Board games were always a much desired birthday or Christmas gift in my childhood home. Saturday morning cartoons were filled with commercials for the latest toys and games. Most of the kids in my friend group had Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, and Scrabble, but it was a big status thing to have a game closet. As the third child in a family of four kids, my game closet was filled to the brim. Games were there on rainy summer days, weekends, and times when boredom took hold.

I can still sing the jingle, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,” from the game Camp Granada. It was one of my very first favorites. The object of the game was to move the camp bus, collect three “icky” animals, and then make your way out of Camp Granada. Of course, if the bus “broke down,” the unlucky player had to lose a turn.

Another favorite was The Game of Life. Unlike the quick turns of Camp Granada, this one was an event, it could take up to forty-five minutes to play with as many as six players gathered around the board. I loved how it simulated the journey from childhood to retirement, with all the big milestones along the way, choosing a career, getting married, having children, and eventually reaching retirement. Spinning the colorful wheel and watching where the little plastic cars would land always made the game feel like a miniature version of real life.

Another television commercial driven gift was Mouse Trap. The real thrill of this game wasn’t as much the competition as building the mousetrap. Piece by piece we cooperated in assembling the Rube Goldberg style machine. Watching the ball roll, gears turn, and the trap finally drop was pure childhood excitement, it felt like magic every time we played.

Clue was a game that made frequent appearances in our house. It had so many moving parts that it always felt a little more sophisticated than the others. The rooms, the character cards, and the tiny weapons added a layer of mystery and excitement. We loved slipping into the roles of Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, (especially Miss Scarlet) or Professor Plum and trying to be the first to solve the whodunit. Every roll of the dice brought us closer to uncovering the culprit in the grand old mansion.

As the years went on, Clue became a favorite with my own children. Unlike some games parents secretly dread, this was one I was always happy to play. In lieu of television, one night a week we set aside time for a family board game, and Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, and Clue were always at the top of the list.

For my youngest, Cece, Clue was more than just a pastime, it was a passion. She loved it so much that when she packed her trunks for college in London, she made sure to tuck the game inside. Now, years later, Cece has come full circle. She’s not just playing the game, she’s embodying it, appearing as Miss Scarlet in the local stage production of Clue at the Oxford Community Center in a sold out crowd to rave reviews. From rolling dice around the family table to stepping into the spotlight, it feels like the story of the game has woven itself right into her own life.

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

Self checkout was introduced in 1986 in limited locations, becoming more popular during the COVID-19 pandemic. Customers preferred not having to interact with a cashier. Self checkout can sometimes be faster than using a cashier lane, but in some instances, self checkout can be a frustrating experience.

For the most part, when available, I prefer to use the self-checkout option when shopping. However, sometimes there is a glitch, a malfunction that is extremely challenging. Calling the one employee in charge of the self-checkout section involves a wait time (usually while they assist another shopper) and sometimes a lecture on the correct use of the machines. My response to the employee who is reprimanding me about my mistake: “ I wasn’t trained on this particular computer.” The employees sometimes laugh but mostly they ignore me.

The past month has tested every ounce of my mental and physical strength. My husband has been an inpatient at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and life has revolved around hospital corridors, parking garages, and the daily uncertainty that comes with medical care. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about navigating those winding concrete ramps and even discovered the modern-day lifeline that is Grubhub, because the food is depressing when the cafeteria tray rolls in at mealtime.

Hospitals are different now. Staffing shortages mean nurses and aides are stretched thin, and much of the burden of basic care falls on patients and their loved ones. It’s not unusual for my husband and me to tidy his room, restock supplies, or keep an eye on his medication schedule. My husband has even become a quick study in medical equipment, confidently silencing the beeping IV pump and disconnecting himself when necessary. These are skills no one anticipates learning, yet here we are.

Through all of this, one truth stands out with absolute clarity: every patient needs an advocate. Someone to speak up, to ask the right questions, to notice when something is off, and to make sure nothing important slips through the cracks. In a place where the pace is frantic and the system is strained, advocacy isn’t just important, it’s vital.

And yet, in the middle of the stress, there have been unexpected blessings, moments of laughter between us, small kindnesses from strangers, and the quiet gratitude that comes with realizing how strong we can be when we have no other choice. This chapter is not an easy one, but we are moving through it together, step by step, with hope as our compass and love as our anchor.

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

Agent 86 reported to management recently that he had flown to Maine to escape the heat and humidity on the Eastern Shore (and perhaps as an escape from the high-pressure work environment at the Spy). 86 chose Rockland as his venue because he knew that Chris Brownawell, a former director of the Academy Art Museum, had gone there in 2010 as CEO of the Farnsworth Art Museum and remains there today, 15 years later.

86 thought that if Rockland had set well with Brownawell, perhaps he also would find the area appealing.  In any event, 86 wanted to view the extensive Wyeth collection at the Farnsworth.  86′ video surveillance follows. Prominent in the video is the Maine Lobster Festival. 86 made very clear that he wouldn’t return to Mid-Shore until the Festival had concluded.

The Carrot, the Egg, and the Coffee Bean is a metaphor that illustrates how people respond differently to adversity. When placed in boiling water, a symbol of life’s difficulties, the carrot becomes soft and weak, the egg becomes hard and unyielding, but the coffee bean does something remarkable: it transforms the water itself. The lesson is that while some are broken down by hardship and others become hardened, the most resilient individuals rise above the situation, using it to grow and create something better. Like the coffee bean, they change their environment rather than letting it change them.

Nothing about last week was easy. I won’t go into details but suffice it to say that our family had our share of challenges, three really big ones. After the third bit of bad news, I walked outside to take some healing breaths when suddenly a dragonfly swooped in and flew in circles around me. I knew from my studies that dragonflies undergo a significant transformation from aquatic nymphs to winged adults, making them a powerful symbol of change and new beginnings. Dragonflies are a sign of good luck, a reminder to embrace change and new beginnings. Once again, the universe is sending me messages.

We are private people. We carry our burdens quietly, wrapped in layers of strength and self-reliance. But something shifted this time. A quiet tug, an urge I couldn’t explain, told me to reach out.

So I did. Three names came to mind, clear, immediate, like a whisper I couldn’t ignore. I texted, unsure of what to say, just that we were walking through something heavy, and for once I didn’t want to walk it alone.

Each friend replied almost instantly, one was actually in the process of boarding a plane. Their responses weren’t shallow or polite, they were full of spirit, light, and grace. Support poured in, not just with words, but presence. They offered prayers, wisdom, and stillness. No fixing. Just being there.

To one of them, I said plainly, “I think we’re being tested.” He responded with a verse that fully addressed my question: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3: 5-6)

That was the moment that I realized: the reaching out might be the path. The support was already waiting. The strength wasn’t only in what we could hold ourselves, but what we were finally willing to open up and receive.

This week felt like a tidal wave, but it’s now clear that the universe is clearing space, testing our alignment, nudging us toward a re-set. The signs may look and feel like chaos, but resilience is often born in the middle of that storm. We’ll continue with our positive outlook and be like the coffee bean, we’ll grow and create something better.

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

Dennis Herrmann developed a life-long interest in astronomy at an early age and got his first telescope at the age of 12. Through his 43 years of teaching at Kent County High School he taught Astronomy and Earth/Space Science and coached track and field and cross country. He led and participated in numerous workshops on astronomy at the Air and Space Museum (DC), the Maryland Science Center, and the Mid-Atlantic Planetarium Society. He loves sharing and explaining the night sky to increase understanding and enjoyment of it to folks of all ages.

Both of my grandfathers were geologists who worked for oil companies, which meant they got “transferred” every few years. Travel was a major part of my parents’ lives, so vacations weren’t exactly a novelty. But they both loved history, and that meant most of our family vacations doubled as educational experiences.

The first vacation I really remember was a week at Yellowstone National Park. My parents thought it would be fun to rent a travel trailer and do some camping. That first night in the campground was wonderful. We cooked dinner over an open fire, everything tasted better outdoors. After dinner, we went for a walk and found arrowheads, which was beyond exciting for a group of kids.

The trailer didn’t have a bathroom, so getting four small children to the campground restroom before bed was quite the production. But the real adventure came in the middle of the night when a family of bears completely trashed our campsite kitchen. They dumped over the big Coleman cooler and ate everything, even my mom’s homemade brownies.

Unfazed, my parents restocked the dented cooler the next day, and our second dinner was just as delicious, including rainbow trout that we had caught on a fishing trip to Jenny Lake. For dessert, Sara Lee brownies replaced my mom’s homemade batch. The cooler spent the night locked in the car.

But that night brought a new challenge, a summer snowstorm. The trailer didn’t have a heater, so we all froze. The windows in the trailer were caked with ice. The next morning we layered our jeans and T-shirt’s with our new sweatshirts and headed to the warmth of a diner for breakfast. My parents wisely decided to move us into a small motel down the road, one with heat and, most importantly, a bathroom. My grandparents had flown in from Denver and were staying at the Jackson Lake Lodge, a beautiful lodge with huge windows overlooking the mountains.

Our last night in Yellowstone, after visiting Old Faithful, we met them for dinner at the Lodge. Dressed in our Levi’s and boots, our camping clothes, we felt just a little out of place in the elegant dining room. But after bear raids, snowstorms, and campfire dinners, we didn’t mind being the underdressed ones at the table. It felt like we’d earned it.

The next year we swapped the mountains for the Atlantic Ocean when my family flew to Georgia. The helicopter ride from Atlanta to Sea Island, Georgia, when I was five, was almost as exciting as learning to ride my brand-new bike on the beach. The only downside to the beach were the massive piles of seaweed that washed up along the shore, they absolutely terrified me. Because of that, I much preferred my grandmother’s beach club for swimming. Honestly, the beach club had its own perks: the luxury of ordering hot dogs, sandwiches, ice cream, and lemonade from a waiter made it hard to resist.

On Saturday nights, we would get dressed up and head to the Cloisters for dinner. The grown ups lingered over their meals while we were sent to the kids’ lounge where we would play games. I won a Peter Pan game after being the last one standing during a musical chairs game. We drank numerous Shirley Temples and ate hot fudge sundaes.

One morning, my older siblings (we were nine, seven, and five years old) and I were sent on a guided tram tour (no parents, it was the 1960’s) to St. Simon’s Island. We climbed the lighthouse, and saw the Bloody Marsh, Fort Federica, and Christ Church Churchyard. It was one of the most boring trips, ever. I now wonder what my parents were off doing that day, probably enjoying the adults only pool at the beach club.

Not long after, we traded planes for a road trip. The summer of my cousin’s wedding in New Mexico, my parents bought a Buick Vista Cruiser. It had three rows of seats, roof-mounted skylights, and best of all: air conditioning. For a family of six, it felt like pure luxury.

That was also the summer we discovered the joys of Holiday Inn motels. We loved everything about them, the pools, the ice machines, the food, it was every kid’s dream. To us, the bright green Holiday Inn sign practically meant vacation magic.

We spent the next summer on a bus touring New England. We visited the Ocean Spray Cranberry bog, Plymouth Rock, Bunker Hill, Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s house. We ate lobster rolls almost every day while visiting my aunt’s summer home in Biddeford Pool, Maine. Our days were spent swimming in the freezing North Atlantic and drinking six ounce Cokes in glass bottles. I learned to play solitaire (the card game) and Scrabble with my family in front of a roaring fire at night.

My parents, while on vacation taught us how to roll with the unexpected, how to find wonder in new places, and how to always keep a sense of humor no matter what the road had in store. Travel didn’t always go smoothly but each trip became a story we would repeat at family dinners and laugh about years later.

Agent 86 was recently reminded that the Spy has many readers south of the Choptank River and that he should occasionally train his camera in those areas.  86 took this to heart and overflew Cambridge, the new Harriet Tubman Museum outside of town, and the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge. He hopes that the resulting video will return him to favor with readers in the southern portion of the Spy’s service area.

This video is approximately three minutes in length.

On the advice of a good friend, this spy travelled to St. Michaels early on Sunday morning to board the Patriot at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. My mission was to observe and photograph the log canoe race held on the Miles River. 

Because the agency is committed to monitoring everything that goes on in St. Michaels, I considered my trip to be an agency mission. The mission was a success.

Pictures often provide more intelligence than written reports, even when written by the best spies working for the agency. That is the case here. My photographs give an accurate record of what transpired at Miles on the morning of June 29th. 

If asked, and to date I haven’t been asked, to provide a one-word assessment of what I witnessed, my response would be “beauty.” (Yes, I know, that word does not often appear in this spy’s reports.)

Without further description, here is a sampling of the photos I captured last Sunday morning:

Note that the log canoes are not all the same size. The difference in boat size is factored into determining the winner of the race. The larger log canoes, because they travel faster than the smaller ones, are awarded “time” based on their size. Thus, even though a large log canoe may cross the finish line first, it may not win the race.

Yes, I know it’s a bit complicated, but accuracy in our assessment of the outcome requires us to understand, at least superficially, the rules of the race.

This small log canoe necessitated careful coordination of the crew to avoid an unscheduled swim in the Miles.

This spy wishes he were a sailor, but he’s not—difficulty in determining which boat was doing what was experienced. 

Observing the log canoe race was most enjoyable. I am available for future races.

One last photograph. I took over 200 . . . 

Screenshot

Additional log canoe races are scheduled for July 27 and 28, and Sept. 7, 8, 14, and 15. Information on the races, the Patriot, and the opportunity to purchase tickets can be found at: https://cbmm.org/resources_tags/log-canoe-races/.