Jamie Kirkpatrick - Centreville Spy

Phil By Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 11, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

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

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

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

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

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

Take that, Phil.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Clutching Pearls By Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 4, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

My friend the Professor recently ran an idea up the flag pole of his social media that included the phrase “clutching their pearls.” I hadn’t heard that phrase in years—“limousine liberals” yes, but nothing about “clutching their pearls.” It got me thinking…

When I was growing up in Pittsburgh, my Aunt Addie lived with us in the big house in Squirrel Hill. She wasn’t really my aunt; I think she was my mother’s great aunt which means (I guess) she was my great, great aunt. I think she originally came from New Jersey and was the last of her family’s line, Her full name was Addie McClaus and by the time she came to live with us, she was well into her 90s. She always dressed in widow’s black and always wore a string of pearls. It must have been quite a shock to her system to come into our household in her waning days, but that was how things were done back in the 1950s. I remember the day she died. My mother found her in bed one morning and called for an ambulance, but Aunt Addie was already gone. I ran upstairs to tell my big brother Aunt Addie was dead, but he didn’t believe me until he saw her being carried down the stairs and out the front door. I’d like to think she was wearing her pearls when she was called to heaven.

Anyway, that’s what my friend’s flagpole post brought to mind when I read it. The child in me remembered Aunt Addie; the grown-up thought about what it means to be clutching one’s pearls. In case you don’t know the expression, it means to be excessively or naively shocked, dismayed, or appalled, as in “everyone at the film festival was clutching their pearls over all the explicit sex scenes in the director’s new film.” Of course, that was not the reference in the professor’s post. I bet you can imagine the scene to which he was referring, you know, the recent one that occurred in the Oval Office…

Be that as it may, the image of someone clutching her pearls (I imagine it was a woman who was doing the clutching, but maybe not), perfectly captured my sentiments as I watched that horrific tableau unfold. If I had been wearing pearls at the time, I would have been clutching them so hard they would have turned into diamonds. It was that bad.

I am still aghast at what transpired. A brave man who had been leading his country in a fight for its life was being berated and bullied by two individuals who seemed to be having temper tantrums that would send a two-year old to his room for a timeout. Even members of the hand-picked press that were present got involved in the melee by asking our guest why we didn’t wear a suit to the Oval Office. I bet no one thought to ask Winston Churchill that question when he appeared in the Oval Office wearing his wartime siren suit. Be that’s where we are, God help us.

I apologize. As you know, I don’t usually wade into political waters, but I’m still clutching my pearls about what I saw. And it wasn’t even a film. It really was that bad.

I’ll be right back.

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The New Normal By Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 25, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

After some serious thought, I’ve come to the sorry conclusion that the new normal, oxymoronic as this may sound, is chaos. I’m not talking about the weather, or the stock market, or the price of eggs, or even politics—I could be, but I’m not—I’m talking about advancing age. Not your age, mind you; my age!

Another conclusion I’ve come to is that the older I get, the younger I think I am. Stay up late and feel good the next day? No problem! Run a marathon? Sure! Can’t remember why I went out to the kitchen? Never could, so why worry about it now?

This all started a few days ago when my wife looked at me and said, “You’re turning into an old man.” Apparently, she didn’t think I should be wearing my warm, fuzzy slippers when we had company coming over. “Company?” I said. “It’s just Andy and Kirk and they won’t care.” She got huffy, but as far as I was concerned, warm feet were much to be preferred over some spurious sense of fashion.

The next morning, I got to thinking about how this all started. The first step down the rocky road of advancing age occurred last summer when my daughter-in-law was ordering chairs for our annual family gaggle at the beach, and she requested one for an “elderly” person. Me. I’ve been picking that bone with her ever since. However, I must admit that it’s a-heck-of-lot easier to rise from a seat that’s not just three inches above sand level. I’ve given my daughter-in-law a pass on the chair, but please don’t tell her I said that.

So, maybe there was another origin to herself’s “old man” comment. We’ve been watching a lot of the ‘Saturday Night Live Turns 50’ specials lately, so, maybe, that got her thinking about those long-gone, halcyon days when we could stay up late watching the hippest talent NBC had to offer. But the problem with the ‘SNL Turns 50’ theory of celebrating the passing years is that those years were so clearly gone. I couldn’t recognize most of the old SNL talent because so many had been nipped and tucked beyond recognition. And then there was this whole new generation of performers being touted, none of whom I had ever heard of. Bad Bunny? Shaboozey? Whatever happened to Simon and Garfunkel, or The Temptations, or even Dolly Parton? John Belushi and Norm Macdonald? Admit it: the skits were funnier and music was music back then!

But I digress. Back to our little family tiff over the wearing of slippers to a friendly dinner party…

The next day, in an effort to smooth things over, my wife said something that I’m sure she intended would mollify me: “Maybe only the smart die young,” she mused. If that was intended as an olive branch, it had more the effect of a snowball to the face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. I was in the kitchen at the time but couldn’t remember why. “Nothing,” she said. “Don’t get so touchy, old man!” Our car seemed to be stuck in reverse.

Eventually, all these contretemps began to fade, as they usually do, swept under yonder proverbial lumpy rug, as it were. We got back to loving on each other—not like we did in the old days, mind you, but in the way of couples who have become comfortable in their togetherness. I’ve chalked the spat up to too much winter weather, which of course, brought me back to thinking about those warm, fuzzy slippers and the existential question that goes to the heart of every critical marital conversation: “What do you want for dinner?”

I’ll be right back.

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Done By Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 18, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Now, I don’t know about you, but I, for one, am done with winter. Especially this one. To begin with, winter is overrated. After the December holidays, New Years Day (forget its Eve; sometimes I do), and a few college Bowl games, there’s really not much to warrant all the trouble—the cold, the snow, the ice, the wind, the rain, the endless string of gray days. Even getting dressed is a pain in the boots, gloves, layers, scarfs, hats, and coats that make me look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man on steroids. My flip-flops are bored out of their skulls; my shorts and golf shirts feel like federal workers who have been fired. Sigh.

It’s not just the weather, although that is certainly the crux of the matter. It’s the backyard and the garden that look so forlorn; it’s the front porch that’s crying out for a gathering; it’s the golf course waiting to mock me; it’s my friend Chrissy whom I haven’t seen since the geese flew in from Canada. (Speaking of Canada, let me just say it’s a great nation and Canadians are wonderful people. I’m proud to be their neighbor. Same goes for the Gulf of Mexico.)

Anyway, I’m done with winter. Overdone, like the steak I left too long on the grill. Like a few writers I know who eschew simplicity and opine with words that require their readers to Google their meaning. (See what i did there?) Overdone like a metaphor hanging like low fruit on the bough waiting to be plucked. (Oops; I did it again.)

As a child, I was taught not to carp about the weather. The sun will come out tomorrow. Soon enough, I’ll be complaining that it’s too damn hot, or that we need rain, or that I’m sick and tired of tomato pie. There’s some truth to that, so let’s think about what’s good about winter.

I’m waiting…

Someone’s hand is up. “What about skiing? Skiing is fun, isn’t it?”

No. Skiing is expensive; it’s lift lines, broken bones, or, in my post-Montana case, a cold that has hung on like a leech for the past eight weeks. (Hmmm…maybe that’s why I’m so grumpy.)

I see another raised hand: “What about the beauty of a new snowfall? The revenant silence, the morning sparkle, making snow angels, or the gift of a day off from school or work.”

OK, maybe that was a little bit fun. Once upon a time, I could sleep in, or go sled-riding, or throw snowballs at cars, except for the time some huge man slammed on his breaks and chased me all over the neighborhood. He didn’t catch me, but I’m still breathing hard. And as for making snow angels, I got my face snow-washed more times than I made snow angels. I grew up in a tough neighborhood!

No; try again. “What about delaying gratification? Doesn’t a long winter make a verdant spring greener, more promising, all-the-more spectacular?”

OK; that may be true, but we’ve delayed long enough now. Let’s get on with the next act!

We have some friends who have escaped to Jamaica for a week. My wife and I could have gone, but for a variety of reasons, it wasn’t in our cards. I need a new deal.

The forecast for the week ahead doesn’t look promising. Inches or feet? Maybe ol’ Phil up in Punxsutawney is on to something. I wouldn’t mind going back to bed for another few weeks.

I’m sorry; I shouldn’t be so down on winter. I guess there are a few benefits: the crackle and warmth of the fireplace; another good book, beef stew. Hmmm…maybe that’s the antidote: beef stew!

I’ll be right back.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Happy Birthday By Jamie Kirkpatrick

February 4, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Today is my ninth birthday. OK; so I’m not counting in human years, not even dog years. No; today marks the beginning of my ninth year as a columnist in this space—that’s 417 consecutive weeks of Musings, thank you very much. I’m not bragging, you understand, just multiplying. Since that first Tuesday back in February of 2016, my wife and I have added four more grandkids to the roster—now, that is bragging even though I had nothing to do with it. It’s also a good reminder that some things are more important than deadlines, but don’t tell a writer that.

I call these Musings my happy discipline. The very first one was called “Geese Not Groundhogs” or something close to that. It came to me when I heard what sounded like a traffic jam in the sky. I looked up and saw an enormous V of geese heading north. It occurred to me that those northbound geese were much better prognosticators of spring’s annual arrival than some groggy groundhog up in Punxsutawney, PA who never knew whether to get up or go back to sleep. So I wrote a story, sent it off to the Spy’s worthy Publisher who, to my surprise and delight, ran it as the lead article in this very space the following Tuesday. That was the very first Museday and I’ve been coming back ever since.

A writer’s life is not easy; just ask my wife. On many a morning when it’s still dark, she mumbles, “Where are you going?” as I rise as quietly as I can and head downstairs to my designated writing space in the living room. “I have an idea,” I tell her as she rolls over and goes back to sleep. On a few occasions, if I’m lucky, I’m able to get back into bed before she even realizes I was gone. I like that.

Now, in full transparency and shameless self-promotion, I confess this is not my only writing gig. In these past nine years, I’ve produced two compilations of essays, two novels (both historical fiction), a couple of short stories, a novella, and a children’s book (also a song) with lovely illustrations by a talented local artist and friend. And while I’m hesitant to say this publicly, I’m well along in my third novel, the culmination of a trilogy centering on the fictitious life of Declan Shaw, an Irish journalist who has been witness to many of the important events of the last century. (Here, my wife, who is also my Vice President of Marketing, insists that I insert a line stating that all these offerings are available on Amazon, as well as in many fine local bookstores. Well, not the novella; I’m still trying to decide what to do with that.)

Writers know a critical truth: writers need readers. One of my favorite parts of producing these weekly Musings is when I get to read comments from readers. They are almost always generous—almost always—and I am very grateful when people take the time to offer an opinion, gently point out an error, or simply say “thank you.” I hope you realize it is I who should be thanking you for being a good listener and faithful reader. You are the fuel that runs this old jalopy…such as it is.

And while I’m at it, I want to express my thanks to other links in the chain: publishers and editors; proofreaders and book designers; independent booksellers and cheerleaders. You know who you are. And if anyone should happen to know a good agent who is in search of new (old) talent, please let me know.

I’ll be right back,

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Resilience By Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 28, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

So maybe your team didn’t win the big game on Sunday. Or perhaps your preferred candidate didn’t win the last election. Whatever might have happened, we know one thing: life goes on, and if you—we—are to survive disappointment and loss, then we must somehow embrace a modicum of resilience. Defeat is one thing; capitulation is an entirely.different beast.

About this time of year, winter begins to wear on me. I’m fed up with boots and multiple layers of clothing, with my stuffed-up nose and my cracked lips, with the heaviness that comes from inactivity and hibernation. Our front porch—the ship that sails us through the other three seasons of the year—now has all the chilly charm of a mausoleum at midnight. About this time of year, I need another tall glass of resilience.

Resilience is the ability to adapt to, or recover from, a difficult situation. It’s not an innate human quality, but it can be developed through conscientious practice. The only trouble with that is who wants to continually practice recovery from difficulty? Wouldn’t it just be easier for everyone if we all practiced some quality derived from success—graciousness, for example—rather than something flowing from failure?

Resilience has its own timetable, one that is rooted in the future. “I’ll do better tomorrow.” “We’ll get’’em next year.” “Just wait til 2028!” Right now, for whatever reason, we may be mired in darkness, but even Little Orphan Annie knew that the sun will come out tomorrow, and that tomorrow is only a day away. But then, consider this, Annie: even though the sun will eventually come out tomorrow, or the next day, or even the day after that, it never happens overnight. Resilience takes time.

There’s a famous Scottish legend about Robert the Bruce and a wee spider. The story goes that once, while hiding in a remote cave after a spate of repeated defeats in battle against the English, the Bruce watched a spider persistently try to spin its web, falling multiple times but always climbing back to try again. Inspired by the tiny insect’s perseverance and resilience, the Bruce decided to renew his fight for Scotland, eventually leading his army to victory at Bannockburn. That’s what I’m talking about: resilience in a nutshell, or, in this particular case, a spider’s gossamer web.

If adversity builds character, then resilience reveals it. I’d like to think that despite all the times I’ve stumbled, I’ve managed to get up and keep going. Bumps and bruises, scabs and scars are my personal badges of resilience.

A week ago, many of us entered our own cave. Maybe our candidate lost the election and another candidate won; maybe our home team lost; or maybe a dear friend died suddenly, the victim of a senseless, random accident. Whatever the reason or cause, what happened, happened, and we’re left with a simple choice: passive acceptance or active resilience. Despite what you may think, that’s not always an easy choice. Resilience requires resolve, and all too often, resolve is miles down the road. Grief comes first. But then, if we’re lucky—lucky and tough—in grief’s wake, maybe we can find resilience.

I’ll be right back.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

When faith kicks in By Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 21, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Twenty-four hours ago, my wife got the phone call no one ever wants to get. One of her oldest and dearest friends, Betsi, aka Boo, had died suddenly. What do you say? How do you console? Her grief was overwhelming.

We’re all just passengers on this journey. Life is so full of twists and turns; one day, it’s sunny and hopeful, and then the next day, along comes one of these terrible Arctic blasts that freezes everything, including our hearts. The world appears to be the same, but it isn’t. Life goes on, but it doesn’t. It is all such a mystery, and for me, that is when faith needs to kick in.

Faith doesn’t provide any specific answers—it never explains why—but it can comfort. Without some small measure of faith, our lives are lived only in real time, minute-to-minute, day-to-day, year-to year. And when a life is suddenly cut short, time stops forever. “Boo was so happy. We had all these plans. Now…” Silence. Empty, endless silence.

My mother came from hardy New England stock. She was outgoing and accomplished but like many of her generation and ilk, she was not given to displays of emotion. Once, when I was struggling to climb some personal mountain, she gave me the “you made this bed so lie in it” talk; she was right, but what I really needed was a a gentle pep talk and a strong hug. But that’s not the point. This is: mother lived to be 95 and was in good health and of sound mind right up until the time doctors found a cancer near her spine. She was in the hospital for only a week, then came home to hospice care. Near the end, she was in that twilight stage for several hours when suddenly her eyes flew open and she raised herself from her pillows and said, “I’ve never seen such love before.” It was clear to me that at that moment, she was already in the company of saints, and that her taciturn New England nature had turned into something akin to rapture. Maybe that was the moment my own faith really kicked in.

I am no longer a church-goer. I was once, but I’ve retreated from that obligation. That said, I do have a strong faith. and while I’m not inclined to believe that God has a master plan for each of us, I do take comfort in the belief that even when bad things happen to good people, there is more, something beyond death. I have no idea what that is, but I do believe there is an afterlife, and that all the love we have accumulated along the way returns to us at the end.

Today, Betsi—my wife calls her “my shining star, my angel friend”—at the very least lives on in our minds and in our hearts, but I think there is more. I think I can see her walking on the beach with her beloved old vizsla Auggie: he is once again young and spry and he bounds happily ahead, while Betsi’s footprints stretch away into the distance, indelible marks along the tideline of my own infinite consciousness.

I’ll be right back.

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Eudaemonia By Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 14, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

For more than twenty years, I worked in an all-boys high school as a college counselor, teacher (Middle Eastern Studies) and coach (baseball). I’m still engaged in education as a resource to students who are sorting their way through the college admissions process, primarily as a reader and editor of their college essays. One thing I’ve learned: one of a teacher’s greatest joys comes when the student becomes the teacher and the teacher becomes the student. It happened (again) just yesterday morning…

I was reading a series of short answers—responses could not be longer than thirteen words!—to questions posed by the admissions office of a well-regarded university in upstate New York. The prompt in question was “I am fascinated by:”. My student’s response was “the world, different cultures, peoples, ideas, nature, literature, and eudaemonia.” I was stumped; what in the world was ‘eudaemonia?’

Thank you,Google. Eudaemonia comes down to us from the Greek. It means ‘good spirited’ or ‘well-being,’ and is often translated as ‘happiness’ or ‘flourishing.’ But ‘happiness’ is an emotion whereas ‘eudaemonia’ is more; it is a state of mind, an Aristotelian ideal representing a good life, one lived in accordance with harmony and reason by cultivating virtue. By contrast, its antonym runs the gamut from despair and misery to adversity, suffering, and defeat. I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of people suffering unimaginable loss in Los Angeles.

You may recall that in last week’s Musing, I mentioned that on the day after my wife and I returned from several days atop a mountain in Montana, I experienced a strange sense of health and well-being. I attributed this to all the red blood cells circulating in my system after a week at elevation. Alas, it was but a temporary mood shift, but it lasted just long enough to make me appreciate the difference between life at sea level and life in the wake of the thinner atmosphere of the mountains. It was more than a mood; it was a moment (I now know) of eudaemonia.

We are about to embark on a new era, a time that may well test our national soul. Try as I might, I cannot shake the sense of foreboding that hangs over me like thick fog these days. Eudaemonia seems impossibly far away. All the current talk about expanding American power seems the very antithesis of cultivating eudaemonia in our lives. I can feel Aristotle shuddering.

I think a lot about how to get through the dark days ahead, but I honestly haven’t come up with any reasonable answers. Some people say “don’t worry, maybe it won’t be so bad,” but check the facts; experience suggests otherwise. And when I hear all the bombastic posturing about Greenland or the Panama Canal or even Canada, that fleeting experience of eudaemonia I had post-Montana seems all the more dreamlike, more remote, farther and farther away.

Eudaemonia is a difficult concept to define, but there are several common elements in any attempt at translation: growth. authenticity, meaning, bliss, and excellence. I sincerely hope that my young student who will soon be heading off to college in search of “the world, different cultures, peoples, ideas, nature, literature, and eudaemonia” will not be disappointed. We owe his generation more.

I’ll be right back.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

The Shift By Jamie Kirkpatrick

January 7, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Horror stories about holiday travel abound. Spoiler alert: this is not one of them…

I hope you all got my postcard—the one I sent last week from Montana. Well, we’re back home now, and I’ve been thinking about our time up on the mountain.

First things first: kudos to United Airlines. It’s easy to squawk about airline travel these days, but I must say: United got all 26 of us—13 of whom are under the age of 15—to Montana and back without a hitch. No cancellations, no delays, no lost luggage, no unruly passengers, hardly even any turbulence. OK; so maybe the planes were jam-packed, but that makes the end result all the more impressive. So, heartfelt thanks to the pilots, the flight crews, the baggage handlers, and the ground personnel. You take a lot of hits, but not from me. Not this time.

Thanks, too, to all the folks who made this particular jaunt possible; the unsung heroes. People like a server named Heidi working the early shift at a restaurant in the Kalispell airport who somehow managed to get everything right for 14 of us and smiled the whole time. Her mantra was, “Sure; no problem.” Or the writer-turned-Uber driver named Jarred in Montana who rescued us when another Uber driver who shall remain nameless screwed up our reservation; Jarred got us down the mountain and to the Kalispell airport with plenty of time to spare. Or the taxi driver named Yohannes from Ethiopia who helped us load and unload a lot of awkward and heavy paraphernalia—skis, boot bags, and heavy suitcases—upon our weary arrival back in Washington. If it takes a village to raise a child, then it takes a lot of good people—friendly, efficient, people—from all over the world to bring us safely home again. Thank you!

When I woke up this morning in my own comfy bed with no agenda other than to unpack and prepare for an impending snow storm—by the way, it’s a lot colder here in Maryland than it was in Montana—I felt something had shifted. It’s just an amorphous feeling, maybe only induced by all that high-altitude oxygenated blood still circulating in my veins, but it’s there nonetheless. You may recall that I’m not a skier, so I missed out on a lot of the downhill shenanigans, but nevertheless I was revitalized by the beauty of the American West—its mountains and lakes, its dreams of glory, its open, friendly people, and, yes, even its sad history. (Whitefish lies in a valley between the Flathead and Blackfoot Reservations.) We live on a vast continent—it still boggles my mind that we can fly from almost one end of this country to another in a matter of hours—and maybe my mental shift is a reflection of my renewed appreciation for America. I know, I know: there’s a lot that is unsettled and scary right now, but this morning, my focus is on what’s right, not on what’s wrong.

But I think my shift is due to something else. Like it or not, I was the patriarch in Montana. I certainly don’t mean I was the person who organized or bankrolled all this, or the head of either of the two mountain households, or the skier who logged the most runs, I just mean that when we were all together, I was the oldest person in the room. Moreover, I’m an outlaw, a member of this clan by the grace of marriage and universal family acceptance. That is a precious gift in and of itself, so even though I didn’t ski a lick, and despite being felled by a bad cold for a few days, I still had a good time, Sure, I look at the over 400 iPhone photos of the little kids and grownups all bundled in their fancy snow gear, riding lifts to the summit and then skiing back down the mountain, or back home après ski, celebrating the new year and two birthdays, and I feel a little sad that I missed out on some of the fun. On the other hand, I logged a lot of hours in front of a cozy fire, read two good books, and got a lot of writing done. I have no complaints.

And you know what else? I got more hugs and made more memories than any outlaw deserves. OK, so maybe It gets a little chaotic at times, but if there’s a more loving crowd anywhere, on any mountain, I’d be surprised.

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, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Postcard from Montana By Jamie Kirkpatrick

December 31, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

I’m sitting in front of a cozy fire. Everyone else is out on the mountain, either skiing or snowboarding. It’s cold and the visibility is limited, probably not more than forty or fifty feet.

There is fresh snow on the ground and it’s the weekend, so the lift lines are long and the slopes are crazy-crowded. Did I mention that I’m in the great room of a rustic ski lodge, sitting in front of a crackling fire? Who do you think is happier?

We arrived three days ago—26 of us, spread over three generations. flying here (Whitefish, Montana) from three different airports. I’m the only non-skier, so my luggage was light. There was some concern about this: what would a non-skier do at a ski resort? But I wasn’t the slightest bit worried: I have a good book to read, this postcard to write, and hours of quiet time to chip away at the granite mountain of my next novel. So am I worried? Bored? Did I mention that I’m in a warm lodge with a cup of cocoa in front of a dreamy fire? Hours and hours of peas and carrots and plenty to observe. A writer’s delight!

Skiers are a breed apart. Who else would choose to don layer upon layer of designer outerwear, buy a lot of expensive safety gear, wear clunky boots that make walking like a zombie difficult if not downright impossible (heel/clunk, toe/clunk), buy lift tickets that cost a king’s ransom, all so they can stand in line for an hour just to make a twenty-minute run back down the mountain with a thousand other skiers and boarders whizzing by at Beltway speed? And then take everything off in order to answer nature’s call? Not me, that’s for sure. I’m just fine in this big leather chair, my stocking feet pointed toward the fire, thinking about what to eat for lunch.

There are a few other people hanging out in front of the fire. They’re talking about sore hip-flexers, strained quads, sore necks, and all manner of other ailments, I’ve yet to see to a sling or a cast, but doubtless that will come. Makes me feel guilty to get up and refresh my cocoa.

Now I have to admit that I, too, am slightly under the winter weather. Airplanes are notorious petri dishes, and yesterday I woke up sneezing and coughing to beat the band. But my wife is a doctor’s daughter who knows everything there is to know about cures and remedies so she sprang into action and now I have a hospital supply room of full of medicines designed to render me hale and healthy overnight. We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I can sit here in front of my foot-warming fire, convincing myself that self care is not the slightest bit selfish.

This is old country. During the ice ages, glaciers pushed tons and tons of alluvial soil down from Canada through passes in the mountains, carving out deep lakes, making fertile valleys. Megafauna and wildlife flourished, bringing hunting-gathering people who lived here peacefully for millennia upon millennia until someone back East decided that what this valley really needed was a rail line snaking its way through the mountain passes, linking Chicago and San Francisco. The rest, as we know, is a sad history.

I throw another log on the fire. It roars back to life, popping, snapping, singing its warming song. Somewhere outside, my wife and her skiing family are doing what skiers love to do. I’m fine right here, thank you very much, comfortable, warm, and counting my blessings.

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, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

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