-American behavior—while taking care to respect and revere the 1st Amendment. This is tricky. But the military must not become a feeding ground for extremists who use their combat training to destroy democracy. Our armed forces face the very real threat of becoming stigmatized by allegations of extremism. It flourishes only because it is apolitical, retains public support and trains to fight foreign despots.

Extreme thought and bigotry have always existed in our fractious nation. Though ugly and unctuous, it must be tolerated until it endangers American citizens and institutions, such as the U.S. Congress. Then, it must face persecution and condemnation.

I commend Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin, a retired Army general, for attacking extremism in our ranks, exposing it for its malicious intent. His concern cannot diminish. He must ensure that the chain of command disciplines those who advocate hatred and illegal disruption.

Democracy is too precious to confront destruction from within. The Jan. 6 insurrection must be a one-time civil disaster.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. After 44 years in Easton, Howard and his wife, Liz, moved in November 2020 to Annapolis, where they live with Toby, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel who has no regal bearing, just a mellow, enticing disposition.

 

A World of Kindness by Kate Emery General

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The theme of this year’s World Kindness Week is “Be kind whenever possible .”

What does it really mean to be kind? If you’re nice and polite are you kind? According to the Random Act of Kindness blog, kindness is much more than being nice. Nice can be thought of as doing just ‘the minimum’ because we were taught to be polite. Nice is a self-centered behavior to get people to like you. Kindness is an “other centered” pattern where one acts in the best interest of others out of a sense of love, compassion, and empathy. Kindness is a movement, it’s that ‘pay it forward’ attitude. Kindness is a chain reaction. Kindness is grace.

Kind people are those that are gentle and patient with those who need help. Kind people are good listeners. Kind people don’t judge others, they get to know them. Kind people give without expecting anything in return and respect the needs of others. Kind people are honest. Kind people are grateful.

What would happen if we all committed to performing one act of kindness a day? Some believe that kindness has the potential to change the world.

World Kindness Week was established in 1997 by a group of associations in England, Thailand, Australia, and the United States. The sole purpose of this week is to focus on the positivity that surrounds us everyday. At the moment, World Kindness Week is an unofficial celebration; however, enthusiasts hope that it will soon achieve recognition by the United Nations.

Groove City Black Heritage and Culture Group are hosting a Christmas for Seniors Drive. This is a prime example of kindness, as seniors are often overlooked at Christmas time. The Christmas Drive is asking for donations of crossword puzzle books, lotion, warm hats, gloves, socks, blankets, and pajamas to be included in gift baskets. The Blue Awning, The Chamber of Commerce, and The Visitor’s Center are the drop-off points.

Kindness is now part of the curriculum at many schools in the United States.

I am so proud of my 10 year old granddaughter, Hazel, she received 2 St. Francis of Assisi awards for service to others at her school. St. Francis of Assisi is known for his ministry to the poor and underprivileged and his care for nature and animals, a beautiful legacy. I intend to be more like St. Francis and my granddaughter, Hazel, everyday.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that 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.

Heaven Rushing by Laura J. Oliver

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My friend Sophie has a large standard poodle with a curly brown pompadour that flops in his eyes. On his hind legs, he’s as tall as I am, and with his long face, benign expression, and distinctive nose, he’s a dead ringer for country music great, Lyle Lovett.

Lyle wants a relationship. He moons around after me, gazing up reproachfully from under his mop. Every time I walk into Sophie’s kitchen, I have to tell him, “It isn’t happening, Lyle; not today, not ever.”

Sophie is studying Traditional Chinese Medicine and this afternoon I’m her practice subject. She is taking my pulses because she suspects my chi is not flowing properly. My impairment has something to do with my wood element.

I learn my yin organ is my liver and my yang organ is my gall bladder. “Your color is green, and your smell is goatish,” Sophie says, “but practitioners don’t attach judgment to those labels.” Lyle gazes at me without prejudice.

“I don’t want to be wood anymore,” I tell her. It’s supposed to be a joke.
“Of course, you don’t, ” she says, with complete sincerity. “I’ve never seen anyone try harder to be happy.”

It’s true. I’ve tried energy readings, meditation, exercise, therapy, therapy, therapy, and volunteering. I’ve seen a massage therapist and a palm reader. A young man at the Renaissance Festival even talked me into taking off my shoe so he could read my bare foot. Looking deep into my eyes he promised to read my sole. Of course, I heard “soul” and off came the shoe.

I’m healthy, love my family, own a beautiful home, and have a calling. So why has happiness always been the intriguing neighbor I’m afraid to invite over?

“Were you ever happy?” Sophie asks. I replay my life from zero to now on fast reverse.

I want to get the answer right both for me and for you. I’m familiar with every other emotion, particularly love. You’d think love would make happiness a given.

But love makes anxiety a given. And happiness makes vulnerability a given.

Maybe all happy people were adored children, or maybe nothing bad has ever happened to them. Maybe they’re not very bright, I think when I’m cranky. I pick up one of Sophie’s acupuncture needles, and the ever-alert Lyle is on the move. He’s slinking over, stops when I turn to look at him, and collapses with a sigh.

The problem is that all my life I’ve thought longing was the preferred connection to God. That not being quite happy was a form of humility and an insurance policy. God, check it out. You don’t need to take anything away because I’m not totally happy. Deal?

But acupuncture holds promise and hope is the emotion I know best. As I leave Sophie’s house, I glance back up the walkway to see Lyle standing on his hind legs looking out the picture window like a somber old man. Maybe he’s a prince in disguise awaiting unconditional love to reveal his identity. That would be transmigration, the return of the human soul in animal form, which seems ridiculous until you are loved by a dog.

At home I review the names of acupuncture points: Spirit Hall. Fly and Scatter. Soul Door, Heaven Rushing. When I was a girl, my mother told me suffering would make me a better person and there are so many people out there hungry, sick and sad. To feel joy in the face of suffering would be insensitive, wouldn’t it? A bit tone deaf to the times? But can I be sad enough to affect even one person’s wellbeing? Sick enough to make even one person well? Can I worry enough to keep even one person safe? What could joy do?

Martha Washington, wife of our founding father, thought happiness was a decision you make. A choice. Joy just because.

Because in some way we don’t understand, this all works. The cosmos contains more matter than antimatter, and the slight fluctuations in the early universe caused that matter to clump and galaxies to form. And a planet called earth coalesced in the goldilocks zone of a yellow star called the Sun. That rocky planet was knocked 23.4 degrees off her axis by a collision that gave her a solitaire diamond moon, seasons of growth, seasons of harvest. This season of harvest.

And dogs. That’s a lot of reasons for joy.

I’m beginning to think happiness isn’t a choice, it’s an obligation. Joy is your work, your offering, your gift to this beautiful world.

Joy is the secret subject of every story we share. Happy Thanksgiving. I’m grateful for each and every one of you.

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.