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July 23, 2025

Centreville Spy

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3 Top Story Point of View Jamie

Back to Normal by Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 22, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

You may recall that for the last ten days, my wife and I were on grandparent duty: four bundles of joy and energy, ages five to twelve, each with different personalities, different appetites, different schedules, and different bedtimes. Their parents were away on a delayed anniversary trip to Greece thanks to COVID, so we got the call to come in from the bullpen and supervise Camp Runamok. Then yesterday, the kids’ parents returned home refreshed, and now our lives are getting back to normal, whatever that means.

And just when I was beginning to get the hang of it. By Day 10, I could unload one of the two dishwashers and know where to put away all the plates, cups, glasses, and cutlery. I had finally figured out where all the various pots and pans lived, how to navigate each of three televisions, how to turn on and off the lights that were on out-of-the-way switches, how to master the coffee pot and the gas grill on the porch, how to manipulate the pool’s feisty cover (although the “waterfall’ setting on the wireless remote still puzzles me), even how to load and turn on the washing machines and dryers which have more control settings than a SpaceX rocket. The entire experience was somewhere between overwhelming and exhilarating, but never dull or boring. I admit that last night, after we were relieved of duty, my wife and I did go out to enjoy a just-the-two-of-us-dinner, during which we relived each and every moment of our time with the kids. And now, this morning, we’re back in our own relatively quiet routines, back to normal, whatever that is.

I’m sure you’ll agree that not much is normal these days. Life seems more and more like an out-of-control rollercoaster hurtling toward disaster. Every day brings a new conundrum, another shock-to-the-system headline, some new animus. Once, I might have chafed at being “back to normal,” but now I’d take normal in a heartbeat. I’d especially take it for the grandkids: I worry about the mess we’re leaving them, the one that can’t be cleaned up with dishwashers and washing machines.

Normal means conforming to a standard; usual, expected, typical, routine. You tell me: what is usual, expected, typical, or routine about these days? Where once we might have equated “normal” with bland or unexciting, now I long for it like I long for a good chocolate milkshake. OK; maybe occasional excitement is good for the soul, but constant chaos isn’t. It’s exhausting, debilitating. Normal is natural, predictable, and orderly, not random, mean, or deviant. 

Psychologists cite four general criteria for abnormal behavior: violation of social norms (kindness and empathy, for example), statistical rarity, personal distress, and maladaptive behavior. Sound familiar? What lessons will those four little monkeys we tended last week derive from all the lunacy surrounding them now? Who will inspire them to lead worthy lives?

Thank goodness they don’t pay much overt attention to the nightly news yet, but some of this abnormality surely creeps in under the door. And someday, as their innocent childhoods slip away, they will have to chart their own respective courses through these roiling seas. I may not be around by then, but I hope I will still be with them.

Normal has gotten a bad rap; people equate it with boring. Even the great philosopher Marilyn Monroe once said, “Being normal is boring!” Well, maybe it is to a Hollywood starlet, but not to me. I miss the kids, but I’m glad my life is back to normal.

I’ll be right back.


 Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Jamie

Chesapeake Lens: “Companions” By Jay Fleming

July 12, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Tangier Island mayor Ooker Eskridge and his crabbing companion Bella shoving out of Cod Harbor at sunrise.

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

Filed Under: Chesapeake Lens, Jamie

Watermelon Time By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 8, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

I spent the Fourth of July weekend with family in Rehoboth. It wasn’t the whole clan, just six adults, four sunny days, delicious meals, and a sandy beach. At one point, one of us—no names will be used here—decided he wanted a watermelon mojito for his evening cocktail. Fortunately, the garden delivered, and so, after a post-beach outdoor shower, it was game on.

Personally, I’m not much of a mojito guy and less of a watermelon mojito guy, but I was intrigued. (Please don’t misunderstand: I have nothing against watermelons. A slice of watermelon with a pinch of salt goes a long way with me on a hot summer day, but mixed in a cocktail…meh.) Anyway, this was the first watermelon I had encountered this summer, and I was glad to see its juicy redness which looked like an old friend that would pair well with a sprig of muddled mint and a shot of rum. Maybe worth a try after all…

Think about watermelons: you’re a kid again and you’e holding a big grin of watermelon. It’s an explosion of color, texture, flavor, and juiciness. Messy, too: you can have a seed-spitting contest while the juice dribbles down your chin, staining your white t-shirt. Who cares? It’s summer and you don’t need a shirt anyway.

These days, watermelons are ubiquitous: they are grown in climes from tropical to temperate and there are literally more than a thousand varieties worldwide. They’re old, too: a few years ago, scientists traced 6,000 year-old watermelon seeds found in the Libyan desert back to an ancestor plant in West Africa. But those first watermelons were tart. It took some savvy Romans to figure out how to breed a sweet, pulpy variety.

Watermelons are technically a large fruit with a hard rind surrounding a modified berry called a pepo. They have a high water content (as much as 91% of a watermelon is water!) and can be stored for eating in dry seasons. They arrived in the New World with the Spanish explorers who settled Florida in the 16th Century. A hundred years later, they had found their way up to New England and down to Central and South America. In the Civil War era, they were often cultivated by free black farmers and became a symbol for the abolition of slavery. Sadly, that symbol of freedom morphed into a racist stereotype during the Jim Crow era. Sigh.

Frida Kahlo’s last painting, completed just days before her death in 1954, depicted varieties of watermelons. (It’s the image that accompanies this Musing.) The painting is a fitting and vibrant conclusion to the artist’s short and tragic life, rich in color contrasts, curves, and angles. It also contains a mournful message from the artist: Kahlo inscribed “Vida la Viva”—“Long Live Life!”— on the central melon wedge at the bottom of the canvas, an ironic commentary on her pain-filled existence due to polio, a terrible bus accident, and multiple surgeries.

But perhaps the message isn’t so mournful after all: maybe the artist is showing us that once our own shell is cut open, it reveals an inner life that is vibrant, fresh, and sweet. Also, the many seeds of the watermelon, like those of the pomegranate in Greek mythology, symbolize fertility and immortality. Once the fruit is gone, the seeds carry the promise of new life forward into eternity.

Like a family.

I like that interpretation.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Archives, Jamie

Rabbit, Rabbit. By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 1, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

(Author’s Note: This recalls a Musing from December, 2020.)

It just so happens that the first day of this new month falls on a Museday, the weekday formerly known as Tuesday. I hope you all remembered to say “Rabbit Rabbit!” when you woke up this morning. If you did, July will be lucky for you. If you didn’t, you might want to stay in bed for the rest of the month. Just sayin’…

In case you don’t happen to practice rabbit-rabbitology, it works like this: upon waking on the first day of a new month, you must immediately say “Rabbit! Rabbit!” If you do, you’ll have good luck throughout the month. However, if you should happen to forget, well, some things are better left unsaid. Despite what Wikipedia thinks, this is not just a silly superstition; it’s a cold, hard fact—just ask all the lucky individuals who hit the lottery after shouting RABBIT RABBIT like a lunatic on the first day of their lucky month.

Some rabbiteers, especially British ones, believe it’s essential to invoke three rabbits upon waking, not just two. I think that’s a bit of overkill but so what? We need all the luck we can get these days. Who knows? Maybe if I remember to say “Rabbit! Rabbit!” on the first day of August, I’ll wake up to find out these last few months were just a bad dream.

Rabbits, especially ones with cute little feet, have always been associated with good luck. Why is that? Why don’t we have key chains featuring curly pig’s tails or furry llama’s ears? I’m surprised that PETA hasn’t done as much to protect rabbits’ feet as it has to safeguard all those feisty minks from the mean furriers who would make them into fashionable fur coats. My wife has one such coat hidden away in a closet, far from the prying eyes of any anyone who might make her life miserable if she wore it to the grocery store on some frosty winter day. She claims it isn’t really hers —“it belonged to my mother!”—so, of course, she’s not culpable.

Back in the day, we used rabbit ears for better reception on our old black-and-white television sets. Was that because their ears were as lucky as their feet? What about their little cottontails? Aren’t they lucky, too? All the rabbits I know have refused to comment on the matter.

Rabbits abound—as they are wont to do—in literature. Peter bedeviled Mr. McGregor in his garden. Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail are beloved by generations of children, as is Margery Williams’ “Velveteen Rabbit.” It was the White Rabbit, running late as usual, who led Alice down to Wonderland, and that same rabbit caused my generation to tune in to Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane. My own two children loved their tactile storybook “Pat the Bunny,” while I, reader of record in our household, preferred Richard Adams’ debut novel, “Watership Down,” a wonderful story about a nest of rabbits seeking to establish a new home after their old warren was destroyed. That book was rejected seven times before Rex Collings, Ltd, a one-man publishing operation in London, saw the light in 1972. The book won several major awards and became a series on Netflix. How’s that for good luck!!

Some people believe luck is self-made. One works hard or practices hard, and, lo-and-behold, one gets lucky. Maybe, but I prefer to thank those two (or three) little rabbits who are working hard to send a monthly dose of good luck to all those of us who believe in them. I think of them akin to Santa’s elves, laboring away up in their North Pole workshop, big ears and all.

Rabbits have always been symbols of fertility. At Easter, one even shows up with a basket full of colored eggs, a mixed metaphor if ever I saw one. Maybe that’s a rabbit’s dirty little secret: a rabbit can even get lucky with a chicken.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have 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. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Morning, Noon, and Night By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 24, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

Morning:

I know a place where the view never gets old. The back deck faces almost due east, and at daybreak, the sky glows with promise, especially today because we’re at the summer solstice, the first full day of summer and the longest day of the year. There’s both promise and warning here: the forecast promises sunny and warm (but not too warm!) weather, perfect for a wedding ceremony later in the day. But warning, too: we’ve turned another planetary corner and now, we’re headed back into darkness. It will take months to get there, but this turning is as inevitable as it is worrisome. Time is passing…

But let’s just take today as it comes. Two young people will be taking the plunge, joining their lives and families together in ties that bind, no matter what may come. That is worthy of celebration and more— of hope. God knows we need all the hope we can get these days, and so we’ll witness their vows, then sing and dance ’til the cows come home, and since it’s the summer solstice, I’m sure those cows will be celebrating until the wee hours of another morning. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?

Noon:

 There was a time when I believed I was made of iron, and that the universe was a benevolent place, capable of human manipulation. I stood atop mountains and surveyed my domains like Alexander the Great, or Genghis Khan, or even Louis XIV, the “Sun King.” But now I think I was more like Ozymandias, Percy Bysshe Shelley’s fabled “King of Kings,” whose “frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command” said everything there was to say about mortal hubris, but nothing about the ravages of time. When a traveler from an antique land stumbled upon a crumbling statue in the desert, all that remained of Ozymandias’ was his shattered visage and the haunting inscription on the statue’s pedestal: “Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!” On that day, this once great king of kings was trunkless and decayed, a “colossal wreck,” in an empty landscape “boundless and bare,” where “the lone and level sands stretch far away.”

But I didn’t know any of that at my noon. Then, there was more daylight ahead of me than behind, so I went blithely about my own business, deaf to the barely audible ticking of the clock. It seemed to me there was time enough for everything, and everything seemed possible. If there were thunderstorms on the horizon, I didn’t see them coming my way. I just rowed merrily along on a boundless incoming tide, oblivious to rapids that lay upriver.

Night:

And now it’s getting dark, the sun is setting. The evening light glows warm and lovely, but it also hides the stones that lie beneath the surface and the shadows that lurk along the riverbank. I need to find a place to rest for the night.

A few days ago, I learned that someone I once cared for deeply had died. That was bad enough, but to make matters worse, she had died two years ago, the victim of a cruel and relentless disease. And I never knew she was gone; I didn’t feel her passing in my bones. The whispering universe that had once been my friend forgot to tell me of her struggle and pain. I probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything about that, but I just should have known. I would like to have been able to say goodbye to her, if only to myself.

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. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Keeping Score By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 10, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

The fourth hole at Chester River Golf Club is a par three over water. Depending on the pin placement, from the regular tees, a successful shot—one that lands safely on the green—requires a carry of somewhere between 130 and 155 yards, and on many days, the wind makes the hole play a bit longer. It’s a lovely hole, but don’t be fooled: it can bite.

A few years ago, I was playing with my friend Key. I stepped onto the fourth tee, addressed the ball, and sent it—plunk!—to a watery grave. At that point, I had two options: I could hit my next shot from the drop area which was considerably closer to the green, or drop another ball on the tee on the line of my previous shot. Both options carried a one-stroke penalty. I’ll admit that I was frustrated so maybe that’s why I selected the second (and riskier) option. I dropped another ball on the tee, swung, and the ball flew up and away. It landed on the green, took a hop or two, and rolled straight into the hole. Later that afternoon, when I told my guru Eggman about what had happened, he yawned and said, “just another ho-hum par.”

Of course, he was right; my score on the hole was just a three that day. But there are threes and then there are threes, and this three was the latter. Keeping score matters.

I find myself keeping score a lot lately. Not as often on the Chester River golf course, but rather on the golf course of my life. I look back and see the error of my ways, and I remember the few times I hit it in the hole. I have no doubt I am many strokes over par on that particular golf course, but the memory of unexpected, even miraculous, recoveries help to soften the blow.

If keeping score matters, so does forgiveness. Here’s an example of what I mean by that: I am twelve years old, in seventh grade. Remarkably, I am in a front-row seat in Forbes Field watching my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play the vaunted New York Yankees in the first game of the 1960 World Series. Mickey Mantle is at bat. I whisper a little prayer, something along the lines of “God, if You let me get a foul ball, I promise I will become a minister.” On the very next pitch—I swear this is true!—Mantle takes a mighty cut, nicks a piece of the ball, and that ball rolls right toward me. I lean over the railing and pick it up: a foul ball—a World Series foul ball off the bat of Mickey Mantle! I am beyond dizzy with excitement, until it hits me: I just made a promise to God. Now what do I do?

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve told this story to two people: my wife and a kind friend. (He and I happened to be on the Chester River golf course at the time.) I’d been thinking a lot about that day so many years ago, and I’m haunted by the memory because I did not fulfill the promise I made to God. But both my wife and my friend said essentially the same thing to me: look at the scorecard of your life. There are many ways to be a minister, and God is probably not too disappointed in you. Late in the game, that thought comforts me.

There are threes and then there are threes. There are ministers and then there are ways to minister.

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.

 

 

 

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

The View By Jamie Kirkpatrick

June 3, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

We were in Annapolis last week to celebrate a family milestone. A year ago, my wife’s son and his beloved headed out to Colorado, ostensibly to attend a couple of concerts. But that’s not all they did: they also got married! It was a genius move: they had the wedding of their dreams without all the attendant family hullabaloo— just two people saying “I do” to each other under a sound track provided by a guitarist from one of their favorite bands and a rushing mountain stream. When we got word of their ceremony, we were surprised and maybe even a little stunned, but that quickly turned to elation because we realized that this was exactly the way Marcus and Lauren wanted to begin the rest of their lives together,

While we were in Annapolis, we stayed with family who live on the Eastport side of Spa Creek. From the deck of their comfortable home, the view never gets old. When the weather is right and I have some time on my hands, I’m perfectly content to sit quietly and enjoy the play of light and the passing parade of boats. Like Peter Sellers’ character Chauncey Gardner in “Being There,” I, too, “like to watch.”

I feel the same way about our front porch in Chestertown: that view never gets old either. But views are only the manifestation of our personal perspectives. From one side of our front porch, my view is of the lovely pocket green space across the street. However, if I switch to the other side of the porch—my wife’s preferred side—my perspective changes. I see Jane’s Church and the Wine & Cheese Shop, two of our town’s most important landmarks. I suppose the best view would be from the middle of the porch, but my usual seat is often slightly left of center. Now remember, I’m only talking about where I like to sit on the porch.

Let’s face it: your point of view is critical. It informs your world. It centers you. It’s either the first step of your next journey, or the last step of your previous journey. Maybe it can even make you feel like the Greek philosopher Archimedes when he discerned the principle of the lever: “Give me a place to stand (or in my case, to sit) and I will move the earth.”

But back to that happy day in Annapolis. I was comfortably ensconced on Emme’s and Poppy’s deck in cool, sunny weather, watching the clouds drift over the spire of St. Mary’s church on the Annapolis side of Spa Creek. It was Memorial Day weekend, so there was an endless parade of boats going up and down the creek, most of them bedecked with flags and bunting, the unmistakable signal of oncoming summer. It was a lovely day in the new month of ‘Maycember,’ that deceptively busy time of year marked by celebrations of all kinds of endings and beginnings. Teachers know another school year is almost over. Seniors are being launched into the world with words of varying degrees of wisdom from all those graduation speakers I warned you about a couple of weeks ago. The world is looking rosier by the day. But I’m neither a Pollyanna, nor oblivious to all that is going on in the world, both at home and abroad. I feel the chaos in my bones. Nevertheless, in that brief moment under scudding clouds and despite the chilly breeze, I felt something akin to hope because the best view was just coming into focus: we were finally going to gather and celebrate the next new branch on our family’s tall tree.

Welcome aboard, Lauren, Andrew, and Daniel!

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

The Salt Leaf (Redux) By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 27, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

(Author’s note: this is my annual Memorial Day Musing. If you read it before, please read it again. If you haven’t read this before, I hope you’ll think on it.)

 Yesterday was Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer. These days, we tend to celebrate Memorial Day with parades and picnics, fireworks and flags, barbecues and boats. But underneath all the hoopla, there is a somber purpose to Memorial Day. Originally known as Decoration Day, Memorial Day was established during the Civil War to honor all those members of the military who gave their “last full measure of devotion” in service to our country. The essence of Memorial Day is sacrifice.

And so today, I thought we should pause to reconsider the lowly mangrove, that ubiquitous shrub that thrives throughout Florida and in many other tropical climes as well. That the mangrove thrives at all is nothing short of a miracle because it roots in very salty water, water that is, in fact, saline enough to kill most other plant species. So, how does the mangrove survive?

Look closer. Mangrove leaves are a brilliant jade green. But interspersed among all that green finery, there are bright spots of yellow. These are the salt leaves. By a science I do not pretend or presume to understand, these leaves are programmed by Mother Nature to extract enough of the concentrated salt in brackish water to render it sufficiently fresh to nourish the host plant. Theories abound about how this actually works. While some botanists posit that it is the root system of the mangrove that filters as much as 90% of the salt from seawater, thereby providing enough fresh water to feed the plant, other botanists believe that the alchemy of turning salt water into fresh water is done by the salt leaves of the plant. By some evolutionary miracle, each mangrove is programmed to produce a specific number of these leaves, each one capable of excreting an enormous quantity of salt through glands on their surface. In effect, the mangrove’s salt leaves sacrifice themselves for the greater good of the host. I like that second theory a lot.

Years ago, I spent a morning trying to count the number of salt leaves on one mangrove. It was a futile effort. The roots of a mangrove ecosystem are so intertwined that it is impossible to distinguish one plant from another, and anyway, after a while, they all began to look alike. So I did the next best thing: I estimated. Best guess? Maybe one leaf in a thousand is a salt leaf. Even if I’m off by a factor of ten, that’s still quite a burden for a single tiny yellow leaf to bear.

Yesterday, on the last Monday in May, we observed yet another Memorial Day. It’s the only day of the year when we officially remember and honor all the men and women who were, and are, our nation’s salt leaves. It is through their sacrifice that the rest of us are blessed to live in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

There is another interesting aspect to the mangrove: locals say it “walks.” Thanks to all  those yellow salt leaves, as the mangrove thrives, its root systems spread. Silt collects among those new roots, and eventually new land begins to form, land that becomes host and home to an amazing variety of new plants and animals. Life begetting life.

Honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Thank the salt leaves.

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.

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Archives, Jamie

Commencing By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 20, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

’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.

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Health Homepage Highlights, Jamie

Commencing By Jamie Kirkpatrick

May 20, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick Leave a Comment

’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.

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

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Jamie

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