I’ve bumped into a word and a concept I previously knew nothing about: rumspringa. It’s an Amish word and concept that refers to a time in the life of Amish teenagers in which they face fewer restrictions on their behavior and are less subject to the Ordnung—the community norms that traditionally govern Amish life. In essence, rumspringa permits Amish adolescents to taste English ways and gives them the opportunity to choose the lifestyle they wish to adopt as adults.

What a concept! Exposure to new ideas and different cultures at the very moment we’re coming into our adult selves can only serve to strengthen our understanding of our place in the world. I can’t help but wonder that if I had experienced rumspringa, would I have chosen a different path in life? Maybe, in fact, I did and just didn’t know it at the time. After college, I joined the Peace Corps and went to live and work in a small village in Tunisia. I experienced another culture, spoke a different language (two, in fact), and spent considerable time in quiet reflection. When I came home six years later, I had a still-incomplete but better understanding of who I was and my place in the world.

Now that I’ve officially been pegged as “elderly” by the next generation in our family, I’m not only allowed to sit on higher chairs on the beach, but I’m also empowered to ruminate on the many roads in my life—the ones taken and the ones not taken. To be honest, or as honest as I can be, I’m reasonably satisfied with the course and direction of my life. I have made mistake, some egregious, but I’ve learned from them and survived. I’m in a good town with good friends and I’m in a good marriage. My past mistakes are the rainy days in an otherwise relatively sunny life. Now in my dotage, I’m still imperfect but happy.

Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I choose a specific time in my long-ago life and try to remember everything about it. My little elementary school in Pittsburgh, my posh boarding school, my tumultuous college. My days in that little Tunisian village. My years when I spent too much time away from home working overseas, and, when I finally decided to give that up, the years I spent counseling, teaching, and coaching boys in a wonderful secondary school in the Washington suburbs. I lived in an old farmhouse on campus, and my dog and I would commute to work across green playing fields. I was surrounded and supported by colleagues and friends who became family.

In Amish culture, there is no prescribed time limit to rumspringa; its length is indeterminate, a matter of personal choice. It simply continues until the adolescent decides to become a member of the Amish Mennonite Church and is baptized as such, accepting all the responsibilities that decision entails. In other words, when you’re ready to choose your life, you choose it, and at that point, you own it.

There is so much we all take for granted. Rumspringa turns that notion on its head and enables us to consciously accept our place in the universe. I always remember what Archimedes said when he grasped the principle of the lever: “Give me a place to stand and I will move the Earth.” The opportunity to consciously choose that place makes a lot of sense to me.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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

 

 

If June is the threshold of summer, July is its screened porch. It might be sweltering out in the backyard, but on the porch, a slowly rotating ceiling fan keeps the heat at bay while we sip our iced tea or lemonade and watch the fireflies put on their evening show.

We have another batch of grandkids with us for a few days; July is prime time for grandkids. The pool is open, the beach out by the Bay beckons, the daylight lingers, and all the ice cream stores in town are open late. Later today, we’ll be decorating the house with flags and bunting in anticipation of the Fourth, and we’ve already made plans for watching the parade of boats in the afternoon and the fireworks in the evening. There will be hamburgers and hot dogs, potato salad, and, just like at the ball park, “ain’t the beer cold!?!”

July is the musical movement that precedes summer’s crescendo. In July, there is still time to enjoy summer before the downbeat “Back to School” coda begins. By the time August rolls around, that annual din drowns out even the cicadas, but, for now, there’s still time to loll in the hammock and watch those big fluffy cumulus clouds drifting by. Maybe tonight there will be another big booming thunderstorm to water the yard and keep the hydrangea blooming blue and full.

Summer is simple. Clothing is minimal. Author James Dent sums summer up this way: “A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawnmower is broken.” John Mayer, the new lead singer in the Friends of the Dead show, puts a bit more succinctly: “A little bit of summer is what the whole year is all about.”  Jerry Garcia, bless his teddybear soul, couldn’t have said it any better.

Now, lest you think that I’m too sentimental or too Pollyannaish about summer, I will admit that every once in a while there’s one of those dog days that make me wish for the arrival of autumn and cooler weather. But then, I also know that on some blustery November day, I’ll pine for the laziness of summer. So I do my best to stay in the estival moment and appreciate the simple gifts of the season. Give me a good book and a big beach umbrella and I’m good to go, at least until I fall asleep in my chair

The summer sun gets up early and goes to bed late. My wife rues all that early morning light that comes streaming into the bedroom, but not me. I like to savor it like an extra helping of peas and carrots (my code for peace and quiet). I lie there next to her, listening to her gentle breathing, and whisper a little prayer of gratitude for all the gifts I’ve been given. Then my list of summer chores rears its ugly little head, so I rise and go downstairs for my single cup of morning Joe on the porch while waiting for the town to wake up and get on about its business.

Summer is but one season the year; it knows its place in the grand scheme of things. So did John Steinbeck when he went traveling with his poodle Charley In Search of America: “What good is the warmth of summer without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?” So savor summer’s sweetness while you can. You’ll miss it when it’s over!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A couple of months before he died, my dear friend Marty said to me, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” That was several years ago, but now I know how right Marty was. Simple movements I used to take for granted—stepping into my pants. tying my shoes—now take considerable time and planning. Getting up from a chair often requires a Herculean effort and maybe a handhold. I’m stiff or sore in places I didn’t even know I had; nothing bends or turns like it used to. What to do?

Fortunately, it’s now officially summer. That means the pool is open, so my wife and I can go to Range of Motion classes twice a week. Class begins at 9am and lasts an hour. We use pool noodles and Styrofoam dumbbells to restore old muscles and build new ones. We stretch our shoulders, necks, calves, and hamstrings; rotate our trunks, wrists, and ankle joints; flex our knees. We even throw in a few yoga breaths before saying “Namaste” to everyone at the conclusion of class. The pool’s buoyant environment enables us to move in ways we couldn’t on dry land, and the water’s resistance adds a dimension of strength training to all the stretching that is both tolerable and, particularly on these sweltering days, refreshing. The instructor counts out the repetitive motions, and I do my best to perform each and every exercise as instructed while keeping my eye on the clock. Every hour may contain exactly sixty minutes, but some hours are longer than others. Know what I mean?

In addition to moving our bodies in healthy ways, there are also some beneficial mental gymnastics in our Range of Motion class that help to build brain and memory “muscle.” Some of the stretches, exercises, and movements we do integrate more complex commands that involve balance, thought, and coordination. We’re exercising more than just our bodies; our brains are getting a workout, too. And guess what: you can’t fall and hurt yourself. If you do, you just get wetter.

But while I’m bouncing around in the pool, I must admit that my mind occasionally begins to wander. Here’s my secret thought: what if there were other ‘Range of Motion’ classes? What about a ‘Range of Emotion’ class where all of us could safely experience everything from utter despair to outright bliss without ever getting emotionally hurt or injured? Or what if there were a ‘Range of Commotion’ class where we indulged in every type of commotion from civil insurrection to biblical Rapture? I bounced my idea off a classmate, and she said, “Maybe we could have a ‘Range of Locomotion’ class where everybody just danced along with Little Eva and did the Locomotion.” I thought she might be on to something, so I started singing “It’s easier than learning your ABCs, so c’mon, c’mon and do the Locomotion with me,” but just at that moment, I noticed our drill instructor—I mean our instructor—eyeing me suspiciously so I piped down and got back on count with the rest of the gang in the pool.

It’s been three weeks now since my wife and I started our summer routine, and I think maybe I’m beginning to notice some real benefits of my enhanced range of motion. OK, so maybe I haven’t shed any excess pounds yet, but at least I can turn my head and look both ways when I cross the street, or actually reach down and pick up something I dropped on the floor, or even make it through an entire day without taking a nap. That’s progress isn’t it?

So, if it’s indeed true that “getting old isn’t for sissies,” isn’t enhancing our range of physical and mental motions a pretty darn good way to show Father Time we’re made of sterner stuff? We think so!

See the boy in the picture that accompanies this Musing? That’s one of our grandkids, and grandkids know everything there is to know about range of motion, or range of emotion or commotion, for that matter. But there he goes, sailing through the air, not worrying for one second about where he’s landing. Those were the days…

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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

 

My wife and I have been guests at three wonderful weddings in the past three months. Each one was a generous and lavish affair, festive and joyous, full of pride and hope and love. We were delighted to witness these three young couples as they were launched into a world drenched in sunlight, with nary a cloud in sight. And yes, while I understand that life is full of snares and surprises—some good, some bad—let’s just hope and pray that the separate roads of these three newly married couples will run straight and true into a bright and happy future.

On the weekend of the most recent wedding, my wife and I wanted to be close to the venue, so we rented a lovely home on the Magothy River. While we were there, I spent several quiet hours observing a pair of ospreys that had built their nest on a platform several yards from shore. The female was almost always sitting on the nest, presumably incubating a small clutch of eggs; her mate roamed the sky, fishing or just keeping a watchful eye on his new human neighbors. In the evening, as the light of day faded, he would return to the nest, once with a freshly caught fish, and settle in for the night next to his mate, ever vigilant.

Now I’m not so anthropomorphic as to believe that ospreys are like newlyweds intent on creating a new family, but they do mate for life and instinctively tend to each other’s needs in ways that would put many of us to shame. I realize that devotion is an inherently human concept, but its shadow instinct is surely present in nature, too. One generation making a home and tending to its offspring, season after season, ensuring the survival of the species. Is that so different from wanting our own children to grow and prosper with a partner they love? Isn’t that why we celebrate weddings, sharing them with friends, even making them a holy sacrament? Maybe we don’t always live up to the promise of “happily ever after,” but we continue to believe in it and cherish it in our hearts. I know this because I just witnessed it three times over.

At each of these three weddings, I listened carefully to the words of the officiant, to the vows of each of the brides and grooms, even to the toasts offered by parents and friends. They were always articulate and optimistic, often quite funny, and they almost always painted a picture of a meaningful past and a rosy future. The skeptic may not believe in the fairy tale of making a happy and fulfilled life with someone you love, but I still do, and witnessing these three weddings has only deepened that belief. With all the noise that’s out there these days, it would be so easy to become cynical about human nature, or to succumb to all the passion and pain that pounds us every day.

But these three weddings have offered me an opportunity to see the world differently, to be steeped in its hopes and joys instead of its hate and violence. So, too, has that osprey’s nest. Nature can be just as cruel as human beings, but I swear there was a peace and tenderness in that mess of sticks and feathers that spoke to me of an alternative way of experiencing the world. Before I went upstairs to bed on our last night, I whispered, “I do.”

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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

A dear friend came over the other day for a quick glass-of-wine visit. We hadn’t restocked the larder since our return from Florida, so there wasn’t much to offer her in the way of an accompanying snack. I did, however, find a bag of pistachio nuts in the kitchen. Game on…

The thing about pistachios is their addictive quality. Choose a nut, crack it open, eat the nut, and repeat. It can go on for hours like that, facilitating conversation or enhancing whatever I happen to be watching on TV. I tell myself, “No more,” but then I remember that nuts are protein, and protein is good for you, so the cycle begins all over again. Pretty soon, the bowl of empty shells is overflowing, so I go to the kitchen to replenish the supply, and the world of salty snacks starts to spin anew.

“Is this going somewhere?” you ask. (That’s a line from one of my all-time favorite jokes; Google “The Monkey Joke.”) Anyway, the new bowl of pistachios and its poor cousin, the bowl of empty shells, makes me think about all the things we do over and over again without much thought like the things we do when we’re just going through the motions, delaying, disregarding outcomes, scratching some itch here, satisfying some craving there. Pistachios are the anthesis of purpose: they are mindless action; the longer you go on eating them, the harder it is to stop.

As much as I’d like to think that I’m just the man William Ernest Henley had in mind when he was composing “Invictus”—you know, “the master of my fate, the captain of my soul”—pistachios remind me that there are times when I’m definitely neither master nor captain. For better or for worse, there are those moments in life when I’m more likely to avoid whatever impediment lies in my path by retreating into a bowl of pistachios than I am to boldly assume command of the frigate that is transporting my fate and soul. You see, over the years, I’ve learned there is only so much I can control, and while I think I’ve made progress with many of my smaller impulses—my “pistachios”—I know there are still some moments when I prefer those tasty little nuts to meaningful forward progress. That may not be human nature, but it is my nature. Sigh.

One of the many reasons that I love and admire my wife is that she has the capacity to rise above the pistachios in her life. Don’t get me wrong: she’s been known to consume her fair share, and to occasionally succumb to worrying about the things she cannot control. However, when it comes to facing the bigger challenges in her life, she never shrinks. The word I often use to describe her attitude (sometimes aloud, sometimes silently) is “relentless.” No mountain is ever too high, no problem is ever too complicated. She will batter away at it until either the problem is solved or the person on the other end of the line gives up. She is a purposeful woman, rarely given to pistachio pursuits.Ecclesiastes reminds us that “for everything there is a season, a time to every purpose under heaven.” I’ll take that to mean that an occasional bout with a bag of pistachios is ok as long as I don’t become addicted to some brainless routine that leaves me feeling bloated and unsatisfied. Old as I am, I’m still trying to become the master of my fate, the captain of my soul.

Damn the pistachios! Full speed ahead!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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

Florida gets a bad rap these days: its hurricanes are scary and its political tilt is a bit unsettling (remember all those hanging chads?). Then there’s that infamous classified document storage facility at Mar-a-Lago, a list of banned books as long as I-95, and I just saw a gecko the size of a French poodle. Not exactly the promised land. On the other hand, it has been a fickle spring up north, so when a wedding invitation arrived in our mailbox, we said, “Yes!” and packed our bags. And today, sitting on the lanai that overlooks the golf course, feeling both the warm early morning sun and a cooling breeze on the back of my neck, I must admit that I’m beginning to understand the snow bird’s call. The fish is fresh, the limes are plentiful, and I’ve yet to see a raindrop or a snow shovel.

When I was a little boy, my parents would make the long drive down to Florida for spring training. I would be sound asleep in the back seat of the Buick for much of the journey, but as soon as we crossed the Florida state line, I was awake and wide-eyed. When we finally made it to Fort Meyers (spring training home of the Pittsburgh Pirates), I would jump into the ocean without a dab of sunscreen, and drink lime rickeys (virgin, of course) all day long. We’d go to a ball game, collect sea shells, and send postcards back home saying, “Wish you were here,” whether we meant it or not. But now, all the baseball teams are back up north, there aren’t any more sea shells, and sterile texts have replaced all those touristy postcards featuring pink flamingos, smiling dolphins, or beady-eyed alligators. Now, half a century and more later, times have certainly changed; mean temperatures and seas levels may be rising elsewhere, but, at least in this exclusive little gated corner of the Sunshine State, a wedding guest’s life just purrs along in the right-hand lane.

Weddings are serious business down here. The “I do” is the easy part; it’s all the surrounding logistics and hoopla that make a wedding planner’s life complicated. Somebody has to organize the pickle ball tournament, somebody else has to make the pairings for a round or two of golf, and then there is the rehearsal dinner, the reception, the post-reception bash (I’ll be asleep by then) and the final-day farewell brunch. The tent that will house the reception could easily accommodate Windsor Castle and all the Royals; it overlooks the Atlantic Ocean, and its dance floor is about the same size. My tuxedo is pressed and ready; my wife’s dress is getting a new hem, but the seamstress promises it will be ready in time. It better be! An extra inch or two might throw the earth off its axis.

Meanwhile, the crowd is gathering like a big wave. There’s some last-minute tanning going on, the ladies being careful that their tan lines will compliment their couture. I’m just hoping my cummerbund hasn’t shrunk again like it did last year. You’d think by now someone would have perfected the unshrinkable cummerbund, or at least an AI version of one.

I sure hope it doesn’t sound like I’m carping about weddings or Florida. On the contrary; I’m just a grateful guest here. If nothing else, weddings are exercises in renewing old friendships and building new ones, as well as about generosity in the extreme. The union of two souls is one of life’s great milestones, worthy of a festive celebration in this beautiful corner of the world.

Wish you were here.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

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