’Tis the season of new beginnings. And so we celebrate the completion of one phase of our lives and the commencement of the next by donning all that academic regalia—our caps, gowns, and hoods—and step off into an unknown future with all the pomp and circumstance we can muster. We’ll joyfully move the tassels on our mortarboards from right to left, the traditional signal that tells all the world we are no longer merely undergraduates, but full-fledged GRADUATES! So, Gaudeamus igitur, everybody; Let us rejoice today, for now that we are armed with all this knowledge, we’re ready to take on this brave, new, crazy world, and make it better once and for all! Really?

I have a friend who used to make it his business to annually compile a list of significant commencement speakers and their words of wisdom. I haven’t heard from him for a while, but maybe he was on to something. Surely someone will say something somewhere that will make it all right again. So I’ve decided to explore the universe of this year’s graduation speakers. Who are they ? What words of wisdom will be spoken? Will they be sane or silly? You decide…

I’ll warn you: it’s a long and certainly incomplete list, but don’t worry; I’ve culled it for you. There are, of course, lots of politicians, because what politician worth his or her salt can pass up a chance to step up to the microphone and pontificate? But there are plenty of others on the guest speakers’ list, too: activists, actors, artists, and athletes; business leaders and bureaucrats, professors and philanthropists, scientists and soldiers. A plethora of illustrious alums. Even a Muppet! Ready? Let’s go!

Want to be entertained? Sandra Oh is speaking at Dartmouth while Henry Winkler—the Fonz!—is at Georgetown.  LeVar Burton—aka Kunta Kinte—is the speaker at Howard University and Steve Carrell is on the podium at Northwestern. Snoop Dogg will do his thing at USC. Usher is at Emory University in Atlanta, and Elizabeth Banks (“The Hunger Games”) is at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. And down in Nashville, Gary Sinise, Forrest Gump’s Lieutenant Dan, will be at Vanderbilt

Jerome Powell will deliver Princeton’s commencement speech. Wonder what’s on his mind? Kristi Noem will be keeping the homeland secure at Dakota State. And Donald Trump is on the list—twice: once at West Point and again at the University of Alabama. Hold on to your mortarboards!

Cue the fanfare: Katie Ledecky and her fourteen Olympic medals will be on display at Stanford. Another Olympian, Mia Hamm, is the speaker at the University of North Carolina. Simone Biles will be the speaker at Washington University in St. Louis. Ten!

Derek Jeter is on the dais at the University of Michigan and Orel Hershiser is on the mound at Bowling Green.

The Media is everywhere this spring: Scott Pelley will speak exactly for 60 Minutes at Wake Forest. Jonathan Karl is right here in Chestertown at Washington College. Al Roker is watching the weather at Siena College, and Steve Kornacki will be wearing khakis under his robe at Marist College.

Pope Leo XIV won’t be speaking at Villanova or anywhere else this year, but I wish he were. He’s seems both willing and able to speak truth to power.

My favorite? Kermit the Frog, croaking at the University of Maryland. You heard me: Kermit is coming to College Park! Will Maryland change its colors to green? Will Miss Piggy be in the audience?

So that’s the lineup, or at least some of it. As for any words of wisdom, truth, like beauty, will be in the eyes and ears of the beholders. Let’s just hope there is some humor, creativity, grace, and a sense of hope in the messages delivered. Especially hope; we need hope.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. 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.

Words are strange beasts. Take ‘jade’ for example. It can refer to a brilliant green gem or stone, revered in China for its durability as well as its propensity to bring good luck. Or it might refer to the jade plant, flora’s manifestation of fortitude and fortune. Go to any Chinese restaurant worth its MSG and I bet you’ll find a jade plant somewhere near the cash register. Now consider jade’s adjectival form, ‘jaded.’ Its connotation is almost the exact opposite of its plant or mineral cousin. To be ‘jaded’ means you’re tired, played-out, disillusioned or cynical, as in, (just for example), “the public has become jaded by all the political shenanigans taking place in Washington these days.”

Etymology is the study of the origin of words and the way in which their meanings have changed over time. I mused (of course, I did) about how ‘jade,’ durable and lucky jade, had morphed into ‘jaded,’ it’s worn down, disinterested, unenthusiastic, “I’ve-seen-this-all-before” cousin. As it usually does, a little research went a long way, and it turns out that back in the day, a ‘jade’ was another name for a tired, old horse. Now we were getting somewhere: to be ‘jaded’ was to be a tired old horse, in other words, a nag ready for the glue factory.

Since I’m feeling a bit jaded these days, that thought made me shudder. Am I ready for the glue factory? I sure hope not!  Maybe I’m just overexposed to all the consternation, confusion, and chaos emanating from Washington these days. I listen to the news and sigh; I roll my eyes, shake my head, and think, “How much longer, Lord? I’ve experienced too much of this already and it’s only March! I don’t know if I can take another forty months of this wilderness.”

I doubt I’m alone in this. I also recognize that many other of my fellow-Americans aren’t the least bit jaded. In fact, they’re feeling energized, glad to be back in the driver’s seat, finally getting rid of all this governmental waste and left-wing tomfoolery once and for all. And that thought makes me feel all the more…jaded. Sigh.

I have a lot of friends who have opted out of paying attention to the news. I understand that. But then an image pops into my mind—an ostrich with its head in the sand—and I know from experience that ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away. Better to seek and find a solution and figure out how to prevent it from happening again. Simple enough for some of life’s travesties, much harder for others.

It turns out that an ostrich never really puts its head in the sand. That’s a myth. Think about it: if ostriches really did stick their heads in the sand to avoid imminent danger, there wouldn’t be any ostriches walking around today. I assume the same can be said for people. It’s far better to look around and see what’s really happening than to pretend that everything will be hunky-dory when I take my head out of this hole.

A year ago—maybe more—a friend gifted me a jade plant. Maybe she thought it would bring me luck or maybe she thought I looked a little jaded. I didn’t pay much attention to the plant for several months, but then I began to tend it and now it’s thriving. In fact, It’s going to need a bigger pot soon. So maybe I’m not so jaded after all.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.