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March 5, 2021

The Talbot Spy

The nonprofit e-newspaper for the Talbot County Community

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Point of View Angela Top Story

A Dog’s Purpose by Angela Rieck

March 4, 2021 by Angela Rieck 8 Comments

As many of you know, I am an experienced dog person. I am not a professional trainer, but by fostering and rehabilitating over 200 dogs, I have learned a lot about the human/dog relationship. Most of my learning has come through trial and error, but sometimes I get help along the way.

My first rescue was a 2-year-old, 70-pound, black German Shepherd named Abby. The rescue organization told me that she was a product of a divorce, meaning that she had no issues; but merely was in the wrong family at the wrong time. Over the next several years, my husband and I became convinced that she was the cause of the divorce.

Abby was a sweet, but difficult dog. She was anxious, paced constantly, barked, and whined incessantly.  When I was away, she would bark nonstop, even though my daughter and her nanny were home.  Most nights, she woke us up over the slightest sound, often her stress would result in stomach issues and she was a frequent visitor to the vet.

Each time the vet asked me how she was, I would smile and say what a great dog she was…but on her 5th birthday, I broke down and cried.  I confessed about our struggles with her.  I had convinced myself that I was too busy to make this dog happy; I was a working mom, with a big job, a husband, a large house, and volunteer activities.

The vet smiled.

“I think that I know what the problem is. Your dog is frustrated because she can’t do what she was bred to do,” she went on.  “Your German Shepherd was bred to protect and herd, and she has nothing to do.”

“Many of the behavior problems that I see are due to a frustrated dog not doing what it was bred to do,” she continued.  “Never get a dog with a purpose.”

Then she suggested that I get another dog.

I looked at her as if she were wearing a spacesuit. “Are you kidding, I am struggling with Abby, why would I get another dog?”

“She needs something to do, she needs someone to care for, to herd, to protect.”

In desperation, I took her advice and bought a sweet little cockapoo puppy named Sophie that even looked like a miniature sheep (since then I only rescue, but I was desperate).  Everything changed.

Abby spent her days herding little Sophie, gently correcting, and protecting her.  Abby would subtly lie between a visitor and Sophie. Once I understood Abby’s language, I would tell Abby that it was okay, and she would allow people to pet Sophie. Abby became relaxed, happy, confident.

It worked so well, that I rescued another cockapoo. Abby spent her days using her herding instincts, cutting them (a herder’s term for separating them), grouping them, leading them.  The puppies loved it…they had a big sister that they could jump and play on; and Abby could finally fulfill her purpose.

Since then, I adopt dogs that have no purpose. The Cockapoos, Maltese’s, poodle mixes, Schnoodles, Shih Tzus that I have adopted had only one purpose. To love and be loved…that is something that I can do.

For potential dog owners, it doesn’t mean that you can’t get a specific breed. But think about the original purpose of that breed and make sure that you can fulfill it. A border collie needs to run and herd.  Smarter species (e.g., poodles, Havanese) need to exercise their brains (e.g., learning tricks). Retrievers need to retrieve, but it can be a tennis ball.  If you are adopting a mixed breed, research all its likely breed instincts.  And if you have a dog that is struggling, see if it is able to fulfill its purpose.

Dogs are lucky, they have one purpose their lives. But with us humans, it is a different story.

Our purposes change with circumstances and age. Since my unexpected retirement I have struggled finding my purpose. Before retirement, I had built-in purposes: get an education, work hard, raise my family, work on our marriage, etc.  But now, it is more complicated.  Some retirees have this figured out: some have hobbies that they deferred, some have looked into spirituality, others learn and do new things, others give back.

Dogs are lucky, their purpose is bred into them.

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.

Filed Under: Angela, Top Story

Looking at the Masters: Mary Cassatt by Beverly Hall Smith

March 4, 2021 by Beverly Hall Smith 2 Comments

Mary Stevenson Cassatt is one of America’s most well known artists. She was born in Alleghany City near Pittsburgh. Her father was a banker and stockbroker. The family traveled frequently to Europe, where he took her first art classes and also learned to speak French and German. After seeing the great art of Europe, she decided she wanted to be an artist. When the family settled in Philadelphia in 1859, she began classes at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.

Discouraged with the patronizing teachers and male students, she left the Academy in 1865 saying, “There is no teaching at the Academy.” She was referring to the fact that female students were allowed to learn anatomy from plaster casts only, not from life. Famously opposed to Mary’s choice to pursue an artistic career her father said, “I would rather see her dead.” He finally relented in 1866, and Mary was allowed to go to Paris to study art, but with her mother and other family friends as chaperones. In Paris she had to take private lessons from Academy artists, because females were not allowed to be students in classes.

Cassatt’s first ten years in Paris were generally unsuccessful. She was juried into the 1868 Paris Salon exhibition, but her work was rejected for the next ten years. In 1871, she returned to America because of the Franco-Prussian War. A letter of July 1871 states: “I have given up my studio and torn up my father’s portrait and have not touched a brush for six weeks nor ever will again until I see some prospect of getting back to Europe.” The Archbishop of Pittsburgh commissioned Cassatt in 1871 to make copies of two Correggio paintings in Parma, Italy. The money and commission allowed her return to Italy and to travel to Spain. She returned to Paris in 1874, and found an apartment with her sister Lydia. ”No amount of bodily suffering would seem for me too great a price for the pleasure of being in a country where one could have some art advantages. I recognize who were my true masters. I admired Manet, Courbet and Degas. I hated conventional art. I began to live.”

“Woman with a Pearl Necklace” (1879)

Cassatt’s father, mother, brother and his wife and children moved to Paris in 1877, and she lived with them and enjoyed the closeness of her family until 1888. She remained unmarried; having decided marriage would not be good for her career. This trip to Paris was a success; her paintings were accepted into five Salon exhibitions. But she changed her style and decided not to submit again. She met the Impressionist painter Edgar Degas in 1878. “It changed my life. I saw art then as I wanted to see it.” Degas invited her to exhibit with the Impressionists: “I accepted with joy. I hated conventional art. I began to live. At last I could work in complete independence, without bothering about the eventual judgment of a jury.”

“Woman with a Pearl Necklace” (1879)

 

Woman with a Pearl Necklace depicts Cassatt’s sister Lydia in the newly opened Paris Opera. Cassatt is fully engaged in Impressionist style in this work. The crystals in the chandeliers provide the shimmering rainbow light source of Impressionism. Science had recently revealed that all sources of light were made up of the colors purple, blue, green, yellow, orange and red as seen through a prism, and in the rainbow. There color spectrum contains no black or white. Cassatt paints colors of the lights and shadows creating the three-dimensional effect of Lydia’s skin, white gloves, and light pink dress with the six colors of the light spectrum. Note specifically the greens, blues and purples used to paint the shadows. To depict the slight shifting of movements of the sitter, Cassatt has employed the Impressionist‘s swift and light brush stokes.

In addition to the use of color and brush work, Cassatt also reflects the Impressionist interest in representing modern life. The Impressionist were a group of about ten artists, while their contemporaries, the thousands of Academy painter, still cling to the stilted subject matter of Greek goddesses and historical themes. The bourgeoisie of Paris were enjoying the new entertainments available to everyone: circuses, nightclubs on Montmartre, opera, and ballet. Cassatt’s compositions also were very well thought out. The viewer can follow the numerous small and large semi-circles from the small curves of dress and pillow in the foreground, through the sweeping curve of Lydia’s dress bodice, answering curves of her shoulders, small pearl necklace and larger swell of the red velvet of the chair in the center. The swinging curves of the boxes and the distant glass beads of the chandelier complete the scene. With all these compositional elements, Cassatt also adds the diagonal of Lydia’s fan, echoed by her arms and shoulders, to bring Lydia’s head to the center of the composition. Note also the placement of the red cushions and red flower in her corsage and in her hair. The most distinctly colored item is the fan. This color palette is used through out the painting, as the larger patches of blues, greens and purples depict the crowd of onlookers in the boxes. Mary Cassatt is a master of composition.

“Little Girl in the Blue Armchair” (1878)

Cassatt exhibited with the Impressionist’s from 1879 to 1886. The 1879 exhibition was one of the Impressionist’s most successful. Another of Cassatt’s paintings in the 1879 exhibition was “Little Girl in the Blue Arm Chair” (1878) (35.2’’ x 5l.1’’) (NGA). Cassatt loved to paint her family, and she showed a particular skill for catching the unique and engaging moments of children in unposed situations. The little girl has casually plopped down in the chair. Tired and bored, she takes no notice that her skirt has ruched up around her waist revealing her lace petticoat. Her little brown dog, painted in blue, green and purple, sleeps in the opposite chair and mirrors the shape of her plaid skirt. Her arms are all akimbo, the left filling in the back of the chair, while the curve of the right arm is repeated by the curve of the distant sofa.

The composition is cleverly made up of repeated curves and angles. The plaid skirt determines the specific colors repeated throughout. Cassatt chooses to create an unusual overall composition that cuts the furniture off at the top, sides and bottom, evidencing the Impressionist’s recognition of the new art of photography. Snapshots inevitably centered the photo on the selected image and cut off any surrounding objects at the edges.

“Maternal Caress” (1890-91)

Degas suggested in 1880 that Cassatt should continue to develop the mother and child theme that was bringing her success and where she excelled. Cassatt also expanded her media to include pastels and prints. The popularity of Japanese woodcut prints (Ukiyo-e), introduced into Paris in 1867, were another major influence on the Impressionist’s and Cassatt. She began to make a series of prints in 1890, employing the techniques of aquatint, dry point, and soft ground etching. “Maternal Caress”  is one of ten prints her one-woman exhibition in 1891 at Galerie Durand-Ruel in Paris. Prints use a limited palette that relies on the color of the paper and simple patterns in a single color of ink to depict figures and background. The color areas are accomplished with aquatint, and soft ground etching. Dry point employs a sharp needle that must draw lines into a hard metal plate. Mistakes are not correctable. Cassatt’s lines, drawn precisely to render the affection between mother and child, are perfection. She was able to make the process look easy, when in reality it is very difficult.

“Boating Party” (1893-94)

“Boating Party” (1893-1894) (3’ x 3.10’’) (NGA), is another example of Cassatt’s great skill with oil paint, composition, and mother and child images. Her later paintings no longer were made with quick brushstrokes except in the movement of water. Nevertheless, the six sunlight colors still create all the forms. Beyond the fun of the interaction between mother and child, the composition is created with numerous curved forms, the most obvious being the shape of the boat and sail. With the exception of the strong horizontals of the boat seats and the distant horizon, and the diagonal oars, the composition is composed of semi-circles. From the rower’s circular bottom and blue sash, to the circular bottoms of the skirts, to the curved poses of hands, arms, and hats, there is clever play of echoing curves. In addition, the bold yellow parts of the boat in the foreground are subtly played out in the sail, the mother’s hat, and buildings along the horizon. Mary Cassatt knows how to make a very satisfying painting.

A business woman, philanthropist, and women’s rights advocate, Berthe Honore Palmer invited Cassatt to the paint a mural on the north tympanum of the Gallery of Honor in the Woman’s Pavilion at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. The theme, “Young Women Plucking the Fruits of Knowledge or Science” (1893) (58’ x 12’) was Cassatt’s response to women’s rights. To her good friend Louisine Havemeyer, Cassatt wrote: “I am going to do a decoration for the Chicago Exhibition. When the committee offered it to me to do, at first I was horrified, but gradually I began to think it would be great fun to do something I had never done before and as the bare idea of such a thing put Degas into a rage and he did not spare every criticism he could think of, I got my spirit up and said I would not give up the idea for anything.” Suffragettes would have approved of the theme, but the general public heavily criticized Cassatt. The panel disappeared after the end of the Exposition.

“Nurse Reading to a Little Girl” (1895)

Before meeting Degas in 1878, Cassatt admired Degas’s pastels. In 1875 she said, “I used to go and flatten my nose against that window and absorb all I could of his art. It changed my life. I saw art then as I wanted to see it.” “Nurse Reading to a Little Girl” (1895) (pastel) (26.6’’x28.7’’) is but one more example of Cassatt’s artistic expertise.

Cassatt and Degas disagreed over the Dreyfus affair in 1894 to 1906; she was pro-Dreyfus, and their friendship ended. On her first trip home in 1898, a Philadelphia newspaper noted only that she was home, had studied painting, and had a small Pekingese dog. She was made a Chevalier in the French Legion of Honor in 1904, and also was made Honorary President of the Paris Art League, a school for American women students in Paris. Never a person to hold back her opinions, which were often quite sharp, when visiting the 1908 Paris Salon she saw: “Dreadful paintings and people gathered together in one Place. I wanted to be taken home at once.” She made a trip to Egypt with her brother Gardner in 1910, and on her return stated she was “crushed by the strength of this Art. I fought against it, but it conquered, it is surely the greatest art the past has left us…how are my feeble hands to ever paint the effect on me.”

In 1911 she was diagnosed with diabetes, rheumatism and cataracts and by 1914 she stopped making art. She showed eighteen works in a 1915 exhibition supporting the women’s suffrage movement. George Biddle, painter and fellow Philadelphian, described Cassatt: “She drew the almost impossible line between her social life and her art, and never sacrificed an iota to either. Socially and emotionally she remained the prim Philadelphia spinster of her generation.” Cassatt’s work today sells for prices from two to five million dollars. Although she spent most of her life in Paris, she asserted, “I am American, definitely and frankly American.”

Beverly Hall Smith was a professor of art history for 40 years.  Since retiring with her husband Kurt to Chestertown six years ago, she has taught art history classes at WC-ALL and Chesapeake College’s Institute for Adult Learning.  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.

 

 

Filed Under: Top Story

Harris Votes “No” on the American Rescue Plan? Was he right? by J.E. Dean

March 3, 2021 by J.E. Dean 14 Comments

Andy “Handgun” Harris remains at work fighting for the interests of the Eastern Shore. On Saturday, his contribution was to vote against the $1.9 trillion American Rescue Plan Act.  The bill passed the House, 219-212, with all Republicans and two Democrats voting “no.”  But if Andy had his way, you could forget about those family stimulus checks of $1,400 for adults earning $75,000 or less a year, $1,400 payment for each dependent child, a $3,600 annual tax credit per child under age 6, and $3,000 per child up to age 17.

The bill also increases the weekly unemployment benefit from $300 to $400 per week through August 29, provides $130 billion in new funds for K-12 public schools, and $85 billion in new funds to fight the pandemic: Roughly $50 billion for virus testing and contact tracing, $19 billion to increase the size of the public health workforce, and $16 billion to fund vaccine distribution and supply chains.  Dr. Harris apparently concluded that these investments are not necessary. I wonder if a second opinion from Dr. Fauci might differ.

If the ARPA sounds like a liberal wish list to you, maybe Harris is right.  Here’s how Harris explains his vote:  

From funding the Pelosi tunnel to the Schumer bridge, the Biden bailout is nothing but a pricey liberal wish list. If Democrats were serious about focusing on COVID-19, they would focus on spending the $1 trillion in currently unspent stimulus dollars, reopening schools, and following the science on vaccine policy. Unfortunately, future generations will be saddled with the Biden bailout’s big price tag.

Analyzing this statement, the first thing to notice is a reference to the “Pelosi tunnel.”  It is $141 million of the  $90 billion provided for infrastructure.  Of the entire $1.9 trillion bill, it is 0.000074 of the total spending. Is it wasteful spending?  It’s a subway tunnel in Pelosi’s district, described by critics as a “pet project” but supported by others in the area.  There appears to be no evidence that Harris researched the proposed tunnel before condemning it.  And even if the tunnel were wasteful spending, does that justify opposing the entire bill, which will provide millions in needed funds for Marylanders?

The bill also calls for funding for the “Schumer bridge,” which is a reference for the Seaway International Bridge. This is $1.5 million (not a typo) of the spending.  Apparently, Andy “Handgun” Harris wasn’t aware that the funding request did not originate with Senator Schumer.  It was made in 2020 by the Trump Department of Transportation, headed by Elaine Chao, spouse of Senator Mitch McConnell (R-KY).

Curiously, Harris does not mention relief for small businesses, including SBA loan forgiveness.  Has Dr. Harris concluded Maryland small businesses don’t need help?  Are you aware of any small business that has not been hurt by the shut down?

He also is not talking about the $47 billion in the FEMA Disaster Relief Fund.  I wonder if some of that money might come in handy for the Eastern Shore next time a major hurricane hits.  

Final passage on the ARPA will hopefully occur soon.  At this point, it is a safe bet that both our Senators and every House member, other than Harris will vote for it. Maryland voters should remember this vote.  Harris is out of touch with the Eastern Shore.  Issues other than the Second Amendment are important to us. 

“Handgun” Harris is wrong to oppose this legislation. 

J.E. Dean of Oxford is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and domestic policy.

 

Filed Under: J.E. Dean, Top Story

In the Air by Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 2, 2021 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

The geese had been gathering for several days: huge flocks assembling, sheltering together in the fields, gossiping, gleaning, making preparations for their long journey back to the Canadian tundra. Suddenly, sensing the celestial clockwork of the season, they lifted off early in the evening of the full Snow Moon (February 27 this year), using its bright light as a beacon to guide them on their northbound way.

Meanwhile, to the south, the flyways are full of ospreys making their way back to their summer nests on our rivers and Bay. My bet is that within the next few days, we’ll have had the first annual sighting of these soaring beauties, keening on high as they fish for dinner.

And then there are the tiny luminescent hummingbirds. They, too, are making their way north, having left their winter feeding grounds in Central America to wend their way through Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas before arriving in mid-April at the feeders in our gardens and backyards.

Oh; and let’s not forget one more airborne journey: monarch butterflies—the only migrating species of butterfly—are flitting north, more than half a million of them returning to the places where they were born, repopulating as they go. (The lifespan of a monarch butterfly is only a few weeks so it takes several generations to complete the complete migratory cycle.) This year, the East Coast population of monarchs began their northward migration from Mexico on February 24 and by summer, God willing, their lovely stained-glass wings will again be folding and unfolding here.

Spring is literally in the air. Depending on your personal perspectives and preferences, all this vernal avian movement is either a divine mystery or just another explicable, rational fact. Take your pick. Either way, it’s a fascinating display of the wonders of the natural world—the one that surrounds us, the one we so desperately need to care for.

And therein lies the problem. You see, there’s something else in the air, something colorless, tasteless, and odorless; something invisible, silent, and, sad to say, dangerous. It’s carbon dioxide (CO2), a naturally formed trace gas consisting of a single carbon atom covalently bonded to two oxygen atoms. The current concentration of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere is about .04%, or 412 parts per million. That may not sound like a lot, but it’s a higher level of atmospheric carbon dioxide than at any other time in the past 300 million years of our planet’s history, and it’s accelerating at an alarming rate.

Unless you are a true non-believer, paleoclimatology is not for the faint of heart; it’s a sobering science that seeks to explain life on Earth as a function of climate. I don’t pretend to understand all its scientific nuance, but this much I do understand: as the level of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere increases, so does Earth’s temperature. And because we live on such a capricious planet, even a small increase in temperature can have profound environmental consequences. Ice will melt, seas will rise, and weather phenomena will become evermore virulent.

In the pre-industrial age, the level of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere was about half of what it is today. While there are many natural sources of carbon dioxide—volcanoes, geysers, even groundwater—there are many more human-derived sources, primarily fossil fuel emissions and deforestation, the two leading causes of global warming and ocean acidification. The evidence of cataclysmic change is already before our eyes and it’s not a pretty sight. Earth’s warning lights are flashing bright red.

All this may seem a long way from where I began, but it’s not. The great avian migrations that have signaled the coming of spring for millennia may seem like a timeless component of the rhythm of life on earth, but the patterns and numbers of these migrations are changing rapidly. Loss of habitat, competition for resources, pesticide use, and rising temperatures are having a major impact on these wondrous events, perhaps forever changing our previously simplistic notion that, once again, spring is in the air.

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.com.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Jamie, Top Story

Out and About (Sort of): Tubman 20 by Howard Freedlander

March 2, 2021 by Howard Freedlander 2 Comments

Symbolism matters. So does well-deserved recognition. Often, both take awhile, unfortunately.

I am referring to stalling efforts by the Trump Administration, for oblique reasons decipherable only to it, to place the Eastern Shore’s famed and intrepid Underground Railroad conductor, Harriet Tubman, on the 20-dollar bill to replace the racist President Andrew Jackson.

The Biden Administration has reversed its predecessor’s obstruction, moving ahead to place one of our nation’s fiercest slavery fighters on US currency. The new Tubman 20 likely will not materialize until 2025.

Some may ask: Who cares? Why does it matter?

American currency memorializes our Founding Fathers, such as Presidents Washington and Jefferson and Citizen Extraordinaire Ben Franklin, Presidents Lincoln, Ulysses Grant and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, as well as Alexander Hamilton. Raised in a traditional, patriotic manner, I always imagined (when I was not capriciously spending it) that those pictured or engraved were people whom I should respect, if not revere.

And so I did. Until I learned more about these flawed individuals whose wisdom and common sense still impresses me, in most cases. If I am a young person being taught the meaning of money and about those portrayed on coins and bills, then I would think that someone like Harriet Tubman is an ideal choice.

If some might consider her a politically correct choice to replace the disruptive Jackson, I have one response: baloney.

She is a superb choice. If informed properly by parents or grandparents, children today would learn that Tubman was a heroic savior for slaves in Dorchester County. This intrepid woman was fearless. Slavery imprisoned her friends and family in an inhumane system that trampled people’s spirits, if not killed them as if they were worthless chattel.

It was a shameful socio-economic system that still haunts our nation, if not condemns it for its pernicious past. Tubman’s image on a $20 bill would compel parents and teachers to explain why a little Black woman—with incredible courage and unmatched skill in navigating the countryside and avoiding merciless slave hunters—deserves to be memorialized.

She would be a role model. As a Black woman, she shattered all misconceptions; she surpassed men in her courage and conviction. She was relentless.

Though uneducated, she expressed her eloquence and passion through life-defying actions in a society that in some quarters considered her a no-good thief.

After all, she was stealing property from slave owners, many opined. Tubman’s story must be told. She did not steal. She gave slaves freedom extracted amorally from them.

A $20 bill with the image of a small, determined women staring out at a world still riddled with anti-Black prejudice pays appropriate homage to a Dorchester County native—and American hero.

A tribute written in 1868 by Talbot County native, orator and renown abolitionist, Frederick Douglass, aptly underscores the depth and daring of Harriet Tubman in using her uncanny expertise to carry slaves to lives free of mental and economic shackles:

“I have had the applause of the crowd and the satisfaction that comes of being approved by the multitude, while the most that you have done has been witnessed by a few trembling, scarred, and foot-sore bondmen and women, whom you have led out of the house of bondage, and whose heartfelt, “God bless you,” has been your only reward. The midnight sky and the silent stars have been the witnesses of your devotion to freedom and of your heroism.”

Symbolism has meaning. It conveys a story well worth telling to all Americans. In this case, it also shines a light on a despicable part of our history.

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. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Filed Under: Howard, Top Story

COVID Vaccination: Are We Making This Too Difficult by Craig Fuller

March 1, 2021 by Craig Fuller 5 Comments

It was reported a few days ago that about 14% of us have received a COVID vaccination and just over 7% of the U.S. population have received two COVID vaccine shots. Clearly, there is a long way to go.

Just imagine if in this nation we right now had around 88,000 locations and 300,000 or more people trained to deliver medication to individuals. How much better might it be if these well trained and experienced people in these places were already delivering nearly 200 million doses of regular influenza vaccine to patients every year.

If this kind of system existed in the nation, wouldn’t you want to see it better utilized for the COVID vaccine?

Well, it does exist. We call the places pharmacies and the people pharmacists. Yes, in addition to the flu vaccines they administer, they fill almost 4.5 billion prescriptions every year. And, doing this requires a network of suppliers and distributors that call on pharmacies once, sometimes twice, a day to supply them with medicines of all kinds.

As stories are told about trying to get appointments, of long lines, of waiting lists too long to even accept more people, I keep wondering: why are governments building parallel systems to administer the COVID vaccine?

One of the strangest approaches I heard about is occurring in the nation’s Capital. The District of Columbia officials actually distribute the vaccine according to zip codes of their choosing. Friday is an “open” day for all zip codes so citizens can log in and play a lottery-like challenge to get a vaccination.

Imagine if this odd plan applied to asthma medication or heart medications…..sorry, we only fill prescriptions for this medication if you live in certain zip codes…strange, isn’t it!

Then, there are the positive – sort of – stories of how so many people don’t show up for a government run scheduled appointment that pharmacists have been known to come out into their store and ask people if they want a vaccination because the unused vaccine for the day would have to be destroyed.

Here, where I live in Maryland, I am getting invited with some frequency to travel for a couple of hours to an amusement park where I could wait in a long line for my vaccination.

Perhaps the policy makers had it right when they initially spoke of using retail pharmacies to provide vaccinations. Most people live near a pharmacy. The pharmacy receives medical products everyday through a proven system involving thousands of trucks and many thousands of trained people.

Do we really need to use stadiums, amusement parks and the nation’s military for distribution?

With many millions more doses of the vaccine delivered than there have been shots administered, we really should take a new look at how best to get the other 93% of the population their second shot, not to mention getting people their first shot. I think having the government in the middle of the distribution business is not helping. We have an incredible structure in place to receive medications from manufacturers and deliver those medications to the nation’s local pharmacies. Let’s use the system built over decades and allow the government focus on the distribution system they own and operate so well: the Postal Service.

Craig Fuller served four years in the White House as assistant to President Reagan for Cabinet Affairs, followed by four years as chief of staff to Vice President George H.W. Bush. Having been engaged in five presidential campaigns and run public affairs firms and associations in Washington, D.C., he now resides on the Eastern Shore.

 

Filed Under: Craig, Top Story

Snapshots of Daily Life: Windows by George Merrill

February 28, 2021 by George R. Merrill Leave a Comment

I’ll sleep a third of my life away. I’ll spend thousands of hours just going in and out of doors. But mostly I’ll be watching through windows, looking out or seeing in. For something that is invisible, the presence of windows enlarges my world.

In a lifetime, there will be millions of windows I will look through. They’ll reveal what would remain unknown without them. We take windows for granted. we hardly if ever notice them. Glass is a remarkable creation, first created four thousand years ago.

Mirrors were produced much later in the 19th century. Unlike windows, mirrors show “just me.” We’re seeing nothing new except for the metamorphoses of aging or various cosmetic adjustments. Windows, on the other hand, coax us out of ourselves. Windows reveal the world beyond “just me.”

Imagine, for example, living in a house with no windows or driving a car you couldn’t see out of? What would it be like roaming malls that have no windows? It’s unimaginable. Even if post-modern technology could make such a thing possible, being in our houses, driving cars or shopping in malls would be intolerably boring.

Last week, I watched the ice storm outside through my living room window. I was able to participate in two worlds at once through the offices of glass: the world out there and the one in here, very different ones I would add; the one world was cold and foreboding, the other warm and hospitable. Windows brought us together.

As a child, I was fascinated with glass: how could this thing have physical properties but at the same time remain invisible. “What’s glass made of,” I once asked my father. “Sand,” he replied. He wasn’t always helpful. I concluded on my own that glass must be composed of the stuff ghosts are; a kind of cosmic substance possessing an invisible corporeality.

In churches, I am conscious of stained glass windows. They depict saints in florid colors. Glass makes sense here since I was taught how saints were special people because light shone through them.

Among the sweetest of childhood’s forbidden fruits, breaking windows has got to be the favorite, for boys anyway. Abandoned buildings are ripe fruit; easy pickens. As the rock, I threw hit the windowpane in the old brewery not far from my house, the breaking glass sounded musical to me, titillating my darker instincts but appealing to my aesthetic sensitivities. When a rock hits a window, the sound has something of the dramatic crescendo of clashing symbols one hears during an orchestral performance.

Windows, fragile are they are, have a strong psychological effect in securing boundaries. I understand burglars are often reluctant to break windows when making a heist. Strange. It would certainly make for an easy entrance. Maybe it’s just reluctance to make noise but I’ve wondered whether, despite their fragility, windows create powerful taboos against violating boundaries.

We say, “glass ceiling” to describe the limits that existing power structures impose on select people in their workplaces, typically women. It’s easy to spot stonewalling, but glass provides an invisible barrier.

As a boy growing up on Staten Island in the late thirties and early forties, there were no malls. We shopped differently, then, not modernity’s casual drive to the mall that contains everything you ever wanted. Choices on the Island were limited. Serious shopping involved going to the city, in this case, Manhattan. Like pilgrimages, we’d make annual family excursions, to Manhattan before Easter and before Christmas. We’d outfit ourselves properly for the seasons.

These excursions were all day events. They involved taking the Staten Island ferry to Manhattan. We then boarded the subway at Bowling Green to take us uptown. I loved listening to the rhythmic “clickety-clack” as the train propelled us through its tunnels. Train windows were dreadfully grimy. I could hardly see out of them. We’d exit the stations closest to Macy’s or Saks. As we took the stairs from the station platform to the street, the skyscrapers loomed above us. They were like monoliths with windows as for up as I could see.

Department stores’ fronts had windows displaying merchandise while also securing it. One window had a display of electric trains wending their way through quaint, miniature villages and lush countrysides. The mannequins in some stores were exquisitely dressed and seemed to be looking right at me. I kept waiting for one of them to greet me. I remember once when we first entered Macy’s, the entire store exuded a distinctive and pleasing scent. It may have been the scent produced when everything in a building is brand new.

As a child, the fairy land of merchandise seemed to me even more enchanting as we prepared to leave the city for the Island. Since by then streets were getting dark, store fronts were brightly lit, and the merchandise presented behind large windows was all the more enchanting and alluring for its illumination.

We say an opportunity presents itself to us as a “window.” We look through this window to seize the good fortune that awaits us. Timing is of the essence. When the attitude of the heart is open and ready, this is the optimum time. We see the opportunities through windows more clearly then. With an open heart, our window of opportunity becomes wider and filled with promise.

I was affirmed recently in the boyhood thought I had about windows being composed of spectral properties. On the sun porch, on cold sunny days, between a double paned window, a ghost appears. He is translucent, like a thick mist and I watch him morph this way and that as temperatures fluctuate. Late afternoon, as it grows colder, he slowly disappears. Unlike most ghosts, this one likes basking in the sunlight between windows rather than haunting people in dark rooms. I can’t tell whether he’s looking in or out of the window.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: George, Spy Top Story, Top Story

Home Invasions by Ross Jones

February 28, 2021 by Ross Jones Leave a Comment

It’s probably about time to come clean. To let family and friends know I “have a past.” It’s finally time to admit to four stupid transgressions, the memories of which I can recall in minute detail decades after they occurred. 

Simply and plainly, I have an undetected record as a trespasser. I invaded private homes, without the owners’ permission, on four occasions. I do not like to think what may have happened if I had been reported to the authorities. Trespassing, breaking and entering? Who knows?  

The first two offenses happened in my teenage years, another in my 50s and the final one in my 70s. Some might say I had “a problem.”

So here are the stories. 

Number One:

I grew up in a small colonial town—Haddonfield—in Southern New Jersey.  It was a bedroom community for people working in nearby Camden or, across the Delaware River, in Philadelphia.  In those days Camden was home to manufacturing facilities of the Radio Corporation of America (RCA).  The fathers of many of my friends worked for RCA.  In the mid-1940s RCA was designing and building the earliest television sets. Engineers there were permitted to take their handiwork home to test it and experiment with it.  

The father of my high school friend, Bill,was one of those engineers. One day Bill asked me if I would like to see his father’s TV which had been installed in the family’s  nicely appointed attic (It probably had been placed in the highest point in the house in order to receive strong signal reception). Of course I wanted to see that exciting invention.  So I rode my bicycle to his house where Bill led me up two flights of stairs to see the set. It displayed programming on just one channel, transmitted over the air from Philadelphia.  Even though I cannot recall what I saw that day, I was floored. It was a miracle to see folks moving around and talking on the tiny screen which was perhaps 6 by 8 inches in size.

The next day was Saturday and Dad did not have to go to his office.  I told him about seeing Bill’s TV and asked if he would like to see it.  My enthusiasm was so great he could not resist saying “yes.”   He drove the two of us to Bill’s house.  We went up to the walk, rang the doorbell and knocked on the door but there was no reply. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Opening the door, we called loudly “Hello!” but, again, there was no response.  No one was home.  What to do?

 “Come on Dad, “I said, “Let me show it to you.”  In an instant we bounded up to the second floor and then up another stairway to the attic.  There it was, just like I had seen it the day before. A small, rectangular, metal box-like device with that tiny screen. I turned it on, just like Bill had done, and we watched whatever was on the screen for a few minutes, exactly how long I cannot remember. Then we retraced our steps, down to the second floor and down one more to the center hallway and the front door and walked to the car.  I do not recall that my father ever spoke to me about our illicit venture. He might have found it too embarrassing. 

It has been more than seven decades since Bill and I were in high school together. I would see him from time to time, most often at our 1949 class reunions.  However, I never told him what happened one Saturday afternoon, so many years before, when two people, anxious to experience the earliest thrill of television, entered his family’s home without permission. Perhaps it is time to do so.  

Number Two.

I was just a few weeks into my freshman year at Johns Hopkins and about to turn 18 later that fall. All the undergraduates at Hopkins in those days were young men.  If one did not have a car it was difficult to meet young women at Goucher College or at the Hopkins School of Nursing across town. Someone told me about a youth group at the nearby Second Presbyterian Church. It was reported that Baltimore high school girls attended Sunday evening meetings there.  So, on Sunday evenings, I began walking to the church at the corner of Charles and St. Paul Streets. And, in short order, I met a nice girl. A few weeks later I worked up my courage to ask her for a movie date.  

 She lived in the Northwood section of the city, east of the campus. I did not have a car so the logistics of dating someone beyond walking distance from the campus were complicated. Getting to her home meant taking a bus from the campus neighborhood east to Loch Raven Boulevard, leaving the bus near where her street intersected with the boulevard, and walking to her home about a block away. And that is what I did on our first date. We met at her front door and walked back to the bus stop and rode to the intersection of Greenmount Avenue and 33rd St., the location of the popular, art deco styled Boulevard movie theater. After the show, it was back to the bus and her Northwood neighborhood. I did all of that because I had visions of future dates. 

Suddenly, however, what had been a pleasant evening almost turned into a disaster.  

As we approached her dark, brick, colonial style home she reached for her purse and gasped. “What’s the matter?” I said. “My keys! My keys!  I don’t have my keys.”  My calm and confident reply was “Can’t we just knock on the door and ask your mother or dad to let you in?”   “Oh no,” she said, “they would kill me if I woke them up.”  “So what can we do,” I asked. 

“See that window up there on the second floor?” she said, pointing to a window on the upper right corner of the house.  “It’s unlocked. You could get a big ladder from the garage, go up and climb through the window and come downstairs and let me in.  I cannot recall my precise feelings at that moment. But today, more than 70 years later, my palms still break out in a sweat when I think about doing what she had suggested.  

Nonetheless I quickly thought that I knew how to put an extension ladder up to a second floor window. I had done it many times at my home, in southern New Jersey, as I helped my father put on and take off screens and storm windows from our second floor windows.  So, whatever my thoughts at the time, I followed her down a driveway to the rear of the house, entered a two car, detached garage, found the large, heavy, wooden, ladder and carried it to a spot below my date’s bedroom window.  

I extended the ladder so the top was just under the window sill, climbed up, raised the unlocked window and crawled in. Guided only by the dim glow of an exterior street light I found my way through her room and into an upstairs hall.  I scrambled down a wide set of stairs leading to the entrance hall and the front door. I unlocked the door, opened it, ran outside, lowered the ladder, took it back to the garage, came back to the front step where she was waiting and said goodbye. I ran, almost flew,  down the street to the bus stop. I still wonder what would have happened if her parents or her sister had heard me only inches from them,  just outside their bedroom doors. My palms become moist again. Another date?  Not a chance. That was a “one and done.”

Number 3 

Sometime in the late 1970s or 80s my neighbor and friend, Ted, introduced me to duck and goose hunting on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.  Our normal routine was to crawl out of bed, in our Baltimore homes, about 3 AM and drive across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, to a rural area near Easton  where he had reserved some hunting spots from local farmers. One time, however, Ted said a friend had invited him to use his house the night before we were to hunt. He would not be home and we were welcome to use it and save ourselves that early morning drive from Baltimore. 

We were enthused about the prospect of having a nice place to stay before a day of hunting. We planned to leave Baltimore about three in the afternoon but Ted was delayed by a business issue. When we finally left it was almost 9 PM. Everything went smoothly.  Traffic was light at the time of the evening. Ted said all we had to do was travel down Route 50 toward Easton and that he had directions where to turn off the highway to the house where we would spend the night.  

Not far from Easton Ted turned onto the designated well paved road that led us through several miles of farm land which was well hidden by the dense darkness of that night. “One more turn and we’ll be there,” Ted said, reassuringly.  Sure enough, he found the road, this time a narrow dirt trail winding through more acres of fields that had been loaded with corn in the summer months. 

“I haven’t seen any houses along here,” I said. “Don’t worry,” Ted replied. “His place is a couple of miles up the road. I was here before.”   And, sure enough, in a few minutes, a ranch style house appeared on our left.  The lights were on. “Nice of him to leave the lights on for us,” I said.  “Great guy,” Ted responded. 

We pulled into the drive and as soon as we stopped we began unloading our hunting clothes so we would have them ready when we dressed before sunrise. Warm hats, gloves, heavy jackets, wool shirts, long underwear, thick socks and boots.  We locked the shotguns and ammunition in the trunk. 

On the way up to the front door Ted said his friend “always has some deli stuff for sandwiches and beer in the fridge.”  As son as we opened the door to the fully lighted room we were greeted by a friendly, tail-waging golden retriever.  No barking, he just wanted to be petted.  We lay our gear on the floor and Ted went toward the kitchen. I lingered a bit and looked around the attractive living room that was decorated tastefully with Eastern Shore décor, dark wood paneling, waterfowl paintings, duck decoys and the like.  I also looked at a handsome antique desk and noticed some envelopes on it, apparently addressed to the owner. 

“What did you say your friend’s name was, Ted?” I asked.  Coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of beer and sandwich in his hand he told me the name.  I had a sudden heart palpitation.  “Ted,” I said.  “That is not the name on these envelopes.  I think we are in the wrong house.”  Ted looked at the mail on the desk and blanched. “Oh, my God.  We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. 

We grabbed everything we had brought in, left in an instant, and once again headed down the road. “I was sure that was his place,” Ted said. “I guess we didn’t go far enough.” We continued on the dirt road until we spotted another ranch style house, this one with no welcoming lights. 

“This is it,” Ted said. Once again we unloaded our hunting gear and walked through an unlocked front door.  No lights, no dog.  We did not take time to explore the kitchen. There was a bedroom off the living room with twin beds.  Not bothering to undress and so exhausted by the events of the evening and the late hour, we simply lay on the beds and went to sleep.  Morning would arrive too soon. We would rise from our “guest house” beds, gather up all of our hunting gear and head for the duck blind along Skipton Creek.  “I wonder if the family in the first house will notice that a bottle of beer and some deli meat and bread went missing over night,” I asked Ted. 

Number 4

For many years my wife, Lynn, and I owned a summer cottage on Wellesley Island in the St. Lawrence River in Upstate New York.  It was in a small community of mostly gingerbread styled Victorian homes built in the latter part of the 19th Century.  It is one of those little summer enclaves where everyone knows everyone else and no one worries about home security. Doors are never locked except at the end of the season when the electricity is shut off and the water drained from the pipes and folks head to a place they call home where they will stay until migrating back next spring. 

So it was on a lazy, summer day in August, some years ago, when we were awaiting the delivery of  twin-bed mattresses for the two old iron beds in the green room, aka the front room, upstairs.  We had placed an order a few weeks earlier with Mary Reinman in nearby Clayton, NY (pop. 3,000+) She, with her husband, Bill, are the proprietors of Reineman’s Department Store in Clayton, a true throwback to the days when “department store” meant “If you need it, we’ve got it or we will get it for you.”  For more than 40 years we were loyal and grateful customers of Mary and Bill and, before them, Jimmy and Gloriann, Mary’s parents, who managed the store for more years that even the local, year-round residents can remember.  

The Reinman’s were dependable.  If they said a delivery would be there on a particular day at a a particular time you could count on it.  In this case  the mattresses were due at 3:00 on a Friday afternoon.  So, after cleaning up from a late lunch, we decided to sit on the porch and keep an eye out for the loud, lumbering Reinmann truck to come to the house.  It was “high season” and things were very busy at the store.  Bill might make the delivery himself.  We passed the time by watching the boats zooming about the river a short distance away.  Friday always signaled the beginning of the weekend and greatly increased boating activity. 

Three o’clock came but there was no sign of the Reinman truck.  “Must be very busy,” I said to Lynn. Then it was 3:30 and 4:00 PM.  “I’m going to call Mary,” I said with a twinge of annoyance. 

“Hi Mary, It’s Ross.  We were supposed to receive our mattresses this afternoon. Remember?”  “Yes, I do, we put them on the truck this morning and Dave said he delivered them.”  “Well, we have been waiting for them and they are not here.”  “I can’t imagine where they are.”

Suddenly I remembered that a new family named Jones had just moved in to a house up the street.  Coincidentally they had bought a house that used to belong to my mother and stepfather, a house we knew very well having spent many summer vacations there.  “I bet they delivered the mattresses to the new Jones family,” I said to Lynn.  “Let’s walk over and see.”

We went to the house, opened the screen door to the large wrap-around porch, and knocked on the front door.  No answer. Turning the knob, I opened the door.  “Hello, anyone home?”  Silence. “Let’s check upstairs.”  So we went up to the second floor and, sure enough, the two mattresses, still wrapped in their protective coverings were leaning against the walls of the hallway that was so familiar to us.  

“Let’s take them to the house,” I said.  Lynn picked up the end of one of the mattresses and I took the other end and we carried them down the street, into our cottage, and up to the second floor where the old beds were awaiting their new companions.  We repeated the same journey to retrieve the second mattress. 

I  phoned Mary and explained what happened.  She was nonplussed and there was a tone of annoyance to her voice.  It was the last thing she needed to deal with on a busy Friday afternoon in the “high season.” “Glad you figured it out,” she said. As for the new Jones family, they never knew what had happened.  

Ross Jones is a former vice president and secretary emeritus of The Johns Hopkins University. He joined the University in 1961 as assistant to President Milton S. Eisenhower. A 1953 Johns Hopkins graduate, he later earned a Master’s Degree at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism

Filed Under: Top Story

Chesapeake Lens: Farmer’s Repose by Dennis Tayman

February 27, 2021 by Chesapeake Lens Leave a Comment

Just like his Waterman cousins, the farmer’s life goes from dawn to dusk, season upon season. But as peaceful as it may sometimes appear, It’s hard work, this labor of love! Photography by Dennis Tayman entitled “Farmer’s Repose” from Pasadena, MD 

Filed Under: Chesapeake Lens, Top Story

Delmarva Review: How To Walk Among The Dead by Jennie Linthorst

February 27, 2021 by Delmarva Review Leave a Comment

Author’s Note: “After losing my mother to cancer when I was twelve years old, the cemetery where she is buried became a complicated place for me of expectation and mystery. When I became a mother myself, I traveled back home to Tennessee with my son and watched his young eyes upon her grave. This moved me to write a poem.”

How To Walk Among The Dead

My dad took my older sister
to the cemetery on Sundays
to practice for her driver’s test.
I sat in the backseat of our Jeep Wagoneer,

waited for my turn
to drive those crooked hills
that led to where my mother was buried.
I never knew how to be at her grave.

When I was older,
I brought my girlfriends and a case of beer.
We smoked Camel Lights on damp grass,
interpreting the rustle of leaves

or the Calico cat that passed by
as signs of her presence.
I brought my son there years ago⎯
a summer thunderstorm

had knocked large tree branches
onto her gravestone like omens.
We moved them away, piece by piece,
careful not to step on other stones,

his young face, uneasy,
looked up at me for guidance,
for lessons of how to walk
among the dead.

♦

Jennie Linthorst’s two books of poems, Silver Girl (2013) and Autism Disrupted: A Mother’s Journey of Hope (2011), were published by Cardinal House. Her writing has been published in Forge, Kaleidoscope, Foliate Oak, Literary Mama, Mothers Always Write, Sanskrit, and The Art of Autism. She is certified in poetry therapy from the National Federation of Biblio/Poetry Therapy. Website: www.lifespeakspoetrytherapy.com.

Delmarva Review publishes the best of new prose and poetry selected from thousands of submissions annually. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent. Editors welcome submissions in English from all writers. In addition to sales, the editors are thankful for the generous financial support received from individual tax-deductible contributions and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Please see the website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.

Filed Under: Delmarva Review, Top Story

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