Nonpartisan Education-based News for Talbot County Community
Two chicks sort out the pecking order while mom preens. “The Nest” by Bob Reynolds.
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A distinctive smoky haze lingered over the crabbing fleet all day Thursday at PT Hambleton’s facility on Grace Creek in Bozman. Dennis Forney Photo
The white-coated man behind the seafood case in the grocery store sees me eyeing the round, plastic containers of crab meat set in ice. Traditional one-pound containers.
“Can I help you?”
I squint my eyes a little, making sure I’m reading the prices correctly, my mind running through numbers like an old-fashioned cash register. Jumbo lump crab meat, $63. Regular lump crab meat, $43.
“The crab meat,” I say. “Those prices look high.”
His answer comes quickly. “Not as high as Annapolis. A pound of jumbo lump over there is running about $75.”
There’s no claw meat as there has been sometimes in the past. No special either.
“That lump meat is now what they call special.”
I thank the man for the information, tilt my hat back, scratch my head a little. Not sure how that helps the thinking process but maybe it does. Then I turn, walk away, and head for the cashier to pay for the four-gallon plastic trash bags I’ll put in the plastic paint bucket I bought at the hardware store to put beside my sink for food waste. Keeps it out of the sink and the disposal and the septic system and the waters where the crabs grow. They have enough to eat without me adding more nutrients to the system.
Looking at the crab meat prices was more of a fact-finding mission than a dinner decision.
Inflation and high prices are on everyone’s mind. Soft crabs have been scarce lately. I saw some in another seafood case the other day – they were good-sized soft crabs, alive – $7.75 each. More sticker shock.
“Market’s terrible,” a local buyer tells me. “”Used to be crabs were something people ate as a regular part of their diet. Not anymore. Look at the prices. Now they’re a delicacy, a luxury item. Soft crabs are scarce because peelers are scarce. A Delaware Bay crabber said there hasn’t been hardly any peeler run so far this year. But there’s lots of little crabs out there.”
Another chimes in. “This is never usually a strong time for the market.”
And another: “Ocean City was strong over Memorial Day weekend but not what it’s been in the past.”
Prices. Not just for crabs, for all kinds of food items.
Conversation shifts. “Did you smell the smoke in the air this morning and see the haze? It’s the wild fires up in Canada, Nova Scotia. They say half the island’s on fire.”
I did smell the smoke Thursday morning and noticed the haze that softened the edges of the clouds and the trees in the distance. Smelling smoke in the morning strikes me as unusual.
National Weather Service says the smoky smell and haze are a result of the Canadian fires up north, fires scorching parts of New Jersey’s Pione Barrens and fires out west. They expect those conditions, coming at us from sources thousands of miles away, to persist for a while.
More head scratching, wondering, my mind scrolling and scanning, trying to make sense of it all, trying to connect all of the dots. Plastic containers, plastic bags, plastic paint pails. Plastics all made from fossil fuels. The burning of fossil fuels, we’re told, part of the equation leading to a warming of the climate, changes in weather patterns, “smoke on the water and fire in the sky.” Everything contributes.
Back to crabs. Watermen are getting $150 per bushel at the moment, fairly typical for this time of the year. The winter dredge survey, results announced recently, showed significantly higher numbers of crabs in the Chesapeake compared to 2022.
“Lots of little crabs out there now. Lots of them.”
Prices should moderate as the season progresses into the summer. Demand will be higher but so too will be supply. And as the sheds continue with each full moon, crabs are getting bigger too.
“By late summer and fall, there will be plenty of crabs.”
Anecdotal reporting, that’s what I do. Listening and observing, bits and snatches of information coming from all different directions – just as irregular and numerous as jigsaw puzzle pieces – helping form our ever-changing world view, completing a puzzle that’s really never completed..
If you made it with me this far, thanks for reading.
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It started with a property line dispute and turned into a novel nine years later. When a neighboring farmer challenged the property lines of her farm, Barbara Lockhart went to the records, and discovered an amazing fact. Before the Civil War, her family farm had been owned by a free black woman named Elizabeth Burton.
That discovery commenced a voyage into the history of her farm and unearthed a buried history of African Americans on the Eastern Shore. Elizabeth Burton, aka Elizabeth Boston, owned Lockhart’s farm from 1852 to 1857. Her farm was in the middle of a significant settlement of Native Americans from the Choptank tribe. On the Eastern Shore at that time, all nonwhites were classified as “Negro” (or Negress” in Burton’s case). Lockhart was never able to determine if Elizabeth Burton was black or native American or a mixture.
Lockhart’s journey of discovery took her to an uncomfortable time that has been forgotten, neglected, and buried. She poured through auction records, deeds, and other original documents in the local libraries, trying to unearth this hidden past.
She was moved by what she had learned. How dangerous life was for free people of color during slavery. How people of color were shamefully treated during and after the civil war. How Jim Crow laws and racist attitudes on the Eastern Shore conspired to keep the non white population in a state of poverty and struggle. Lockhart’s journey of discovery inspired her book Elizabeth’s Field.
Originally from Queens and NYC, Barbara Lockhart has made her home in Dorchester County for 50 years.
Her book, Elizabeth’s Field, is an award winning work of historical fiction about free and enslaved black Americans in Dorchester and Caroline Counties. Elizabeth’s story is honed from her research into the former free black landowner of her farm. A main character in her book, Elizabeth, is a free woman of Native-American and African American descent, who owned land in 1852 and lost it in 1857.
Her book interweaves stories of the past and present. The present-day “storyteller,” Mattie, chronicles modern-day challenges for African American women. Her character is based on Lockhart’s friend and neighbor, Mary Taylor, a woman of color who died in the late 1970’s. Taylor lived a transient life under the weight of Jim Crow laws, racism, and domestic violence. And through Taylor’s oral history, Lockhart was able to learn about life on the Eastern Shore from the perspective of someone of color. Her book makes us confront how slavery and racism has left a permanent stain on the peaceful waters and graceful farmland of the Eastern Shore.
But there is much more to Barbara Lockhart than this novel. After having the pleasure of interviewing Lockhart, I realized that Lockhart has spent her life searching for knowledge. She has published both children’s and adult books.
A list of her available books are:
Young Children’s Books: Once a Pony Time at Chincoteague, Will’s Tractor, Mosey’s Field
Adult Novels: Elizabeth’s Field, Requiem for a Summer Cottage, The Night is Young, Collected Stories
She taught Kindergarten for 30 years in Secretary, MD. While teaching, she realized that her students’ parents weren’t reading to their children. She created a program where children would perform a fun activity related to the book after their parents read them the story.
But being a lifelong learner means that you listen for challenges…and she discovered that some of the children’s parents didn’t read to their children because they simply couldn’t read. She created a national program that is used today, creating fun activities associated with parents reading books to their children and helping parents learn how to read.
To celebrate Juneteenth, the St Michaels Community Conversation on Race, and the Easton Branch of the AAUW are hosting a Conversation with Barbara Lockhart on Monday, June 19th, from 5:30- 7:00 PM at Union United Methodist Church (201 Railroad Avenue, St Michaels, MD)
In my brief conversation, I merely scratched the surface of her remarkable life and accomplishments. I hope that you get a chance to meet her as well.
She has modeled the values of being a lifelong learner…to never stop asking and never stop wondering.
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.
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Are you celebrating the end of the debt ceiling crisis? You know, the predicted collapse of the U.S. economy triggered by the federal government defaulting on its debt because a 1917 law prohibits it from issuing debt beyond a level set in statute. That limit is currently $31.4 trillion.
The compromise announced over the weekend is a victory for both sides. Biden’s willingness to compromise with Republicans averted a default on federal debt. Republicans won restraints on spending and several other priorities, including reducing new funding for the IRS and imposing work requirements for many beneficiaries of the SNAP (formerly known as food stamps) program.
Politics can be a difficult, ugly process, but in the case of the Republican decision to use a confrontation on the debt ceiling to achieve several of its 2024 political priorities, it worked. Should that be celebrated? Should President Biden have been tougher in negotiations? Those are valid questions.
Thanks to the agreement, which is expected to be approved by Congress and signed by the president, the next debt ceiling crisis will not happen until 2025, after the next presidential election.
I am not celebrating the end of the “crisis” because it never was one. The lines drawn in the sand by both the White House and Mr. McCarthy were not non-negotiable, but political posturing. I knew that sometime just before the “deadline,” the estimated date on which new federal borrowing would be illegal, an agreement would be reached. I was right.
The concept of a “debt ceiling” is stupid. America borrows money to pay for federal programs and spending already authorized. That means that, given Congress’ authority to appropriate money and raise taxes, there is already a “control” over spending. A “debt ceiling” is not needed if Congress had the backbone to pay for what it wants to spend.
The waste of time spent by both the White House and Congress arguing about the debt ceiling is reminiscent of the 15-vote marathon the Republicans needed to elect a Speaker of the House. That circus was orchestrated by about a dozen right-wing crazies with a take-no-prisoners approach to governing. They are ready to stop Congress in its tracks to make a point on issues like “wokeness,” guns, border security, abortion, and now that a Democrat is in the White House, the federal debt. They are not ready, or should I say able, to work as members of a deliberative legislative body created to translate what the people want into government spending and policy.
It was the right-wing extremists who conditioned Kevin McCarthy’s election to the Speakership on a promise to take the debt ceiling vote “to the mat.” Because a compromise was reached, they failed. But they will be back the next time the federal debt approaches the “ceiling.” They will also be looking for other means to attempt to win or influence issues they are unable to win without extreme game-playing. Take, for example, Senator Tommy Tuberville ‘s refusal to allow a vote on the appointment of General Charles Brown, Jr. as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff over the abortion issue.
I am waiting to see if Congressman Matt Gaetz (R-FL) or Lauren Boebert (R-CO) attempt to remove Speaker McCarthy because he compromised with the Democrats. Donald Trump, who has advocated a default, is encouraging them.
Sadly, the compromise reached over the weekend will not eliminate future “debt ceiling crises.” In a sane world, Congress would see that use of the “debt ceiling” to leverage cuts in federal spending only makes Congress look stupid. In its simplest form, think of Congress agreeing to spending and later refusing to pay for it.
Representative Bill Foster (D-IL), and Senator Brian Schatz (D-HI) have introduced the End the Threat of Default Act, legislation to repeal the statute that established a “debt ceiling.” Ideally, the legislation would pass, but that will not happen. The entire Republican caucus, even those who were troubled by the brinksmanship of Speaker McCarthy, prefers to keep the weapon of the debt ceiling.
Lest the debt ceiling fiasco be seen as the exclusive fault of Republicans, realize the real issue behind the “problem” of deficit federal spending is the refusal of both parties to support the type of tax increases needed for federal programs that enjoy broad bipartisan support. Republicans oppose all tax increases and enthusiastically voted in support of tax cuts for the wealthy. Democrats also oppose all tax increases except for those to be paid by the “super rich,” best understood to be someone other than 99.0 percent of us.
The Democrats’ tax policy fosters the misconception that significant expansions of federal programs can be enacted with no new taxes (meaning no new taxes except for the super-rich). That is dangerous. It turns Congress into a grab bag. It also encourages Republicans to oppose all tax increases and seek tax cuts for their friends whenever they have the power to do so.
So, please join me in not celebrating the end of the debt ceiling crisis. The can has been kicked down the road. We do not have to worry about a repeat for two years. Yippee.
J.E. Dean is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and other subjects.
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OK; now pay attention. I’m only going to say this once…
My wife and I just returned from a week and a day in Spain; Barcelona and Mallorca, to be exact. We were in Barcelona to witness and celebrate the wedding of a daughter of close friends; we were in Mallorca celebrating each other. And therein hangs this tale…
Before we left for Barcelona and even after we arrived there, friends warned us to be careful of pickpockets. “They’re everywhere,” we were told. While that may be true, not once did we encounter anyone bent on picking a pocket. I fancy myself a savvy, even vigilant, traveler so I was on high alert, especially in crowded areas like the one surrounding Antonio Gaudi’s visionary cathedral, the Sagrada Familia (an overwhelming emotional experience for me), the Gothic Quarter of the city (charming, narrow streets, filled with shops and cafés), or Tibidabo (the neighborhood and amusement park that crowns the city, accessed by a funicular). Nary a sign of foul play or evil intent, just four happy days of sunny but cool weather, seaside restaurants, and glass after glass of rosé wine with old and new friends.
So off we went to Mallorca, an island in Balearic Sea, a thirty minute plane ride from Barcelona. Our hotel was on a quiet lane in the old quarter of Palma, Mallorca’s capital. If anything, the town and the island was even more charming than Barcelona: the people could not have been friendlier, the café life in the small placas that punctuate the town was always lively, and the food—tapas and more glasses of rosé—was delicious. Maybe it was the mood of the place or maybe all the rosé I consumed, but I began to relax.
On Day One, we wandered the winding streets and lanes of Palma, did a little shopping for the grandkids, and, in the evening, found a charming little restaurant for dinner. (Dinner, by the way, is a late night affair in Spain; one doesn’t even think about eating dinner until at least 9 o’clock.)
On Day Two, we took the clickity-clackity old train over the Sierra de Tramuntaña, the backbone of Mallorca and a UNESCO world heritage site, to the village of Soller. From there, we took a tram down to the beach where we sat in the bright sunshine and shared—guess what?—a bottle or two of wine with friends we had met at the wedding in Barcelona. That night, back in Palma, we noshed on pizza, washed down by mineral water. Just kidding!
On Day Three, we rose late and found a wonderful small bistro for lunch. Our server took our picture. We wandered back toward our hotel, this time doing some serious shopping, four full bags worth of shopping. Here we were, two crazy kids in Mallorca, grateful and happy.
I never felt a thing. I touched my back pocket and realized my wallet was gone. For a moment, I thought I was mistaken: maybe I had left it at the restaurant or had dropped it into one of the shopping bags I was carrying like a rented mule. But then it hit me: no; my pocket had been picked. Just then my wife’s phone dinged, alerting her to a new charge (nearly $200) at a perfume store. Not ours. Then another ding and another new charge, this time at a clothing store—about 500 Euros ($540). My heart was sinking fast. The game was on and maybe already lost.
We hurried to the perfume store where the first nefarious charge had been made. The clerk there said, “Wait; are you James Kirkpatrick? I knew that man wasn’t American; he couldn’t even speak English!” Immediately, the shopkeepers searched the security camera footage and within seconds found the culprit. The police were called. When they arrived in plain clothes, they downloaded the image from the security camera and forwarded it to a face recognition service while we went to the police station to file a report.
Now it’s time to make this long story shorter. At the station, we filed our report with the help of a translator. Then our plain clothes police friends came in and showed us a photo of the culprit’s driver’s license. A few minutes later, they returned to inform us that they had caught the man, along with an accomplice. And then, several minutes later—wonder of wonders!—they came back holding my wallet! The cash was gone, but no big deal; my wife carries the cash. Two credit cards were missing (we had already blocked those), but everything else—my driver’s license, a passport card, all the detritus of my life—were still there. The thief had abandoned my wallet on a windowsill and the police had found it!
Hashtag “Happy Ending!” All the charges on my cards will be reimbursed. The Mallorcan police are heroes! And the next day, we took a thank-you box of pastries to the good ladies at the perfume shop. When we told our story to them and to a few other people, the reaction was one of happy disbelief. Happy for our good fortune, but disbelief in the crime. Safe little Mallorca, like everyplace else in this spinning world, is changing fast.
If it’s true that all’s well that ends well, then we’ll breathe a sigh of relief and leave it at that. That night, we had our best meal yet and celebrated with a bottle of rosé. Maybe two.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.
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A week in a big, old and quirky house in Rehoboth Beach, Del. overlooking the Atlantic Ocean brought great joy and personal refreshment to my wife and me two weeks ago. We were comfortable and content.
And, yes, we were just blocks away from President Biden’s beach home. That matters little to us. But readers may wonder.
During our stay, we found it fascinating to watch a major beach replenishment, necessitated by winter storms that eroded the seashore. I learned that the project, encompassing the shoreline from Rehoboth Beach to Fenwick Beach, Del., costs $23.8million in state and federal money.
The Rehoboth Beach portion entails the pumping of 300,000 cubic years of sand from the ocean bottom. We easily could see the pumping ships offshore and beach equipment to spread and smooth the sand.
When I served as deputy treasurer of Maryland, I learned about the millions and millions of dollars spent over the years on beach replenishment in Ocean City, Md. The obvious question is why. Erosion is unavoidable. Winter storms are unpredictably damaging.
The answer is simple: tourism.
If ocean-goers are to continue investing their vacation time and money, they expect pristine, wide beaches. The inherent uselessness of expensive beach nourishment is irrelevant. Ocean City is an essential economic development resource in Maryland; tax dollars are plentiful.
Beach replenishment every four years in Ocean City costs nearly $10 million, according to a Google search. The initiative began in 1988, funded by the federal government, the state, Ocean City and Worcester County.
As I watch the waves roll in, slamming Rehoboth Beach and prompting memories of family affinity in a 1929-vintage beach home owned now by descendants of a Wilmington, Del. lumber yard-owning family, I ruminate about the inexorable passage of time. I think back about hours and hours sitting on the beach, enabling our two daughters to experience the wonders of the ocean and the tranquillity of the beach.
We impressed upon them the need for caution. Implicitly, we instilled family togetherness.
These memories are precious. They also are painful. You must accept aging. We remember our younger years with great detail, and some yearning.
When not talking about our children and grandchildren, our next dinner meal, the erratic quality of Grotto pizza, the bothersome traffic on Route 1 (Ocean Highway), increased visibility of body art, the delectable Thrasher’s fries and welcome changes to a rental house we feel we own—my wife and her sister and brother would switch inevitably to remembrances of my deceased in-laws.
The conversation is heartfelt, sometimes humorous. “I didn’t know that” is a frequent comment.
As would be expected, each sibling interacted differently with a parent. Funny stories mix with serious ones. My in-laws celebrated 40th and 50th anniversaries in the house by the sea. Stories about my in-laws’ friends abound during our conversation.
While enjoying our respite, we remained aware of current events. Debt ceiling negotiations, the death of professional football star Jim Brown, the Preakness and the high cost of cars hovered above us in the turbulent world of journalism.
Despite the cool weather, we felt replenished. We always are eager to arrive and reluctant to leave our vacation cocoon.
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.
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June is the sixth month of the year and the second of four months to have a length of thirty days. June has the longest daylight hours of the year. June is International Men’s Month, LGBT + Pride Month, Great Outdoors Month, and National Oceans Month.
June is a sunny month and by association, June symbols are bright and radiant. One of June’s symbols is the insect, cicada. As a Totem or animal guide, the cicada bears a message about awakening your creativity. The cicada is the longest living insect, which causes them to be a prominent and appropriate symbol of longevity. Several years ago, during a visit to Aix en Provence I was delighted to discover that the cicada features prominently in Provencal folklore. The cicada was sent by God to rouse peasants from their afternoon naps on hot summer days and prevent them from being lazy. Instead of being disturbed by the cicadas, the peasants found the sound of their buzzing relaxing, which in turn lulled them to sleep. Cicada pottery wall vases are found in many shops in Provence, they are thought to bring joy and luck to the family when hung in the kitchen. The cicada is one of my favorite insects so I bought several of the wall vases and hung them in my kitchen, a cheerful reminder of a beautiful trip.
June comes from the Latin Juno (luno). Juno was a powerful goddess who became the protector of Rome, wife of Jupiter, queen of gods, and goddess of marriage, childbirth, and fertility. Summer weddings are very popular, which may have started because of the blessing that Juno bestowed on those wed in her namesake sacred month.
June 3 is the full moon in June, a strawberry moon, the last full moon of spring. The Strawberry Moon was named by the Native American Algonquin tribes that live in the northeastern United States to mark the ripening of strawberries that are ready to be gathered. The new moon (June 18) is associated with beginnings, starting projects, and defining what you want to attract, this is a great day to set monthly intentions. The full moon, on the other hand, celebrates what you’ve manifested and completed — a time for reflection. I open as many doors and windows as possible on the day of the full moon, burning palo santo, sage, or lavender to cleanse the energy in my home.
June’s birth flowers are the honeysuckle and rose. The Greeks believed that the rose was created by the goddess of flowers, Aphrodite gave the blossom beauty and Dionysus gave it a sweet scent. Known as the Queen of flowers, roses have been used in herbal medicines for centuries. Rose water is believed to aid in healing of wounds, hydrating the skin, promoting hair health, and relieving headaches. The scent of roses can produce mood boosting endorphins. In Ayurveda, the rose is thought to soothe the heart and emotions. Studies have shown that rose hip powder reduces osteoarthritis pain due to its anti-inflammatory properties. Rose hips are rich in antioxidants and vitamins that help support the immune system.
Honeysuckle exudes happiness and abundance. Honeysuckle’s magical energy is emblematic of the sweet life, a vine that conveys the essence of all things that bring pleasure and joy. Herbalists make tinctures of honeysuckle flowers each summer to be used aromatically as a treatment for sinus pressure and relaxation. The scent of honeysuckle is known for strengthening intuition, connecting with our spirit, and heightening our psychic powers.
Most people born in June fall under the sign of Gemini, which means they see both sides of an argument. Appropriately symbolized by the celestial twins, this air sign was interested in so many pursuits that it had to double itself. Geminis are the social butterflies of the zodiac, they can talk to anyone about anything. Gemini is governed by Mercury, the messenger planet of communication. Born on the cusp of spring and summer, charismatic June babies are outgoing and friendly, making them attractive both inside and out.
June is one of three months to have three birthstones, Pearl, Alexandrite, and Moonstone . Pearl has always been associated with calming of the mind and being able to cure stomach ailments. Japanese folklore says that pearls are the tears of mermaids. Alexandrite is sought after for its chameleon like behavior, it is bluish green by daylight and red by night. It is an extremely rare gemstone and a fairly modern one to boot. Alexandrite was first discovered in the emerald mines in Russia’s Ural Mountains on the day of Prince Alexander’s birthday in 1830. The stone is considered to bring good luck, good fortune, and love. Moonstone, according to mythology, can bring magical and beautiful dreams. In some cultures, moonstone is a cure for insomnia and sleepwalking.
“Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.” – Al Bernstein
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.
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I was expressing a desire for more meaningful friendships years ago when a therapist I was seeing suggested I meet another client of hers with a similar longing. She thought we might become friends.
The no-pressure way we would meet in this arranged marriage was in a small group working on mother issues. I actually didn’t think I had any of those but attended anyway to meet the potential friend.
We had all been told to bring a stuffed toy that somehow represented our personality. I’d made an aspirational choice, a guileless puppy for whom unconditional love is a dog specialty-of-the-house. As we gathered that first night, sitting in a circle on folding chairs in the therapist’s office, other participants were holding their avatars as well. Representatives included a stuffed kitten, one giraffe with big soulful eyes, a little raccoon… Everyone seemed to have selected a mammal of some kind, including the woman I’d identified as my potential new friend. Mary was lovely, but lovely isn’t necessarily friend material.
That’s when I glanced directly across the circle and locked eyes with a tall, stunningly beautiful woman who was staring specifically at me. Her expression was one of invitation—a look of intense hope and bossy possibility. It was the kind of stare that makes you glance over your shoulder to see who is standing behind you, for surely that’s the person for whom it is meant. If hope could be brash, if somehow an invitation could be a demand, that was the look.
Conservatively dressed in black slacks and a pale blue turtleneck, she sat clasping a green and brown frog with huge bulgy eyes. It was the only amphibian in the room. I thought, “That frog is the weirdest choice. That frog is hilarious!” And for me, both in friendship and romance, laughter is the love that binds. Two hours later, although I’d come to meet Mary, I left with plans to call Margaret.
Margaret was seriously yet invisibly ill, which trumped mother issues all to hell and back. And we became good friends though Margaret already had a small infantry of friends wanting to help her kick an insidious invader at least long enough to see her children grown. Which she did until she didn’t. No one can outrun a bullet forever. The point being I’m beginning to think it is true. There are people in your life whom you are destined to meet, even when you come to the party to meet someone else. Or you’re late. Or at the wrong party.
Whether you love them or leave them, stand by, or stand by them, may be the only choices you get to make. You only get to determine how that person is going to be in your life. Meeting, with a thousand potential outcomes, was a given from the day you were born.
It’s comforting to think I can’t miss the people bus. I can’t be on the wrong side of the street or late when the bus pulls away from the curb. I simply can’t miss running into the person who will alter the course of my life in a significant way because if I do, fate is going to make us board the same Delta flight a day later or wander down the same aisle at Wegman’s—even if it’s decades in the future in a distant town.
In my early twenties, I dreamed seven people were sitting around a large rectangular table discussing who was going to take what role in my life. “I’ll be the father,” “I’ll be boss,” “I’ll be the blind date she marries,” “I’ll be the elderly neighbor who leaves fresh camellias on her back steps every morning when she’s a lonely young bride whose husband has deployed to the Med.
I was watching this strategizing session without sound so I’m inventing the dialogue. But I knew they were divvying up relationships—passing around scripts as if in a play. Later I wondered, is it possible this is how it works?
The last time I saw Margaret, she was still gorgeous, sitting up in her family room while those who cared about her slipped in one at a time to say goodbye. Margaret was unable to speak by then but seemed to understand everything going on around her, and in typical Margaret fashion (universally and lovingly acknowledged to be opinionated and often critical), she had plenty to say; she just couldn’t say it.
I sat down next to her when it was my turn, leaning over the upholstered arm of her chair, and tried to speak for both of us, but I was in a foreign country without the language. As I recall, I opened with a comment about what I was wearing (gray sweater dress, suede boots) and what I guessed she’d have said about it! Margaret kept gesturing emphatically. Kept slinging her hands outward as if to say, “What? Wait! Do you believe what’s going on here? Say what I need you to say!” Be who you promised you would be to me before we were born.
And I could only think, But I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
I think I said I will miss you. I will love you always. But I was so utterly lost I might have said, “See you Thursday.”
If I could talk to her now, I’d say, “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to be your friend. Thank you for aiming frog at puppy. I was adequate in my role, but if you give me another chance, I’ll be so much better. In the years since you left, I’ve learned a little more about what I might have given. Let’s go back to the table—let me pick a different script.” In reality, I feel that way about everyone, not just Margaret. About everyone.
I wonder if before you were born, there was a table and everyone you would come to know in this life was seated at it volunteering to play a role: “I’ll be the brother who teaches him to play acoustic guitar,” I’ll be the sister who becomes a dentist,” “I’ll be the daughter who demonstrates parents control nothing,” “I’ll be the therapist who finds her a new friend,” “I’ll be the young mother who dies too soon.”
It took us a long time to get here, didn’t it? But there was never any doubt we’d arrive.
Since you are reading this, I must have been at your table, yes? And you, beloved, must have been at mine.
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.
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At low tide, all is revealed. “Sand Ripples” by Chase Morgan.The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.
Author’s Note: “When I saw an old ‘Visible Woman’ in a battered box at a yard sale, vivid memories of the one I received for Christmas arose and prompted this poem. Having access to the nude anatomy of a grown-up woman felt thrillingly transgressive back then, though I had parental approval. The transparent plastic model was a sort of key to unlock the mystery of my own changing body, even as the prevailing model of womanhood was being questioned and disassembled.”
Girls and Dolls
The anatomical model of the female body
Santa left when I was ten was no Barbie doll.
The plastic lady came boxed with a skeleton,
vital organs, and the (optional) “miracle of creation”
transparent uterus complete with baby
that I could click in and take out,
although I didn’t know how a real baby
got in and out, or what to call a vagina and vulva,
parts I vaguely had but she didn’t:
she was plastica intacta down there.
The see-through Visible Woman
wasn’t visible at all except for her insides.
She (totally) could have opened the door
wearing Saran Wrap and a glassy look
of biological destiny on her non-face,
but like Barbie with those working girl outfits
the VW wasn’t intended to show me
a person to be reckoned with,
or to model the actual real
doing disagreeing choosing
the-hell-you-say visible woman
her bold title prophesied
and who was coming into view
the year I was ten.
Nevertheless she showed me
the sturdy bones of my durable body;
she showed me breasts and ovaries
and female embodiment;
from then on, from ten on
I was learning that it is vital
—listen, Invisible Girl—
to put in and take out,
to investigate and create,
to stand and show up in
my own visible, my own
miraculous self.
⧫
Marda Messick is a poet and theologian living in Tallahassee, Florida on land that is the traditional territory of the Apalachee Nation and other indigenous peoples. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Christian Century and Literary Mama.
“Girls and Dolls” was published in the Delmarva Review Volume 15, a nonprofit literary journal that selects the most compelling new poetry, nonfiction, and short fiction from thousands of submissions during the year. It is available from Amazon.com and other bookstores. The review is designed to encourage outstanding new writing from authors everywhere. Support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.
The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.
