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January 9, 2026

Centreville Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Centreville

1 Homepage Slider Arts Arts Portal Lead Spy Highlights

19 Years and Counting: Plein Air Easton with the Avalon’s Al Bond and Jess Bellis

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A few years ago, the fact that the Avalon Foundation’s Plein Air Easton had climbed to be one of the most important outdoor art gatherings in the United States would have been met with lukewarm enthusiasm. While many would immediately applaud any top ranking that comes Easton’s way, the fact was that the general public didn’t have a clue what a “plein air” festival was.

To say that all of this has changed would be a understatement.

Over the last decade, plein air festivals have popped up nationwide. From San Francisco to New Bern, North Carolina, communities are now embracing the outdoor painting experience in record numbers, intentionally recalling the magic of European artists drawn to the challenge and gifts that come with painting outdoors, including the likes of Monet, Pissarro, Sisley, and Renoir.

And unlike the early days, when events only attracted the artists themselves (and a few savvy collectors), the plein art movement is now attracting sizable audiences who enjoy the public events and educational programs built around the art itself.

The fact that Plein Air Easton is the most popular in the country is no surprise to the Avalon Foundation’s CEO Al Bond and chief operating officer Jess Bellis. For 19 years, the foundation has slowly reinvented what a plein air competition means for a community.

All of these invocations will be on display as the Avalon staff and over 250 volunteers welcome more than 60 artists from all parts of the globe and their building fan base with an opening reception at the Trippe Gallery in Easton this Friday night, followed by ten days of workshops, music, food, and art shows in almost every part of Talbot County.

The Spy asked Al and Jess to come by the Spy studio for a short chat about Plein Air Easton 2023 and some highlights planned.

This video is approximately three minutes in length. For more information about Plein Air Easton please go here. 

 

 

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

The Sane Mind of the Young Mass Shooter: A Chat with Clinical Psychologist Dick Greenbaum

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A narrative often used in the wake of a mass shooter incident these days is one which suggests these crimes are taking place because of a mental illness crisis in America. These young men are victims of mental health who act out on the psychotic impulses of their bipolar or schizophrenic condition with unmentionable violence. If society wants to solve these mass shootings, so goes the argument, it must address the issue of mental health first and gun control, if need be, later.

While politicians have been successful so far in spreading this definition of mass shooters, Dick Greenbaum, with some four decades behind him as a Talbot County public school psychologist and later in private practice, wants to correct this mischaracterization.

Citing numerous research on mass shooters, Greenbaum notes that only 4% have a significant, diagnosable mental disorder before the crime. The typical shooter is instead socially isolated, lacks interpersonal skills, is neglected at home or bullied at school, and often feels mistreated or undervalued. Those factors can lead to depression but not a diagnosable psychosis.

Dick Greenbaum suggests that these young men, fueled by revenge fantasies, seek validation, gain access to weapons, and act out violently to gain notoriety. Their actions are not rooted in mental illness but in a complex mix of social factors, personal grievances, and harmful cultural influences like video games and social media.

While the answers to stop mass shootings remain challenging, Dick believes it’s essential to understand more clearly who these young men are before we can ever hope to end this violent behavior. He came by the Spy Studio last month to talk more about the mind of a mass shooter.

This video is approximately five minutes in length.

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

Look With Your Eyes. See With Your Heart By Laura J. Oliver

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Editor’s Note: Our Spy Creative Director is on vacation, therefore we are reprising a column that originally appeared June 5th of last year. 

Have you seen this? An unshaven man in crumpled khakis and a worn shirt sits cross-legged on a cold, DC street corner with a tin cup at his feet. In his hands, he grips a square of cardboard upon which is printed, “I’m blind. Please help.” 

Well-dressed professionals clip past in their Stuart Weitzmans and Cole Haans on their way to professional jobs in plush offices with fake Ficus trees in accent-lit lobbies. Pretty women pause, dig in shiny shoulder bags, then toss in a quarter. Other passersby rush on, eyes averted. 

A slim young woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun—maybe 18, 19– passes the man as well but stops and turns back. Kneeling in front of him, she gently pulls the cardboard from his hands, extracts a marker from her backpack, and flips his sign over. As the bewildered man waits, unable to see what she’s doing, she scrawls a new message on the reverse side, hands the sign back, and walks on. 

Over the course of the day, elapsed in U-Tube time, people stream past the blind man as before, except now, nearly everyone stops to place cash in his cup. Coins drop like rain, a flood of thoughtful compassion. The afternoon wears on, and the perplexed man continues to hold up the sign the young woman has written. His cup overflows.

As shadows lengthen at the end of the business day, the woman returns from the opposite direction. When she greets him, the man recognizes her voice. “What did you do to my sign?” he asks helplessly. He is confused by his new success, the magic of what she has done. She responds I wrote the same but in different words.

As the camera pans out, the sign becomes visible. In black block print, the girl has written, “It’s a beautiful day, and I can’t see it.”

Words change everything. Luck, energy, desire, vision—how you see the world and those with whom you share it. 

Last Christmas, I had one of those circle-of-friends candleholders on my coffee table; only the ‘friends’ were 3 elves, facing inwards, their little backs to the observer, holding hands around a lit votive. As I moved them to put a pizza down, I mentioned to my friend Rick that the little guys appeared to be circled around the glow of a burning log in a cold forest. 

Rick, whose job description includes words like “covert,” “Pentagon,” and “flight schedule,” said dispassionately, “Yeah? I think they’re hiding something.”

Perspective. Like everything else, it’s a story we tell ourselves based on our experience of the past. That doesn’t make it true, nor a prediction of what’s to come. 

My three kids have lived all over this country and all over the world, and I have missed them. My son left home at 17 to live in New Zealand for more than a decade. One daughter lived in New Orleans for years, then Vermont. Another daughter moved to the United Kingdom 12 years ago, and I can’t imagine she will ever live closer than an ocean away. I have missed weddings and births. Friends with kids nearby have felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for me, too.

Then I wrote the same story but with different words. 

The kids are happy. They call home. They have created meaningful lives. They have found people they love. 

It’s a beautiful day. And I can see it. 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

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

Food Friday: Peachy

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This is a column from last year, when we were still COVID-wary. I have taken the Spy Test Kitchens on the road for a little R&R. We’ll be back next week. Enjoy!

Last Friday night we popped out of our COVID-imposed bubble and ventured into public for dinner in a restaurant. There were people! There were people who had made bad shoe choices! There were people who brought me a tall, sparkly French 75, and would have brought me another one had I been foolish enough to think I had the youthful stamina for a second. But best of all, there were people who cooked for us.

Normally I am a little leery of the fancy, au courant, artisanal places whose menus are heavily reliant on ingredients that are currently in season. I am always sure that I will wander in during lima bean season, or rutabaga season, and then will I will be sunk. But on Friday night we walked smack into the middle of peach season.

We shared a lovely plate of lightly grilled peaches and tomatoes, doused with olive oil and dotted with soft clots of bleu cheese. Yumsters. Such a light and sweet appetizer! And easily recreated at home. Except on Saturday night we grilled the peaches and tomatoes, substituted some fresh mozzarella for the bleu cheese, and drizzled a homemade vinaigrette dressing over plates of crisp arugula. Dining at home can be seasonal and au courant, too!

Emily Nunn’s Perfect Mustard Vinaigrette

1⁄2 cup good quality extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard (Mr. Sanders prefers it without the mustard)
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1⁄2 teaspoon of sea salt (or more to taste)
Freshly ground black pepper
Place the ingredients in a jar and shake until it is completely emulsified. If you like garlic on your salad (I often do) start the recipe by mashing together a clove of garlic and the salt in a mortar and pestle (or with the back of a spoon, in a bowl), then whisk in the remaining ingredients.

Yotam Ottolenghi can teach us all how to prepare wondrous peach dishes:https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/aug/19/peach-recipes-yotam-ottolenghi-galette-shrub-bellini-runner-beans

It’s time to get creative! Summer is the time for juicy watermelon, thick tomato sandwiches and dripping peaches. How can you appreciate a peach unless you feel the velvet skin with your own sticky fingers? If you haven’t had peach juice run down the front of your shirt, you have not had a satisfactory summer experience.

Mr. Sanders sliced half a peach onto his bowl of cold twiggy cereal this morning, leaving the other half for me on the cutting board. I ate it over the sink, because the juices dripped furiously and there wasn’t anyone around who would point out that I should have been ladylike and used a napkin. Don’t neglect any opportunity to just seize the day, and a peach, early, and eat it in your own free-spirited summer fashion.

Perhaps I will have to ditch the usual French 75, and opt for a Bellini the next time we venture out of the Bat Cave. But I think I will practice at home first:
https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/bellini And I will pretend to be sipping it at Harry’s Bar with a crowd of pretentious American ex-pat writers from a previous era. Remembering to limit myself to just one, because they do pack a punch.

“The people that I liked and had not met went to the big cafes because they were lost in them and no one noticed them and they could be alone in them and be together.”

― Ernest Hemingway

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

Street Art Comes to BAAM in Easton

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Easton recently witnessed a prolific collaboration between two acclaimed street artists: George F. Baker III (aka GFB3) and Easton’s Shelton Hawkins. Commissioned by Building African American Minds (BAAM), the duo teamed up to create a vibrant street art mural on the on-site shipping containers at the BAAM campus on Jewitt St. 

BAAM, the non-profit organization that provides educational and enrichment programs for African American youth in Easton, is about to tear down its existing facility to build a new three-story, 25,000-square-foot academic center. Said board president Bill Ryan, “When we realized that storage would be a problem, we were able to get two containers onto the property, but since they are going to be there for more than a year, we figured we had to make them more attractive.” 

That’s where street art came in.

Street art is an artistic expression that challenges traditional spaces, such as galleries and museums. Instead, it uses public areas (buildings, sidewalks, walls, etc.) as a canvas to convey messages, express creativity, or engage with the community. Little by little, what once was an act of rebellion, has gained recognition and has been embraced as a way to enhance the aesthetic of urban areas. The idea of utilizing street art to beautify the unsightly containers made a lot of sense.

And this is where the two artists come in. 

Hawkins, an Easton native, is known for having found inspiration at the unused Easton Idlewild basketball courts. He teamed up with local officials to create a public art project, Play in Color, using the court surface as canvas. The project earned him local awards and national recognition. Hawkins also became part of Project Backboard, renovating other public basketball courts. The group, which describes its mission as: ‘strengthening communities, improving park safety, encouraging multi-generational play, and inspiring people to think more critically and creatively about their environment,’ uses street artists and underutilized courts worldwide.

Ryan, who had followed Hawkins’ career for several years, figured that the metal storage boxes would be a perfect background for the street artist. “When BAAM asked me to paint the shipping container, I reached out to [GFB3],” said Hawkins, “I knew his style would translate really well to the playfulness and the color. He was the first person I thought of.”

For a good reason–GFB3, who describes himself as a ‘Nebraska-born, Detroit grown, and Atlanta-raised creator,’ is internationally known with an impressive list of clients, including everyone from Adidas to the NFL to Verizon. Besides murals, he is also a graphic designer and illustrator. But like most street artists, he puts community engagement at the top of his list of why he does what he does. Both artists had previously worked together on one of the Project Backboard courts and knew each other’s style. “I’m a traveling muralist and was invited to come up by the legend Shelton Hawkins,” said GFB2. “He wanted to do a nice little mural for BAAM, and we came up with designs that would celebrate soccer and basketball.”

Despite both artists being involved with other work, they found time to dedicate a few days to this project. And so, at the end of June, on a dreary and rainy weekend, without much fanfare and without the crowds they usually attract, the duo created magic.


But watching them work was in itself magical. “It needs stars,” said GFB3 at one point, stepping back, inspecting the canvas, then adding them throughout the piece. And suddenly, an already colorful and bold mural took on a new dimension. It was the perfect addition to the primarily spray-painted mural, which features whimsical cartoon-like characters of children playing futebol (soccer) and basketball.

The impact of the artists’ work on Easton’s community will be interesting to see. For the moment, the mural not only enhances the area but also serves as a testament to the importance of sports in the lives of the residents, beyond just the young girls and boys of BAAM. But in the future, will it encourage aspiring artists to explore their own artistic abilities? Can it play a part in storytelling and expression, enabling both athletes and art enthusiasts to engage with it on a personal level? Then there is also this: by going beyond aesthetics, can street art serve as a platform for encouraging community dialogue? 

Whatever the outcome, one of the positive things is you don’t have to plan to visit a gallery or a museum to admire a remarkable piece of art. Stop by BAAM and experience the celebration of art, sports, and community that began as a beautification project created by two street art giants.

For more about Shelton Hawkins: https://www.playincolor.org For more about GFB3: https://www.gfbthree.com For more about BAAM: https://www.baaminc.org

 

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

Listen Up by Laura J. Oliver

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Last year I adopted a small, black-and-white terrier-poodle mix with one ear that points straight up like a SETI radio telescope listening for space squirrels and one that flops down. Her name was Leah, and I made no attempt to change it. She already had an identity, and I respected that, although when I walk her in the neighborhood, the most frequent comment from strangers is, “He’s just the cutest little boy!”

Leah kisses these fools indiscriminately. 

She was a mix of many breeds, so out of curiosity, I had her DNA decoded. The result was sixteen pages of proclivities based on the variety of breeds she represents. This test also revealed that Leah has a brother, Frodo, living in College Park! I immediately felt we should pack up the car and go visit the rellies. She has other sibs too: Petey and Pip, JoJo and Brinkley, Daisy, and let us not forget, Lucy Penrod, who’s digging life in Florida. Siblings are a gift, and Leah’s were an unexpected find, but another surprise was in store.

You know I am intrigued by those with the ability to tap into a field of consciousness that is available to all but inaccessible to most. The energy field researchers at Duke University have determined we don’t access primarily because we don’t know it’s there. 

We don’t seek what we think isn’t possible. We don’t see what we’re not looking for. We live with the lid on.

But last summer, I had a session with an intuitive who has cultivated this ability for many years and out of the blue he said, “I see a yellow dog around you. A big dog.” 

 “I had a yellow lab,” I said, “Kaya. She died 5 years ago.” 

“She’s still near you,” he said, “but I see a small dog with you now. Black and white.” I thought, “Holy cow,” but I said, “Yes, Leah, I adopted her last year.” He was quiet a minute as if listening, then said dispassionately, “I’m hearing that Kaya sent you Leah.” 

Could this be true?

I’d been walking dogs as a volunteer at the SPCA in an effort to do something good in this world within my limited skillset, although whether I was an asset as a dog walker is debatable. Those EZ harnesses! Getting one on was like roping a calf on steroids, one leaping the height of my head and spinning like a happy dolphin in a 5 by 8-foot kennel run. More than once, I had two of the dogs’ legs in one hole, and there was the time, out on the trail, when I felt the lead go limp, looked down, and saw I’d been walking an empty harness. The dog I thought I was walking was standing 20 feet away on a narrow wooden bridge over a stream, just staring at me. We froze mano a mano, like two gunslingers in a Western, equally confounded by the dog’s sudden change in fortune, each wondering who would be the first to act on it. 

So by “sent,” I theorized, my dog in spirit had prompted me to notice a very sick, ratty little rescue in the darkest part of the kennel, sporting stitches on her belly, parasites in her bloodstream, and a cone on her head. 

And maybe choosing to walk Leah out of the barking pandemonium of 50 much rowdier inmates was also a response to a nudge. Perhaps impulsively adopting her after five years of volunteering was a choice divinely inspired as well. Who can say in what form inspiration manifests? Maybe sometimes it shows up as an inordinately pretty yellow lab sending her empty owner someone new to love. 

Once you open the door to the idea that there is a source of divine wisdom in constant conversation with you, an unlimited host of help is at your disposal. For me, it’s learning to pay attention to what draws my attention. 

I have read that you can actually choose a sign that will be your signal from someone you love on the other side. Over breakfast one morning after Mr. Oliver’s lovely, brilliant mother died, we decided the sign of her presence should be the appearance of goats in unlikely places. She had raised goats on the down-low in an upscale suburban neighborhood, making her own cheese and yogurt for several years. We agreed on the sign, laughing at the unlikelihood of seeing it, as I said aloud, “Mary Jane if you want us to know you are present, make goats appear.” I put my coffee cup in the dishwasher, climbed the stairs to my office, and turned on my computer. To my astonishment, thirteen goats appeared on the screen, standing amidst the branches of an argan tree. Shockingly out of place (goats in a tree?) I discovered they climb for the berries in this drought-plagued part of Morocco, and the image was a commercial stock photo. I’d never seen it before.

So, I’m currently at an impasse in two important family relationships, important because your relationships with your brothers and sisters are the longest of your life. They have been with you from the beginning. Your years together in this world predate your children and for most of us, outlast your parents. As I write of this rift, a promotional email from Barnes and Noble has popped up on my screen. Because it captures my attention, I pay attention.

“Explore the complexities of sibling relationships, resentments that threaten to tear the family apart,” it says. Coincidence? Maybe. I read the rest of the message. “The Complexity of Family. Learn more.” There was a time I would have dismissed that as meaningless. Now I’m not so sure.

I was walking Leah down by the park the other evening, listening to a book by James Van Praagh through my airpods, when I noticed a Mini Cooper parked beside the sidewalk. As I approached, I saw a sign in the back window—not a bumper sticker– a sign that said, “Please. Be patient.” There was no context like “new driver” or “baby on board.” Just a quiet request. 

That behest would benefit my life in general, but I needed more specific help with this current conflict. 

The next night Leah was trotting down the same road to the park, and the car was gone. But on the way back to the house, my attention was drawn to a Subaru parked near where it had been.

Bizarrely, it, too, had a sign in the back window–not a bumper sticker– but a sign placed at eye level. Leah was in a squirrel standoff, so I gave the leash a tug to get closer. This sign, again, without context, read, “You are never alone.” I was smiling now, so very sure this is true, as my conversation with spirit continues to evolve. 

As Leah and I headed home on this sweet indigo summer night, James Van Praagh said in my ear, “Family is the river through which the soul flows.” 

Where will we go, I wonder?

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

  

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

Food Friday: Frankly, Hot Dogs

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Sometimes I forget that we live in a country that is so vast and diverse that a New England hot dog is so different from a Chicago-style hot dog, and neither of them is like a hot dog from Texas, or from California. And this is one of the great American qualities – we are true blue and we love our regional delicacies.

In Boston, a Fenway Frank is boiled first, and then lightly grilled. (It is served in a split-top roll, which is also used for the best sort of lobster rolls: Split-top Roll) The Puritans among us prefer garnishing a Fenway Frank with just a thick wiggly trail of spicy mustard. But since this is America, feel free to pile on your own favorites.

As you travel west to Chicago, you will observe that the Chicago-style hot dog is a completely different creation. Chicago-style hot dogs are cooked in butter in a pan, and then served in warm, poppy-seed rolls, with lots of veggies on top. Chicago-style dogs are “dragged through the garden”: topped with sweet pickle relish, chopped onions, pickled peppers, tomato slices and sprinkled with celery salt. Have you been watching The Bear? You’ll know then how popular these franks are.

Then you’ll mosey down to Texas, to encounter the Hot Texas Wiener, a frank cooked in hot vegetable oil. If you place an order for a “One”, you’ll get a blisteringly hot frank topped with spicy brown mustard, chopped onions, and chili sauce. Yumsters.

As you continue west, and stop in Los Angeles for a some street food, you will encounter an L.A. Danger Dog. This frank is wrapped in bacon! I cannot imagine the state that Gwyneth and Meghan call home would do anything so decadent and audacious as a grilled, bacon-wrapped hot dog. More controversial to a hot dog purist are the toppings: catsup, mustard, mayonnaise, sautéed onions, with peppers, and a poblano chile pepper. Catsup? Mayo? But to be polite, you must eat like a local, and it will be deelish.

Common sense teaches us to not use catsup on our franks after the age of 18. You might as well make bologna sandwiches with Wonder bread, and douse them in catsup.

Have you ever seen the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile on the road? I can remember driving on a Florida highway once, and suddenly, puttering alongside us, was the Weinermobile. What a cheap thrill that was! Sadly, now it is called the Frankmobile. Time marches on. You can follow the Frankmobile on Instagram:

July is National Hot Dog Month, and the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council says that some of the top hot dog consuming cities include: Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, Phoenix, Atlanta, Detroit, Washington, DC, and Tampa. You’ll want to brush up on your hot dog etiquette, I’m sure.

And here are the official rules for Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest, in case you want to try this at home.

NPR 1A – Hot Dogs

Happy Fourth of July! (I will still be in Massachusetts enjoying my first post-COVID vacation next week, so we will be repeating a column, something from the Way Back Machine. Enjoy!)

“A hotdog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz.”
― Humphrey Bogart

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

Expanding the Possible on Port Street: A Chat with Arc Advisor Ross Benincasa

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It’s one thing to talk about affordable housing as a campaign issue or as a matter of policy, but it’s quite a different when a great example is staring you in the face.

And that will be the experience of thousands of Easton motorists and pedestrians as they travel on Port Street over the next year as they watch the construction of a three-floor mixed-use building,  just a block from Route 322, called Port Street Commons.

With an official groundbreaking already done, The Arc, and its Chesapeake Neighbors affiliate, are well on their way to creating a unique model for affordable housing. While the first floor will house The Arc’s service center, which will provide a much-needed community resource center for those with intellectual or developmental disabilities, the building will offer nine affordable housing units ranging from two to three-bedroom apartments, targeting families with a household income at or below 60% of the area median income.

It’s a bold vision for what The Arc calls “expanding the possible.” But it does nonetheless come with  some real challenges. We asked Arc advisor, Rivers & Roads’ Ross Benincasa, to walk us through that vision, some of the obstacles being faced, and the unique model Port Street Commons might become in the years ahead as other Eastern Shore communities find new ways to meet their housing needs.

This video is approximately five minutes in length. For more information about The Arc-Central Chesapeake, its Chesapeake Neighbors program, or Port Street Commons please go here. 

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

Unbidden by Laura J. Oliver

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Sophie, the robin who has been sitting on three blue eggs in the pink dogwood just outside my office window, abandoned ship last night. The nest was a magnificent structure. To make the interior soft and bowl-shaped, she had pressed her rounded breast into the grass and twigs she’d gathered and painstakingly plastered with mud. She shaped it like a potter might use his hands; only Sophie-bird had used her heart. 

A crow discovered the nest two days ago and swept in for repeated attacks. I’d warded off two assaults myself, but I knew the crafty crow, a hulking black shadow, a menace to all small things that sing, would inevitably succeed in this lethal mission, and he did.

Yes, Sophie was one of a billion robins, collectively known as a “worm” of robins—like a “pride” of lions and a “murder” of crows. And yes, statistics indicate that only 25% of birds fledged in summer, make it even to fall, but she was a good mother. Or at least the best she could be.

And that kills me. That good wasn’t good enough.

Self-improvement was a major theme in the house of my childhood, and I need to get a handle on this. Good never feels good enough, remorse never feels deep enough, and you cannot be grateful enough for the gifts you’ve been given. (I won’t argue with that last one.)

I was thinking about these things lying in a float tank—a sensory deprivation chamber. I signed up for this hour session somewhat impulsively because I’d always been curious—what on earth would happen if I turned off my brain? I’d heard that the experience is unique and lends itself to emotional insight, healing, and spiritual revelations. (I’m not known for low expectations.)

I arrived for my session in a ponytail and no makeup. I was going to be in water up to my ears for an hour and then showering off the Epsom Salts that would make me as buoyant as a balloon, so the normal morning routine had been swapped for “dear-God-don’t-let-me-run-into-anyone-I-know.”

The float chamber itself had been a stunning surprise. If you’ve ever been to a grotto, like the one on the island of Capri, where the sunlight seems to shine upwards from the white sea floor making the water pristine blue and alive with light, it was like that. As if blue and light had merged to be a living thing. And the ceiling of the float chamber was covered in glittering stars! We know I was charmed.

After taking a peek into it from my private outer room and having showered at home, I got undressed, then opened the chamber door and lowered myself into water the color of the sky and the temperature of my skin. 

When ready, I could push a button with a wet salty hand to turn out the chamber lights so that only the stars lit the darkness. But I had been advised to use a second button to eventually turn out the stars as well. Floating in the absence of light, as if in the womb, would provide the ultimate float experience. 

I lay there, reluctant to relinquish the stars. They are themselves evidence of a living universe, but I did eventually hit the button in search of the greater experience. The water held me just as it must have held me in the womb. I could open my eyes, and there was no difference in having them shut. I was sightless. Sort of weird. Sort of utero. Except, I probably wasn’t thinking thoughts in the womb.

Okay, that’s a lie, I probably was, but I was definitely still thinking thoughts here. I wanted to turn my brain off, but I came to understand that my internal mental chatter was not the result of outside stimuli. With all external stimuli eliminated, the mind monkeys were having a barn dance and had invited rowdy friends on scooters. 

I tried concentrating on my breathing and on the water itself—which some call silky, not slimy. But after what I’d determined to be about 40 minutes (with deadly accuracy, it turns out), I resorted to amusing myself. What would happen if I put my feet down? Made the water ripple? If I died and became suddenly limp, in what position would they find my body? My hands seemed to always float to my hips—like Wonder Woman! Like someone who died bossing everyone around! I had earplugs in, but I could feel water seeping in around them and started worrying about getting salt crystals in my ears. 

I tried harder to find heaven. 

Where was the spiritual revelation? The emotional insight? The healing? I’ve got conundrums, and I’d provided the blankest slate I could muster to no avail. After a while, I started pinging myself off the sides of the tank, floating from left to right, pushing off with my toes. 

I was a float fail. I tanked the float-tank experience.

The times I’ve been graced by the presence of spirit have come unbidden, have descended like a cloud. Like the night before surgery, when I’d been waiting three weeks in excruciating anxiety for a specialist from Georgetown to join my surgeon at Anne Arundel Medical Center.

I was awakened by gratitude—a soft, living presence that entered the room as gently as light, flooding my body and saturating my being so thoroughly that I could only lie in the dark and weep for the reality of a living love. I lay there just ridiculous with gratitude because I knew that if my surgery revealed the presence of a terminal illness, it would somehow be the experience I was born for. I didn’t feel assured that I would not be sick, only that if I were, all was well. All was perfect.

Sometimes God has arrived in a flash of intuition where I suddenly knew something I could not possibly know. Spirit has shown up as someone I’m meeting for the first time who feels like home. But God has never arrived when I was looking. Or testing. Or bargaining. 

Instead, God has always materialized in ways I cannot anticipate. Do you search for the air you breathe? That’s the way love manifests, I thought, lying there in the primal dark. Grace is a presence for whom you can only open the door.

And with that revelation, I turned on the stars. 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

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

Food Friday: Cool Summer Salads

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Happy summer! It’s finally here. School is out, and you can hear screen doors slamming up and down our street with busy folk intent upon enjoying summer. Luke the wonder dog and I have to dodge out of the way of the young bicyclists who are toting colorful towels or tennis racquets as they pursue summertime activities. It’s nice to be outdoors.

My chore avoidance tendency is reemerging as thoughts are reluctantly turning to the Fourth of July, and summertime entertaining, and eating in general. I wake up every morning and think about the day ahead; Luke and I take our first walk, and that’s when I decide if I need to head out to the grocery store for provisions. It’s nice to have planned ahead enough that I have already made a couple of kinds of sturdy salads that can sit in the fridge for a few days.

Potato salad seems to get more flavorful as it steeps in its mayonnaise dressing for a few days. It was excellent with grilled chicken on Sunday night, and it will be even better on Tuesday night with baked salmon, and for a side dish with my cheese sandwich on Wednesday. I’m going to make a double batch for the Fourth: half to bring with us to the picnic, and half for another home-cooked dinner, or two, later in the week.

This is my standard potato salad recipe, which tend to repeat here every year or so:
My Popular Potato Salad

This is a recipe that people actually ask for – and not just because they are my in-laws and trying hard to be polite! It that constantly evolves and adapts, and each summer brings a new twist. I don’t always have green onions – Vidalias work just fine. No red bliss potatoes? Go for Russets. A little fresh thyme? Why not? This potato salad is dependable, tasty and can be adapted and stretched to feed the masses. Just add more potatoes and more mayonnaise. It is particularly fine for large picnic gatherings, but Mr. Sanders has been known to make a midnight snack of it, too. It tastes best if it has a little time to sit and mellow, so if you can make it in the morning, it is just right by suppertime.

Many, many servings…
2 pounds little new, red bliss potatoes (do not peel!)
1 cup Hellmann’s mayonnaise, thinned with milk, enough to be pourable
1 bunch green onions, chopped
Sea salt and pepper to taste

Boil the potatoes until tender. While warm (but not still steaming hot) slice potatoes and begin to layer them in a large bowl – one layer potatoes, then a handful of green onions and salt and pepper. Pour on some of the mayonnaise mixture. Repeat. Gently stir until all the potatoes are coated. You may need to add more mayonnaise mixture when you are ready to serve, as the potatoes absorb the mayo. Deelish.

Martha, who is famous, and I am not, has another recipe for potato salad that calls for hard boiled eggs. Also cornichons and buttermilk. I suppose, in this day and age, there is room for differing viewpoints: Martha Stewart’s Potato Salad

The Smitten Kitchen has a novel approach to potato salad – to use a tzatziki dressing: Smitten Kitchen’s Potato Salad I just love using cucumbers as much as I can in the summer.

More colorful, and probably more nutritious, is this chick pea salad. Chickpeas are loaded with protein and fiber. Tomatoes, especially if your homegrown are ripe, are sweet and delightful. And the lemon juice helps keep the salad fresh for a few days in the fridge. Who could ask for anything more? Chickpea Salad

A panzanella salad is the ultimate lazy unfamous-woman’s dish: tomatoes, dried bread, cukes. Add my favorite cheap white wine, some candlelight, and this is total bliss. And it perfect environmentally, because nothing goes to waste: this is why we stash bread in the freezer: Panzanella Salad

Nobody likes cooking in the summertime, unless you are a happy-go-lucky year-round resident of Tuscany, in which case you cannot ever complain. The rest of us mere mortals need to cope with summer heat, doldrums, and constant existential dread. Let’s enjoy some simplicity, and graze from bowls of deliciousness already stashed awayin the fridge. Let us be grasshoppers for a little while.

“Summer… when fireflies come out at dusk and ice melts too fast in lemonade; ice cream tastes better even though it’s the same-old flavor.”
― Nanette L. Avery

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