When the pandemic began in 2020 to wreak havoc in our lives, the digital meeting site of Zoom became a ubiquitous part of our communication outlets. Social distancing was irrelevant as we viewed and spoke with colleagues, family and friends.

It was not perfect by any means. Rapport through face-to-face interaction is nullified. But it allowed life to continue, both personally and professionally, when our lives had changed dramatically.

Our individual worlds became isolated, painfully so for an extrovert like this writer.

Zooming has not disappeared. Every three months, the Penn Class of 1967 gathers for 60 minutes to listen to a presentation by a classmate, followed by questions. The effect can be magical. The only obligation is to listen.

Such was the case two weeks ago. A classmate discussed his days as a rower at Penn, followed by years and years of coaching and writing. His four-book series on rowing has brought him international renown. He also won a gold medal in the Olympics in a four-person scull.

My classmate views rowing as a metaphor of life. He learned that rowing required trust in his boatmates, a lesson he learned the hard way in the pivotal position of “stroke.” His prowess had to blend, not dominate. 

His aspiration to win and excel had to be a shared value.

In his senior year, certain he would row as stroke (seat eight and the hardest, nearest the stern), he was demoted from the number one to number two lightweight boat. He was devastated. He pressed his coach for an answer. He had known that his boat had lost speed. He learned that in believing he bore a self-imposed burden to add swiftness to his boat, he was depending less than he should on his crew mates.

My classmate, whom I hardly knew in college, shared his painful story without exhibiting any self-pity. After college, he continued to devote himself to competition, understanding he had turned a personal disappointment into renowned success on the water. 

He grew a heightened sense of awareness. Disappointment can do that to all of us.

More than 30 classmates in their late seventies seemed mesmerized on our zoom by a classmate’s athletic life more 56 years ago. He willingly and poignantly revealed a vulnerability. His message was clear: life goes on, filled with success and defeat, despair and determination.

Youthful stories often become embellished over the years. They sometimes border on bragging. The recent class zoom attained a balance between triumph and terror.

Zooms can be stilted, lacking spontaneity. Camaraderie suffers. Lack of one-on-one contact is limiting. But not a dealbreaker. 

I have found that the longer a zoom conversation lasts, the more likely that participants will inject questions, comments and even humor. The comfort level expands.

My theory as class president and facilitator is that my classmates want to learn. Empty conversation is worthless. Cohesion is more probable if the subject draws attention. My goal is enrichment. Not to seem too pedantic.

During the past 12 months, we have heard a classmate and financier living in London and France analyze and criticize Brexit; another, a law school professor, talked about human rights in the world—he was particularly adamant about Russia’s transgressions–and yet another explained his longtime research about penguins in Antarctica and their declining population due to climate change.

What can be challenging is ensuring the absence of politics, a sure way to ruin dialogue should the conversation veer into divisiveness.

Covid-19 forced all of us to use formerly unknown communication vehicles. It worked. We enjoyed a link to the outside world, safe and maskless. It is marvelously effective in eliciting participation from throughout the world. No one is excluded due to lack of proximity.

During my years at Penn, I chose to apply my limited athletic talent to lacrosse on a grass field. The cold, wet environs of the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia held no attraction for me. I would much rather have held a lacrosse stick than an oar. Teamwork, nonetheless, was still critical to success.

Men and women in their late 70s are willing and able to let their guard down and reveal disappointments. They neither seek applause nor approbation. Self-honesty and self-awareness are on full display. Psychological shields are in the past.

My rowing classmate impressed all of us with his candor.

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.

Situated in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay, a target for rising sea levels due to hurricanes and nor’easters and consequently damaging erosion, Smith Island, Md. faces an uncertain future. Its Old-World charm, marked by its distinctive accent, may vanish amid the throes of climate change.

The population of the island is 200. Its high was 800. Forty-five minutes by boat from the mainland (Crisfield), it is undergoing a tidal wave—in relative terms—of real estate sales. Out- of- towners are buying second homes despite the dire predictions of scientists about the impact of climate change on this outpost of watermen and Smith Island cake. 

The price is right for waterfront property: less than half the cost of a condominium in Annapolis. And the view of the Chesapeake Bay and sunsets is magical.

The lifestyle is peaceful and tranquil. It is tempting to believe it is permanent.

 Imagine a metaphorical bridge from the mainland to a piece of geography that defies conventional thoughts about a community. Smith Island bears little relation to most living spaces populated by thousands of people, cars and noise.

Smith Island is a paradise. Condé Nest Traveler, the “fantasy” destination website, would likely disagree. While the island lacks extravagant amenities and four-star restaurants, it has a quaint charm, as exemplified by few cars, preponderance of bikes and golf carts, Old English speech voiced by the natives, bountiful crabs and oysters and curious tourists impressed by simplicity.

It was founded in 1608, settled by immigrants from Wales and southwest England. Native Americans preceded the British invasion by 12,000 years.

Barring a climatic miracle, the future of Smith Island is doomed. Either it will be awash in water, destroyed by a hurricane or tornado, or dissipated by erosion. The stubbornness and resiliency of Smith Islanders are undeniable. They continue to find ways to ward off extinction through erosion-control measures financed by the state and federal governments.

But, for how long?

I find no joy in predicting a weather-related apocalypse. The island is spiritually connected to the Eastern Shore. It is a splendid relic of the past, its residents and newcomers devoted to a slower pace of life, where secrets are impossible and neighborly support inestimable.

Other islands have vanished, including Holland and Sharps islands in the Chesapeake Bay. Poplar Island, off Talbot County near Tilghman Island, exists and flourishes now only because of hefty investment by the federal government, specifically the annual deposit of two million cubic yards of dredged material from the shipping channels to Baltimore. The island, once the site of a lodge used by Presidents Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman and Washington, D.C. dignitaries, is currently a lovely wildlife habitat.

To be the victim of erosion is a terrible fate. Abandonment by its steadfast residents is the most reasonable course of action. Climate scientists can be wrong. The possibility is unlikely. The impact of climate change and global warming is well-documented.

Another factor is money. How many taxpayer dollars should be spent on Smith Island and erosion control? Though a gung-ho supporter of preservation, whether on the Eastern Shore or Annapolis, I would have to disregard scientific data to believe that Smith Island can withstand the vagaries of weather disasters and persistent erosion.

Were islanders to read this opinion piece, they would vehemently disagree. As they should. The prospect of accepting the demise of a 400-year-old homestead inhabited by generations of family members such as Tyler’s, Marshall’s, Evans’ and Smith’s would be an exceedingly unpleasant reality to accept. 

Many have fled to the mainland for more predictable lives. Their separation from their homeland had to be rending. Nonetheless, the migration was inevitable, though some stayed behind.

Reinvention as a second-home venue is encouraging. It brings a sense of restoration and hope. It also is illusory. Sadly so. 

Smith Island sits on the precipice of tentative survival. The odds are gloomy, if not downright unreasonable. I recommend abandoning a sinking piece of paradise. My proposal surely runs up against pride and tradition.

Evacuation after a destructive storm as Hurricane Sandy is dangerous. Lives might be lost. Homes will crumble. The irreplaceable culture will exist only in memories.

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.

 

 

 

My oldest childhood friend is wonderfully engaging, intelligent and loyal. Conversations with him are always lively. He voices his opinions confidently and constantly.

My fondness for him is 70 years old. It is deep and irreversible.

We understand each other. Our friendship has endured periodic hiatuses. No rifts, just intermittent separations.

An op-ed written by Rabbi David Volpe addressing his upcoming retirement from the rabbinate leavened my thoughts concerning my friend. Before reading Volpe’s farewell as a religious leader in Los Angeles, I had talked at length with my longtime friend about a heartful matter.

Then the conversation turned political on my conservative friend’s part.

Our conversations often take a political direction. He is anti-woke. He strongly condemns his college alma mater for what he considers its ill-advised liberal leanings. His rhetorical criticisms are ceaseless.

Volpe would advise patience and tolerance. Get to know the person (as I do) and develop a relationship before heading into the troubled waters of politics. That phase has already passed for my friend and me. Entry into a listening phase is now a priority for both of us—though I think I do most of the active listening. He might disagree.

His political perspective is shared by many. He is especially articulate and forceful.

This friend is exceedingly kind. His attentiveness to friends enduring hospitalizations is nothing short of amazing. He makes a compassionate point of checking in periodically and persistently.

My point is simple. Politics is irrelevant when committed to a 70-year-old relationship. It would seem obvious. But, as Rabbi Volpe has discovered in recent years as a religious leader, many friendships have fractured. The worship community suffers; a rift is no secret. People tread carefully.

A thread of disunity courses its insidious way through the congregation.

Volpe has witnessed first-hand the destruction of civility in his synagogue in Los Angeles. As he nears his retirement, he laments the consequences of political disagreement.

Disagree and disappear—that is today’s formula for relationships no longer considered desirable in our nation’s political climate. Quick hello, maybe. But no more.

It is no surprise that when Volpe looks back on his 26 years as a rabbi, he recalls acts of kindness interspersed, of course, with typical disputes in a house of worship, exacerbated these days by political divisions.

Times are tense for religious and academic leaders.

An op-ed such as Rabbi Volpe’s in the New York Times often seems a scream for civility and compassion. He writes clearly and knowledgeably about the human condition. As I read it, I wondered if he has tired of the woeful difficulty of leading a synagogue and struggling to retain the sense of community and comity so vital to a church or synagogue or mosque.

Retirement offers a new avenue of personal growth and creativity. It does not preclude emotional stress and physical challenges.

The sinews of a friendship are tough enough to keep strong in the best of times, let alone in our current maelstrom. With my oldest friendship, I am committed to its continuity. I need no prodding or persuasion. A clergyperson need not counsel patience and tolerance.

That said, this quotation from Volpe’s commentary particularly resonated with me: “We, who do not know ourselves, believe we understand others. We must be reminded that each person is a world, and the caricatures we see of others on social media and in the news are just that—a small slice of the vastness within each human being.”

Harder to practice than appreciate the preaching? Probably so. Still worth preserving a friendship.

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.

 

After listening two weeks ago to From and Fuller discuss alleged ethical missteps on the U.S. Supreme Court, I applauded their insights and felt angry about the court’s dysfunctional moral compass. We must countenance political decisions and disreputable personal behavior on the highest court of the land.

Fuller bemoaned lack of awareness on the part of Justices Alito and Thomas for accepting expensive trips from wealthy hosts without considering the consequences of the appearance of conflict of interest. This observation is spot-on.

From focused on the need for specified terms for the justices, who serve for life with little or no accountability. He might be on to something. However, the intention was to establish independence. The concern now are the low approval numbers for the Supreme Court (SC) promulgated by decisions that smack of pure politics. The reversal of Roe v. Wade, empowering states to set their own guidelines for abortion, was troubling in its politically conservative overtones.

Both From and Fuller pointed to expensive trips by members of Congress, funded without restrictions by PACs. Their point was clear: the environment in Washington is rife with questionable prerogatives.

For me, the prime culprit is greed, prompted by a lack of an ethical code for the Supreme Court and a sense of entitlement by justices held harmless by the public. Trust in government institutions, including the lofty Supreme Court, continues to erode.

Members of the Supreme Court generally migrate from executive-level government jobs to private practice to federal judgeships. Any reasonable person would surmise that these men and women consider ethical behavior a prerequisite of their jobs.

We have learned that supposition is dead wrong.

Justice Thomas has accepted extravagant trips and gifts from a conservative Texas friend who happens to be exceedingly wealthy. He has more than a passing interest in SC decisions. The same is true of Justice Alito who adamantly rejects the idea he may have erred ethically by traveling on a private plane owned by a rich hedge fund owner.

Both claim they abided by rules existing at the time they committed their transgressions.

Situational awareness is sadly lacking. As Craig Fuller opined, the appearance of conflict of interest is as damning as an actual act. Anyone engaged in public service learns quickly that ethical standards are sacrosanct. Cross the line, and your career can be threatened.

When an Annapolis lobbyist invited me to lunch, I insisted on paying for my lunch. He seemed amused, suggesting facetiously that I could pay for his lunch too. He obviously thought it silly to quibble over an inexpensive meal. I disagreed. My self-righteousness was justified.

A seat on the Supreme Court demands probity, intelligence, diligence and common sense. Acceptance of gifts makes a mockery of the latter. It drives the public to distrust a once highly respected institution. Its decisions then become open to doubt and cynicism.

While term-limited justices may not feel as comfortable and confident deprived of life terms, mischief and misdeeds are still possible. A strict code of conduct would be helpful. So would an ingrained sense of propriety. So would an ethics counselor.

Greed is a terrible vice. Expensive trips and gifts are tempting. They also raise the specter of influence peddling.

The Supreme Court needs a moral cleansing. The sooner the better.

***

The Supreme Court’s decision last week nullifying affirmative action admission policies at Harvard and University of North Carolina was troubling. The 6-3 decision by the six conservative justices particularly affects selective schools, such as those in the Ivy League.

The unfortunate result will be a drop in the number of Black and Hispanic and rise in Asian and White students. Fifty years of progress in diversity will come to a halt in academia and the private sector. 

Our nation’s highest court continues to serve as an arm of the Republican Party. 

Two schools of thought, both based upon the 14th Amendment, govern the majority and minority opinions. While the conservatives view equal protection under the law as negating affirmative action (carve-outs), the liberals opine that equal protection equates to equal opportunity (specifically undertaken) at the nation’s elite schools. 

For the sake of clarity, the conservatives interpret equal protection as requiring a race-blind posture. In other words, discrimination has a finite life. Affirmation action is unnecessary. Doing nothing to address systemic racism is preferable to Chief Justice Roberts and his right-wing cronies.

The three liberal justices believe that racism in ingrained in American culture. To minimize it, or destroy its inherent roadblocks to education and socioeconomic progress, the law of the land must stipulate that equal opportunity embodies a clear-minded acceptance that racism, though subtle, is intolerable.

I have heard my share of anger about diversity and its limiting legacy admissions. I empathize with my fellow college alumni disgruntled by rejection of their grandchildren. However, being serious about attacking discrimination necessitates intentional action to level an uneven playing field.

The Supreme Court decision is a setback. Its proponents argue that progressive policies are “woke.” They refuse to view themselves as obstructionists. Discrimination will disappear in time. Totally unrealistic. 

The six justices and their supporters are misguided jurists. Our nation consequently suffers.

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.

 

Living in a small village of roughly 170 residents, I like the feel and energy of a wonderful waterfront retirement community called BayWoods of Annapolis. It is comfortable and friendly. It also is 15 minutes from our youngest daughter, her husband and two grandchildren, and 45 minutes closer to our oldest daughter in northern Baltimore County.

All is good. My words are similar to other ones that I have previously written. Please excuse my redundancy.

What differs this time is recognition of the inevitable grief experienced with the demise of friends coping with the ravages of advanced age. Proximity exaggerates the loss. I am observing, not complaining. It is a fact of life in a senior community.

This past year has been particularly difficult. Our immediate neighbor, a wonderfully engaging fellow burdened with a weak heart, died. He was beloved in our community. He was likable, accomplished and intelligent. He knew his fate. He accepted it graciously.

Two weeks ago, a neighbor two floors down died of diabetes. He fought a losing battle. He seemingly lost the will to live. He had led a full life until his illness sapped him of energy. His wife continues to live at BayWoods, the subject of plentiful compassion.

I do not ascribe grief simply to proximity. That would be foolhardy. Thirteen years ago, one of my very best friends died suddenly in Jacksonville, FL, his lifelong home. We typically spoke every two weeks. Our politics were similar. So were our values. I continue to mourn his death. I received the news just as I was leaving for church in Easton.

During 44 years in Easton, I felt grief-stricken when I heard about a friend’s passing. It struck me that friends and acquaintances in a community facing a terminal illness became secluded in their homes or hospitals, served wonderfully by Talbot Hospice. One would have to make an effort, hopefully welcomed by the family, to visit a friend and offer good words (whatever they might be). It was difficult and fulfilling.

In a place like BayWoods, you watch neighbors decline as they navigate illness and disability. They watch you. Their personalities still sparkle despite cognitive and physical challenges. It is sad. It prompts concern and sincere attention; being dismissive of people in decline may be understandable, but selfish, if not inhumane.

While this column may seem morbid and depressing, it is meant to examine the gratifying—and painful passage of advanced aging. Courage and grit are common to octogenarians. Giving up is not an option to most senior citizens. I watch with wonder as the number of 90-year-olds increases at BayWoods.

Readers may wonder about the headline since most of the content concerns grief, not joy. Though many people choose to remain in their home as they age and confront medical problems, some of us view communal living in a retirement community joyfully free of upkeep and maintenance characteristic of a former—and treasured–home.

Life is easier, albeit expensive.

For demographic reasons, a senior citizen community presents a close-up perspective on aging. As we all know, life offers trade-offs. Perfection is unachievable. My wife and I made a choice. We opt to see the joy while cognizant of the grief that accompanies the death of neighbors.

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.

 

 

In a letter to the editor two weeks ago in the Washington Post, I condemned the decision by Virginia Gov. Glenn Youngkin to deploy Virginia National Guard troops to the Texas border to stanch the flow of fentanyl from Mexico to the United States. I found the decision offensive, a blatantly inappropriate use of troops under the peacetime command of the governor.

An accompanying letter criticized the action on legal and constitutional grounds. The writer, a Virginian, was right. 

Fentanyl arrives in the U.S. by tractor-trailer or by ship. Consequently, I wonder what the Virginia Guard soldiers are supposed to do. Hijack the trucks or the ships? To burnish his credentials as a possible presidential candidate in an already crowded field, Youngkin is misusing citizen-soldiers as political pawns.

The state is spending $3.1 million to deploy the troops. In so doing, he is implicitly signaling to Virginians that it is more important to spend their taxpayer money outside, than inside the state.

The governor’s logic is flawed. Political calculation is his motivation. 

As a state resource, the Guard is intended to support citizens in event of manmade or natural disasters within the state. The border mission is the bailiwick of the federal government. Good, thoughtful governors consider the Guard a precious resource to be used in extreme need. Deployment to the Texas border represents crass opportunism as its worst.

Youngkin is deliberately thumbing his nose at President Biden. He hopes to show he is more sensitive to transmission of illegal drugs across the Texas border than the president. He is treading where he should not.

Publicity is more important to Youngkin than common sense.

Guard members’ families and employers can recognize a foolhardy political scheme. Regrettably, they will endure the absence of loved ones for self-serving governmental reasons. 

My fellow letter-writer took a different tact, one focused on states’ rights versus federalism. He believes, as I stated earlier, border control is a federal responsibility. He goes further to compare the use of states’ rights  as an argument for action akin to states seceding from the Union prior to the Civil War. 

James R. Kunder of Alexandria, Va. wrote, “He (Youngkin) is contributing to a “states’ rights” perspective that erodes our national consensus on appropriate federalism. He is acting like pre-Civil War political leaders who ended up as Confederates. He is being disloyal to the United States with his near-treasonous policy. He has guaranteed that I—as a Republican voter—will never support him for any other elected office. Mr. Youngkin should read some U.S. history and put the nation’s interests ahead of his own,”

The strong scent of traitor-like behavior underscores Mr. Kunder’s criticism. I am a bit more circumspect in charging Youngkin with treason. Perhaps I have succumbed to low expectations of our political leaders based on the disgraceful performance of some (I am trying so hard to avoid mentioning the Mar-a-Lago resident).

Youngkin has acted carelessly and politically. His stature has diminished when he sought just the opposite. His disrespect for the proper use of the military is obvious. 

Military units have undeniable expertise. They love to serve. They disdain ill-advised actions by civilian leaders. They can smell political deceit. The odor is pervasive.

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.

 

Continuing our pandemic behavior in 2023, my wife and I recently watched a wrenching Netflix film, “Son,” starring Hugh Jackman, Laura Dern and Vanessa Kirby. The subject was disabling depression and unwavering sadness.

The plot is simple. A 17-year-old is consumed by hopelessness and anger in the wake of his parents’ divorce. His fragile emotional state continues to worsen, including self-mutilation. The sense of abandonment is palpable, paralyzing the son with grief and disassociation from school and friends. His father and mother try to understand their uncommunicative son.

To no avail.

Critics will say that the rest of the story is predictable, thus diminishing the quality of the movie. I disagree.

The possibility of suicide is disturbingly real. Whether the film is considered too melodramatic, manipulating the audience’s feelings, is a perspective that is irrelevant.

Parents, grandparents and friends cannot ignore the signs of depression. Over the years, I have become increasingly aware of this disease —and saddened. In six instances, I have learned about suicide committed by young men on the road to supposedly personal and professional success. They surprised loved ones and friends by taking their precious lives.

I think, for example, about the sons of Senator Ben Cardin and Rep. Jamie Raskin, as well as the son of an Easton friend. I try to imagine the pain that prompted these six young men to end their lives. Then, I focus on the overwhelming grief that must engulf the parents and siblings.

An awful void besets the family. Forever. “Son” brings home the overriding need for parental attention. Denial is dangerous. After a suicide attempt, the cinematic parents finally accept a terrible reality, as their son is treated for mental illness at a New York hospital. Unfortunately, they ignore wise medical advice to confine their son temporarily in the hospital. They yield to their son’s manipulative pleas to go home.

I likely have delved too deeply in details regarding the movie. Its impact was significant for me. It dealt with a troubling issue.

Depression and its potentially fatal effect have gained more visibility in recent years. Suicide by gifted young people has drawn justifiable visibility and concern. It no longer is the silent killer.

Adolescence is a fraught time. Aberrant behavior and thoughts may seem normal during a “bad patch.” In fact, they are serious and searing.

Like the parents in “Son,” those in the real world wrestle with conflicting emotions. They may tend to believe their teenaged children simply need to “get on” with their young lives, putting demons aside. It would be easy to consider their children as self-absorbed.

That posture would be ill-advised.

“Son” is worth seeing. It is difficult at times. It drives home the message that parenting is complicated, requiring tough love at times and informed compassion at other times. Psychiatric help not only is vital, it is unquestionably necessary.

Intended as a movie review, this column has veered toward discussion of depression. I have no insight about the impact of depression, other than what I have read, heard and observed. Its path to suicide in some cases concerns me; young people have decided they cannot live with sadness, lack of purpose and chronic desperation.

“Son” is not a cheerful film. It entertains in a somber way. It teaches in a meaningful way.

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.

I must admit that June 6 is an unforgettable day for me. I have expended thousands of words over the years about the historic D-Day invasion of the Normandy, France beaches on June 6, 1944. Today is the 79th anniversary of the greatest amphibious assault in military history.

Surprise was the deciding factor in the successful Allied effort to claim a strategically important beachhead.

Henry Turner, a 19-year-old Easton native, was part of the first wave of that unexpected invasion, landing on Omaha Beach in the village of Vierville. He and his fellow soldiers faced withering fire from German forces—despite the astonishing Allied action— situated on the bluffs overlooking the beach. Members of the famed 29th Infantry Division, comprising a large number of troops belonging to the Maryland and Virginia National Guard, endured mind-numbing combat.

They determined to overcome their German counterparts. And they succeeded.

After the war, Turner became an attorney, serving three terms as the Talbot County State’s Attorney, before becoming chair of the Maryland Parole Commission.

In 1994, I encountered Turner at a Washington Street store. I asked if he planned to join 29th Division veterans traveling to Normandy to celebrate the 50th anniversary of D-Day. I was going to France as Gov. William Donald Schaefer’s escort officer. Turner responded curtly, “No. I will not even watch “The Longest Day,” the acclaimed film about the assault.

End of conversation.

Turner had witnessed unbelievable human damage and death at a young age. He did not want to relive relentless fighting in France.

I respected his reticence. I understood his angst.

Turner, who died in 2015 at age 91, was courageous and outspoken. I recall attending a Memorial Day event at the Easton VFW. He was the main speaker. He eschewed flowery comments about Memorial Day, the same heard every year. Instead, he spoke about equal opportunity in the Armed Forces. He was not a politician trying to please the audience.

Over my 30-plus years in the Maryland National Guard, I met and liked many D-Day veterans. Most have died. Bill Boykin, a Baltimore resident, was one of them. He was an artillery officer attached to the 2nd Battalion, 115th Infantry, 29th Division. The unit was massacred by Germans retreating from Omaha Beach and finding the American soldiers resting in a field surrounded by hedgerows, after a long day’s march.

During the June 1994 visit to 29th Division battle sites, including the one attacked by German soldiers, Boykin questioned the description of the nocturnal assault. He adamantly refuted the perception of trips too tired to set up perimeter defense.

Historians disagreed.

The Boykin story reflects pride and conviction on the part of an officer opposed to a commonly told story. Even 50 years later, he defended the unit and its commander caught unexpectedly in the line of deadly fire.

Memories haunt combat veterans. Though time may alter their accuracy, they never vanish.

Men like Turner and Boykin contributed to the demolition of Adolph Hitler’s Fortress Europa. They fought bravely and relentlessly. They preserved freedom against a madman determined to establish hegemony in Europe.

As we celebrate the Allies’ magnificent victory on D-Day today, I urge readers to pay homage to 29th Infantry Division soldiers who confronted an onslaught of firepower on a formerly serene French beach. They persevered.

They endured the loss of friends and comrades. They suffered the loss of innocence.

Very few are still alive.

They spent three years away from their families and communities. They came home and rebuilt America. They talked sparingly about their wartime experiences.

Peace is elusive. War is horrible, but sadly necessary. Thank goodness for people like Henry Turner and Bill Boykin.

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

A 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.