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March 13, 2026

Centreville Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Centreville

Point of View Op-Ed Point of View Opinion

The Tyranny of False Security, or I apologize to my Neighbors by Maria Wood

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This is controversial: Maybe it’s time to rethink smoke detectors. Let me explain.

On a rainy evening after a long week not long ago, I had just settled down with a carb-heavy dinner and a soothing British period drama when an ominous chirrup shattered the quiet, and along with it any hope of a cozy tranquil night. OH NO! The pitiless call of a needy smoke alarm awoke a stabbing dread in my heart.

Thoughts of fire or suffocating from an unseen noxious gas never entered my mind. No, a far more terrifying fate was in store. My fears were confirmed moments later by another round of staccato chirps and then, even worse, a mocking silence. I sat in a hypervigilant state, heart pounding, pupils dilated, and nerves on edge, frozen in anticipation of the next aural assault, my sense of time kaleidoscoped by the waiting… the waiting… the waiting…

The moments ticked by, just long enough to con my nervous system into lowering its guard. Just as my pulse normalized and my focus returned to the rugged Yorkshire countryside and my warm, cheesy supper, BAM! As inexorable as death and taxes, three more laryngitic bleeps shrieked into the dark with sadistic glee and quieted before I could begin to suss out their point of origin. The source was almost certainly not where it belonged on the ceiling of a hall or bedroom inside the warm, dry house, where I could deal with it in good lighting. Oh no, this hazing ritual would have no such easy fix. How could I be so sure, you ask? Easy: our smoke detectors had long since been hastily dislocated from their proper locations, in incidents involving things like bacon or the fireplace flue.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comfortable going commando vis a vis smoke detectors. Sparky the Fire Dog is embedded in my earliest neural pathways, so I’m fully aware it’s only a matter of time before we’re engulfed in flames. But life is to be lived, at least until the inferno, and this old world is stressful enough without earsplitting false alarms at breakfast time. Of course we had ripped the smoke detectors from the ceiling at some point, tossing them onto the porch, where the fresh air would make them Shut Up Already. Do I feel good about it? No. Has life been more peaceful since? It absolutely has.

A jilted smoke detector harbors a stunning level of narcissistic cruelty, expressed in a charming safety mechanism, used to demand attention when its battery is dying or it’s otherwise not in good working order. The system is, whenever a unit randomly decides it’s lonely, it emits a triplet of shrill, unignorable BLIPS, like an attention-seeking toddler chanting “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MomMomMom. Mom.” Only unlike a toddler, after those three cute but ear-splitting blips, it waits with malicious delight as you stare dumbly at the shards of your peace of mind scattered at your feet. Each chirp is just a fraction of a second long. The ear has no hope of identifying a location. The silent lull that follows is fiendishly timed to last just a few moments more than a human attention span. It’s kind of like playing a really slow game of Hot and Cold, but the only clue is “cold.” Ironically. It’s a system designed for torment.

So it’s a cold and rainy night, dark as a coal mine, and that alarm is getting its revenge. Frantically problem-solving, I get the brilliant idea to time the silent interval, so my echolocation powers can be at the ready for the next set of chirps. This strategy is successful as far as it goes, but it really just confirms that the device is indeed somewhere in the depths of the dark porch. When I try to home in on it, the sound just bounces around, sending me on a series of wild goose chases into damp and cobwebby corners.

“Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!” Move to the other side of the porch. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Shiver. Cold droplets on my neck. Stare at the stopwatch. Wait. Ok… almost time… get ready… Ears on alert. NOW! “Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!” Dammit, it doesn’t sound any closer! Where is it coming from? It’s everywhere! Maybe in this damp cardboard box? Nope, just ancient weatherstripping and a socket wrench in there. Ugh. Ok, three steps in this direction. Wait. Wait. Shiver…

It’s quickly clear that this operation is doomed until daybreak. I resign myself to an evening of torture and, with the benefit of sunlight the next morning, I’m able to find the alarm. Unearthed from the bottom of a pile of old ping pong paddles and someday yard sale items, the unmuffled sound is eardrum-piercing. It chirps on, merry. Intermittent. Ruthless. I can’t just put it out in the trash barrel; it wouldn’t be fair to the neighbors, and is probably not environmentally responsible, so I google desperately for a customer service number. After I refuse to feed my contact info into yet another insidious database, the nice lady on the phone officially recommends that I “wrap it in a towel or something and maybe if you have a garage, put it out there until the battery dies.” FANTASTIC. (I don’t have a garage).

Could I take it to the fire department? Sparky the Fire Dog would definitely arrest me. Also, I’d have to either drive with that infernal noise in my car, or walk down the street carrying it in ignominy. I ruefully wrap the thing in a towel and leave it outside the back door, wishing it a swift and very painful death.

48 hours pass.

Suddenly the alarm SHRIEKS. LOUDER THAN EVER. PROLONGED SIREN-LIKE WAILS. It’s unconscionable, even wrapped in a towel and outdoors on the far side of the house. I fear Chestertonians showing up with pitchforks, so I google “Can you smash smoke detector with a hammer,” only to learn that even wanton violence might not stop the sound.

I try the 800 number again, and this time I get a much more self-assured weekday customer service professional. I’m a hollow husk of a person by now, so I cave and provide my phone number. I will receive spam calls until the end of time. I start to explain my dilemma, but Call Center Guy interrupts, telling me to slide the switch on the back of the device to “off,” as indicated on the back. Shockingly, I had tried that before I called the first time, because I can read and follow directions. CCG wants the model number, so I tiptoe outside to unwrap the alarm from the towel, which has been providing at least some degree of sound absorption. While I worry about my ears bleeding, CCG continues to ask questions. Finally, without his help, I discover that sliding the switch back into the ON position stops the shrieking. Naturally.

In the blessed quiet, CCG’s tone grows even more contemptuous. He says I need to vacuum the dust out of the device, insultingly (if accurately) insinuating that I haven’t kept up with  my proper monthly maintenance. It dawns on me that he’s trying to tell me how to keep this infernal contraption alive even though it’s clearly no longer trustworthy, and also will possibly lead to murder, or suicide, or both. I explain that I absolutely do not want to restore the unit’s ability to chirp. He says, “if you want to disable the alarm [unspoken: you dumb broad], you have to slide the switch all the way under the tab, but then you won’t be able to use it, ever again” [unspoken: you deserve to die in a fire]. “Awesome,” says I, immediately sliding the tab. CCG continues talking at me. I say “Thank you” and hang up.

So I guess we’re currently in violation of the Maryland law requiring smoke alarms with sealed, 10-year batteries on every level of the home, and we have been for a while now (since the last Bacon Incident, probably). I suppose we’ll need to replace the one I disabled and can’t use ever again. But let’s be honest. We’ll surely end up right back on the same merry-go-round. A system to let people know when smoke detectors need attention is a good idea, and I truly appreciate the good intentions behind it. But now that we see how works in the real world, it could maybe use some adjustment. How about coming up with a system for people who occasionally burn their breakfasts and would sprain a wrist trying to vacuum a device attached to the ceiling?

Maria Wood traveled throughout the country as production and tour manager for award-winning musician David Grover, with whom she co-founded a non-profit organization dedicated to enhancing education and fostering positive social change through music and music-making.  She returned to school mid-career, earning a BA in American Studies and a Certificate in Ethnomusicology from Smith College. More recently, she has written and taught on the meaning and impact of the musical Hamilton, served as Deputy Campaign Manager for congressional candidate Jesse Colvin and was Executive Director of Chestertown RiverArts. She lives in a multigenerational human/feline household in Chestertown. 

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

Biden v. Trump by Al Sikes

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In construction, the plumb line is a definitive means of measuring a line that is perfectly straight up and down with gravity. Building at an angle is inherently unstable.

Can this truth be useful in measuring public affairs? Are there analyzes that if followed will produce better results? In short is there a relationship between physics and obtaining and using political power?

I recognize that politics and precision are largely unrelated. At best we allocate power by choosing people we believe have the character and intuitive talent to exercise power in the moment. We know that when a Presidency begins, circumstances we could not have anticipated often take over.

Today public opinion polls agree on one thing: the public does not want a rematch of President Biden and former President Trump. 

Predictably President Biden and his followers insist he deserves another term. His followers have a stake in another four years. Or, a case can be made that Biden, is trying to avoid, as long as he can, lame duck status? 

A majority of Democrats want a new standard-bearer. Time is slipping away unless they want Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Primaries exist to enable competition and voter choice. And that is where Robert Kennedy Jr. comes in—the past shadowing the present.

The last incumbent who attempted to outstay his welcome in his own Party was Lyndon Johnson in 1968. He only withdrew after being embarrassed in the first primary in New Hampshire by Senator Eugene McCarthy. While Johnson won the raw vote, he fell under 50%; NPR characterized the end result: “shattered expectations”.

And when Johnson stood down, Robert F. Kennedy, the brother of President John F Kennedy and a US Senator from New York emerged and most believe would have secured the nomination if he had not been assassinated by Sirhan Sirhan. Kennedy’s popularity was in part derived from the tragic end to his brother’s presidency, again, by an assassin. 

Now I know that the youngest cohorts of voters have not marinated in the Kennedy culture. But then their percentage of participation in elections is relatively low compared to those who do remember and have at least a lingering affection for the Kennedys. And how many younger voters want to renominate an 80-year-old candidate?

It is, of course, easy to assume that Kennedy will suffer an irreparable fall in standing for his anti-vaccine posture. Yet during the Covid lock down period actions were taken that at the time were unpopular but accepted as necessary and today are regarded as serious errors of judgment. Closing down schools leads the list.

As President Biden would say, “here’s the deal”. The President is old and experiences lapses that often accompany his age. And the most vivid event during his presidency was the chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan. My guess is that these two facts will continue to disable him politically. 

Many of those who make politics their life calling understand the problem but anticipate a re-run of 2020 against an even more unpopular Donald Trump. Maybe the rematch that few want will happen. Given the stakes for our complicated country, living through disruptive times, I hope not. BCA Research, which enjoys a prestigious international reputation, in characterizing the risk from Artificial Intelligence (AI), noted: “The safety risks around AI are huge, and we think there is a more than 50/50 chance AI will wipe out all of humanity by the middle of the century.” Yes, we live in disruptive times.

On the other side of the political equation Trump does not seem to be scaring his challengers. He now has eight (plausible) competitors. And I predict that within hours of the New Hampshire Primary vote counting the field of challengers will be no more than two. Money, what Jesse Unruh, a California political power in the Democratic Party in the 1960s and 70s characterized as the “mother milk of politics”, will shift overnight. 

It should also be noted that none of the Republican candidates are weighed down by an unpopular choice for a vice-presidential running mate. 

So, Trump might win but I doubt it—the center of gravity has shifted. Plumb line testing is in order and as the lead weight swings back and forth searching for gravity, I don’t think it will center on Trump. 

One final note. Political parties are a weak institution because our laws protect a monopoly of power. And instead of using a plumb line to find the center of gravity politicians run to power. Power displaces measurement. 

A good example of an institutional bias against competition just happened in golf. The Professional Golfers Association has spent the last year attacking LIV Golf, the Saudi-based start-up, that was to bring some competition to the world of professional golf. In the last week they decided to merge. Those on top will do anything to stay there; competition be damned. 

Golfers play for money; Presidents play for keeps. 

Coda

Just in. Former President Trump has been indicted by a Grand Jury sitting in Florida for illegal handling of classified information.

Predictably. Significant Republican officeholders including the Speaker of the House, Kevin McCarthy and Florida’s Governor, Ron DeSantis claim it is a political prosecution.

Prediction: Republican leaders are on a countdown to terminating the Grand Old Party (GOP) in deference to Trump. Perhaps: The Trumpist Party. Purpose: Trump whisperer.

Preference: Belief that safeguards assured criminal defendants and associated requirement of proof beyond a reasonable doubt are superior to political rhetoric.

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books. 

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

A Blinding Light by Angela Rieck

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This is a story about light.

After a death in the family, my husband and I took a couple of days to recuperate Key West. My husband had just retired and was looking forward to starting some crucial repairs in our new, empty retirement home.

Our plans changed the very next day when my husband tumbled from a 14’ ladder. His leg was so shattered that his tibia had broken through his skin, and he was immediately medivaced to a Miami trauma hospital.

It was also the only area hospital that had a mandate to care for the indigent, the homeless, the uninsured, and the undocumented. Yet, the city, county, and state refused to provide adequate funds.

When we entered this hospital, we left our developed country behind. All signs were in Spanish, Creole, and English (in that order). Many of the hospital staff did not speak English. The hospital was severely underfunded, under resourced, and desperate. So desperate, we discovered later, that they latched onto patients with “blue ribbon” insurance, such as ours. They plied them with pain killers and long stays to take advantage of the insurance payments.

The hospital had a fraction of the resources that it needed to meet its relentless demand. Despite running over 50 operating rooms 24 hours a day, each of my husband’s seven scheduled surgeries had to be cancelled at the last minute. We learned to watch the news, when there was a gang war, we would get bumped.

After his initial surgery, my husband was admitted to the only ward with an available bed, the trauma unit, and promptly neglected. Since he was an orthopedic patient, and the orthopedic ward was far away, no doctor came to visit.

The first week we didn’t see a single medical professional. No one came to check on his open wound (since he would require another seven surgeries, his wound was merely dressed). No one changed his wound dressing, his sheets had never been changed, and his catheter beeped incessantly.

I begged the nurses to get us clean sheets. I feared that his open wound would become a magnet for staph infections (it did) and MRSA. I asked for a blanket, as my husband was shivering in the over-airconditioned room. We piled on all of the clothes that we had and waited and hoped.

We began to fear that no care was coming, so I went into action, demanding clean sheets and a medical professional—anyone—to see his wound. I begged, I pleaded, I demanded. I got nowhere.

The head nurse didn’t bother to mask her disdain. She despised the privilege that we had been born into and our pleas were ignored.

I demanded to know when we would be moved to the Orthopedic unit so that he could get care and begin the surgeries that needed to follow. She shrugged; we would just have to wait.

I learned to peek outside the room each time I heard the sound of footsteps or wheels, or the chatter of languages, hoping that someone would carelessly leave the linen closet unlocked. I was eventually rewarded, a hospital worker was placing fresh laundry in the linen closet, and I grabbed two sheets.

A Haitian man of some prominence occupied the other bed in our room. Our Haitian nurse curtsied when she tended to him and rushed by us. He must have understood our plight and after speaking to the nurse, she tossed a blanket to the end of our bed and hurried away.

After a week and desperate for care, I called the hospital patient liaison and told him of some of the issues; how we had yet to see any medical practitioner; how my husband’s bed was covered in dried bodily fluids, how painkillers arrived sporadically, how I feared that his untended wound would become infected.

Within a couple of hours, the head nurse appeared and announced that were being moved. I caught a smirk on her face as she left. I got a bad feeling.

Twenty four hours later, we found ourselves in a new ward…not the orthopedic ward…but a ward of hopelessness.

The smell of the other patient in the room was so nauseating that we both vomited. A sympathetic nurse came by with face masks. The staff routinely sprayed Lysol around the patient, who demanded cigarettes while he was awake and cried for them at night.

The head nurse of the ward arrived almost immediately. She compassionately listened to our story.

“You are being punished,” she explained. “Your bed is always left vacant.”

She explained how months ago, the patient had burned himself while lighting a cigarette in alcohol-drenched clothing. He was homeless, his mind absconded by severe alcohol abuse. He had had no visitors. The staff tried to bathe him, but his confusion and fear resulted in violence. Yet, despite his repulsiveness, she kindly spoke to him in Spanish each time she entered and left the room.

“You should not be here,” she explained to us. “I will find you a room in the orthopedic wing.” (She kept her promise and within 36 hours, we were in the Orthopedic ward.)

I learned that the ward that we found ourselves in was a ward for people who had been admitted to the hospital but had nowhere to recuperate. The hospital couldn’t put them back on the streets, and no facility would take them.

This ward was filled with people whose humanity had been stolen by abuse, poverty, drugs, disease, and mental illness. The stench of the unwashed wafted into the hallways. I could hear some patients muttering or complaining in unfamiliar languages. Others wailed, frightened, and confused by their circumstances. In other rooms, there was the silence of hopelessness and fear.

I became friendly with the head nurse. She kindly tended to each patient, addressing them in in their language. She explained to me how the hospital was severely short-staffed, and the overworked nurses were underpaid. The hospital often lacked linens, paper towels, tissues, blankets, or plastic water cups. Of all the wards that my husband stayed and would stay in, hers was the most desperate.

I wondered how she could keep working there, with such demanding and ungrateful patients, sometimes screaming invectives and curse words at their caregivers.

“How can you work here day in and day out?” I asked her.

“This is where I want to be,” she exclaimed with watery eyes. She had been there for almost a decade, and all of her nurses felt the same way. To them, working in that ward was a privilege.

“I want to care for these people,” she explained. “Each one of them could be Jesus Christ. When I care for them, I am caring for him.”

Our struggles would continue throughout our month long hospital stay. But this story is not about us. It is about the nurses in that ward, who could shine a small light every day in that darkness of despair.

I watched the nurses that day, marveling at how blindingly beautiful their light was.

Because a light that shines in total darkness is brighter than all of the suns in our galaxy.

Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.

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

Their Eyes Speak Louder than Words by David Reel

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Their Eyes Speak Louder Than Words

A little over a year ago I took our 16-year-old black lab to be euthanized. Years of chasing a tennis ball coupled with the inevitable ravages of old age resulted in severe arthritis and a steadily diminishing quality of life for her.

Her eyes told us — “It is time.”

I took her on her last ride to the vet, laid on the floor with her, stroked her head, said goodbye, and held her as she painlessly and quietly took her last breath.

After we buried her in our yard (something we have done with every one of our former pets), I said to my wife, “I can hardly stand thinking about this happening again. We now have another hole in our hearts that will never go away. No more dogs beyond keeping our other senior dog.”

Two days later she said, “I have a picture and a story about a dog to share with you.” The picture was of Josie. Her story was she was pushed from a car in Texas and abandoned with eleven unborn puppies. Fortunately, a witness to her predicament took her to an animal shelter. They took her in, but it was made clear that due to overcrowding, she would be euthanized if she was not adopted. My wife said “Look at her eyes. They are silently saying – “I need you and you need me.” She also reminded me that while the holes in our hearts from the loss of all our beloved pets will never go away; they can be made to grow smaller.

Four weeks later, after giving birth to her puppies we brought Josie (now Maisie) to her new home. Prior to then, all her puppies also found new homes.

The rescue organization told us about the rule of three for rescued dogs. They need three days to explore their new surroundings. They need three weeks to get comfortable with those new surroundings. They need three months to settle in. They told us – “Please be patient with her, she has been through a lot.”

When we took Maisie into our home she wandered through and smelled every room. She met our cats and our dog. She even met our ducks in their backyard pen. All the meetings were uneventful. No growling, no chasing, and no fights. It was an indication of things to come. Later that night, Maisie climbed into our bed. When we scratched her ears, she let out a deep sigh and her eyes silently said “I like it here. I want to stay.”

Fast forward to today. She is more than settled in. She has turned out to be the best dog we have ever had, and we have had many great ones. The biggest adjustment was getting her into our truck for rides. Based on her dumping and abandonment experience, she was terrified of getting anywhere near any vehicle. After four months of bribing her with treats and McDonald’s burgers, we succeeded in taking her on short rides that always ended with her safely back home. The results have been heartwarming. She now wants to go EVERYWHERE with us. If we jingle the keys, she comes running from a sound sleep and waits impatiently at the door. Her eyes now “say” — C’mon guys, let’s go. I have places to go, people to see and things to do (mostly watching out the window knowing these rides will end well).

Maisie is a constant reminder of the story about the young boy on an ocean beach picking up stranded starfish and throwing them back into the water. A passerby tells him there are countless stranded starfish on this beach and you cannot make a difference for all of them. As the young boy picks up another one and returns it to the water he says –”Maybe so, but I just made a difference for that one.”

Sadly, there are countless dogs, cats, and other creatures like our Maisie that have been abandoned or given up on through no fault of their own. They need and they deserve good homes. They need someone to make a difference for them.

We hope that in sharing our experience with Maisie; more people will consider rescuing dogs, cats, and other creatures. Yes, they will die. Yes, it is very hard to bear the grief that happens when they do. It has been said some of the best days of your life happen with your pets and only one of the worst days occurs when they die. Their legacies are wonderful memories that with patience, love, and attention they will return deep loyalty and unconditional love.

Their eyes will speak louder than words.

David Reel is a public affairs/public relations consultant who serves as a trusted advisor on strategy, advocacy, and media matters who resides in Easton.

 

 

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

Andy Harris Hard at Work Representing Donald Trump on Debt Ceiling Vote by J.E. Dean

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I did not have to check the official record last week to confirm that when the House of Representatives passed the bipartisan compromise to raise the federal debt limit and avoid a default on federal debt, that Andy “Handgun” Harris voted no. I also did not need to hear his explanation for his vote. Donald Trump had already issued his order during the now-infamous CNN New Hampshire Republican Town Hall Meeting on May 10. At that event, Trump called for a default on the federal debt. Harris’ vote was consistent with Trump’s call.

On June 2, like other First District residents who subscribe to Harris’ newsletters, I received a particularly offensive email from Dr. Harris. Our congressman (and my hand shakes as I write that) had the audacity to boast about his irresponsible vote on the recently passed increase in the federal debt ceiling and to tell us that he was doing what we wanted him to do as our representative in Congress. Really?

I do not recall anyone asking Dr. Harris to precipitate a national economic crisis by defaulting on the federal debt. 

Consider what Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen said on May 11 about the consequences of not increasing the debt ceiling, “A default would threaten the gains that we have worked so hard to make over the past few years in our pandemic recovery. And it would spark a global downturn that would set us back much further. It would also risk undermining US global economic leadership and raise questions about our ability to defend our national security interests.” 

Does Harris, an anesthesiologist by trade, think Yellen is lying?

Don’t trust a Democratic Treasury Secretary who also served as Federal Reserve Chair? International Monetary Fund economist Filippo Gori told us, “It [a default] would be a spectacular debacle—weakening the U.S. economy and undermining the United States’ international standing.”

Harris’ vote suggests he and the defeated ex-president, who knows a thing or two about defaulting on debts, think they know better than Yellen and Gori. They do not. 

What did Harris tell us in his email: “I voted No. [in Red].”  He added, “Maryland families and the voters in my district didn’t send me to Washington to write blank checks for the federal government–they sent me to Congress to permanently change the way Washington does business and this includes getting our fiscal house in order.”

First District voters may be conservative, but they did not elect Harris with the intention of collapsing the U.S. economy. One might add that Harris is right that voters do not want Congress to “write blank checks.”  Harris does not add that he always votes for tax cuts and against tax increases regardless of the current state of the national debt. 

First District voters also did not elect Harris to jeopardize federal programs that many people in his district depend on, things like food assistance, healthcare, aid to schools, and support for improving our roads and bridges.

Harris also tells us, “I have always believed that if we raise the debt ceiling by a dollar, we should reduce spending by a dollar.” That sounds like simplistic nonsense to me.

Harris is okay supporting tax cuts for the wealthy regardless of whether they increase the federal debt. Following his logic, tax cuts will force additional cuts in federal spending. To him, that is a good thing, regardless of whether the programs which spending supports are needed in the First District.

Andy Harris’ vote reflects a willingness to risk a federal debt default and the interruption of benefits to his constituents. If asked, maybe Harris would tell us that he only voted “no” after realizing that the bipartisan compromise on the debt ceiling had the votes to pass. We will never know whether this is true. And I do not want to know. I just want Harris gone.

The First District did not send Harris to Washington to engage in extreme right-wing politics, including attending the infamous White House meeting to discuss overturning the 2020 presidential election results. 

The Eastern Shore has real needs. Why not focus on those for a while and quit being a toady for Donald Trump? The First District deserves better representation in Congress. Andy “Handgun” Harris just proved that with his irresponsible debt ceiling vote. 

J.E. Dean is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and other subjects. 

 

 

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

A Road Not Taken by Jamie Kirkpatrick

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Now that I am of a certain age, I’m giving myself permission to occasionally recount a story that has been locked away in my personal vault. This is one of those times…

It was nearly fifty years ago, and I was working on the staff of the Peace Corps in Tunisia. (I had previously served as a Volunteer in that country, but that’s another story.) One day, word reached me that a Volunteer who was under my supervision was absenting himself from his job, ostensibly taking some time to watch a movie that was being filmed at a location out in the desert, not far from his work site. It would be a long drive, but I thought this would be a good time to go visit some of my Volunteers in the south.

As I remember it, I drove south some 7 or 8 hours, passing through the larger coastal cities, before veering west on track roads that led toward the small oasis towns on the border of the vast Sahara. When I finally arrived, hot and weary, in the town where my supposedly recalcitrant Volunteer was posted, I turned off my vehicle and stepped out to stretch my aching back. Imagine my wonder and surprise when a very attractive French woman approached me and looked me up and down with lustrous eyes and said, “Oh, you’re so tall! How would you like to be in a movie?”

I looked around, assuming the woman was a mirage or this was some sort of prank, but nothing seemed out of place: a few old men were drinking tea and playing cards in a dusty café, a donkey dozed in a spot of late afternoon shade. I was at a loss for words; “Excuse me?” was all I could muster.

She was all French chic and charm, so out-of-place in this timeless village. “We are making a film, shooting on location out in the desert. We just need someone tall. Let me show you!” Realizing the irony involved—remember; I was here to chastise a Volunteer who hadn’t been showing up at work—I got back in my car and followed my mirage out into the desert.

When we arrived at the set, the first things I saw were several dinosaurs, brontosauruses with huge curly horns, would have been my guess. There were also some strange vehicles that looked like weird hybrids between modernistic sports cars and space ships. There were lots of small people in oversized robes, four-legged robots that looked like dogs and a sea of underground houses. I was stunned into silence. I could not begin to imagine what kind of movie this was. Certainly, not a serious one.

She was talking to me again. “All we need is for you to pop up from behind a rock”—she pointed up a hill—“and knock out someone with a club. Well, not really knock him out, of course. No one will ever know it’s you; lots of make-up. We can probably shoot the scene in a day, maybe two at most. You can be back in Tunis the day after tomorrow.”

I admit I wavered. But the whole scene seemed so out-of-this-world, the approach so unlikely, that, much to my eternal regret, my sense of duty reared its ugly heard and I declined. In fact, I told her the real reason for my visit. Had she seen a young American visiting the set? “Non;” she said. “Désolée.” And that was it. My movie career ended before it began.

The Volunteer I had come to observe? I checked and he was at his post, right where he was supposed to be. And the film? A year or two later, I was back home in Washington, standing in a long line for tickets to that summer’s Hollywood blockbuster: a film, much of it shot in Tunisia, called “Star Wars.”

Sigh.

 

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 “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.

 

 

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Out and About (Sort of): Turning Point by Howard Freedlander

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I must admit that June 6 is an unforgettable day for me. I have expended thousands of words over the years about the historic D-Day invasion of the Normandy, France beaches on June 6, 1944. Today is the 79th anniversary of the greatest amphibious assault in military history.

Surprise was the deciding factor in the successful Allied effort to claim a strategically important beachhead.

Henry Turner, a 19-year-old Easton native, was part of the first wave of that unexpected invasion, landing on Omaha Beach in the village of Vierville. He and his fellow soldiers faced withering fire from German forces—despite the astonishing Allied action— situated on the bluffs overlooking the beach. Members of the famed 29th Infantry Division, comprising a large number of troops belonging to the Maryland and Virginia National Guard, endured mind-numbing combat.

They determined to overcome their German counterparts. And they succeeded.

After the war, Turner became an attorney, serving three terms as the Talbot County State’s Attorney, before becoming chair of the Maryland Parole Commission.

In 1994, I encountered Turner at a Washington Street store. I asked if he planned to join 29th Division veterans traveling to Normandy to celebrate the 50th anniversary of D-Day. I was going to France as Gov. William Donald Schaefer’s escort officer. Turner responded curtly, “No. I will not even watch “The Longest Day,” the acclaimed film about the assault.

End of conversation.

Turner had witnessed unbelievable human damage and death at a young age. He did not want to relive relentless fighting in France.

I respected his reticence. I understood his angst.

Turner, who died in 2015 at age 91, was courageous and outspoken. I recall attending a Memorial Day event at the Easton VFW. He was the main speaker. He eschewed flowery comments about Memorial Day, the same heard every year. Instead, he spoke about equal opportunity in the Armed Forces. He was not a politician trying to please the audience.

Over my 30-plus years in the Maryland National Guard, I met and liked many D-Day veterans. Most have died. Bill Boykin, a Baltimore resident, was one of them. He was an artillery officer attached to the 2nd Battalion, 115th Infantry, 29th Division. The unit was massacred by Germans retreating from Omaha Beach and finding the American soldiers resting in a field surrounded by hedgerows, after a long day’s march.

During the June 1994 visit to 29th Division battle sites, including the one attacked by German soldiers, Boykin questioned the description of the nocturnal assault. He adamantly refuted the perception of trips too tired to set up perimeter defense.

Historians disagreed.

The Boykin story reflects pride and conviction on the part of an officer opposed to a commonly told story. Even 50 years later, he defended the unit and its commander caught unexpectedly in the line of deadly fire.

Memories haunt combat veterans. Though time may alter their accuracy, they never vanish.

Men like Turner and Boykin contributed to the demolition of Adolph Hitler’s Fortress Europa. They fought bravely and relentlessly. They preserved freedom against a madman determined to establish hegemony in Europe.

As we celebrate the Allies’ magnificent victory on D-Day today, I urge readers to pay homage to 29th Infantry Division soldiers who confronted an onslaught of firepower on a formerly serene French beach. They persevered.

They endured the loss of friends and comrades. They suffered the loss of innocence.

Very few are still alive.

They spent three years away from their families and communities. They came home and rebuilt America. They talked sparingly about their wartime experiences.

Peace is elusive. War is horrible, but sadly necessary. Thank goodness for people like Henry Turner and Bill Boykin.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. After 44 years in Easton, Howard and his wife, Liz, moved in November 2020 to Annapolis, where they live with Toby, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel who has no regal bearing, just a mellow, enticing disposition.

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Artificial Intelligence: Does It Blow Up the World? By Al Sikes

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Can artificial intelligence (AI) think outside the box? 

If the box, now used by ChatGPT, an early leader in AI applications, is mainly a database generated by humans, is a superhuman construct possible? And how do we characterize manipulation of data to generate desired results? False; should there be a gatekeeper?

Or will AI itself conclude that the box of human patterns is inherently fragile, discern our weaknesses and break out? And then push us beyond our capacity to cope? Or, push us beyond a principled existence informed by timeless values? What about brain downloads (transplants) for the rich, for example? A 21st Century form of eugenics.

Let me begin with a useful definition. Synthesis: “the composition or combination of parts or elements so as to form a whole.” It is certainly anticipated that when the right questions are asked and the right prompts triggered that new combinations enabled by technology breakthroughs will be pathbreaking—create new wholes.

Yet, I wonder. Will AI’s responses over time lead to another kind of AI (artificial intuition)? Should we anticipate software informed entrepreneurship? Is it possible that public affairs leaders will find efficacy outside their well-worn campaign myths?  Can bias be tested and dismissed with AI the new referee?

And what about us? Yeah, us. Are we, the human race, edging closer to obsolescence? Is it possible that a relatively small subset of people using advanced AI will displace large swaths of so-called knowledge workers? Robots v. Humans. From film to reality.

Automated intelligence, my preferred name, has been around for a while. Long-range weather forecasting to war gaming to various search engines are not new. Yet, as AI 2.0 or 3.0 or 4.0 emerge, our sense of self and control risk being victimized.

AI 1.0 has, to date, been mainly a useful tool for efficiency, facilitation and research. Now it is rapidly becoming a phenomenon that if used constructively can help us make better decisions. Or provide more services. Sure, it will make some decisions for us, but at the leading edge of discovery it should be more of a helper than decider. But?

Regardless of its positive potential, there will be downsides. Leadership will be tested over and over. And those tests will not be simple. AI will produce new findings and hypotheses; humans have to make sure they are in control of the final step. Or, will that be preferred? Competition will test that proposition as the leading edge will produce results that will shake our walls of comfort. Technology and capitalism are insistent. And again, deception today is not in short supply and the new tools will make it easier and potentially more compelling.

But if asked in a court hearing why you did something, it will not be acceptable to blame AI. Humanity has to be responsible for the use of the tools it has designed and pushed. Right now, the disciplines that use AI should agree and practice source identification. If AI is the source, it should be identified just as we attribute content to writers or independent sources like, for example, the Associated Press (AP). And the identification should stand out.

The tools and potential of AI are orders of magnitude more important than the browser which opened up a wealth of information. Best that we turn to leaders in public affairs that understand, to a degree, this rapid development. Maybe the first question in a Presidential debate should be: How will you use AI to the benefit of Americans? Second question: What will you do to make sure AI doesn’t double back on humankind? Perhaps the public will be able to discern if the intelligence of the candidate is the source of an answer, or if he/she defaulted to artificial intelligence with an emphasis on artificial. Finally, in finishing this brief essay I asked, using ChatGPT, about the impact of AI on society. Here is what came back:

“The impact of artificial intelligence (AI) on society can be both constructive and potentially destructive, depending on how it is developed, deployed, and regulated. AI has the potential to greatly benefit society by improving efficiency, automating tasks, and solving complex problems. It can enhance healthcare, optimize transportation systems, and aid in scientific research.

However, there are also concerns about the negative aspects of AI. Misuse of AI technology could lead to privacy violations, algorithmic bias, and job displacement. There is a need for ethical guidelines, responsible development, and careful regulation to mitigate these risks and ensure that AI is used for the greater good.

Ultimately, whether AI is more constructive or destructive will depend on how we as a society collectively navigate its development and deployment, while ensuring proper safeguards are in place to address potential risks.”

Not bad. But we will need to keep in mind “ensuring proper safeguards”. There will be many faceoffs between “survival of the fittest” and timeless values. Societally, do we embrace timeless values and can we use them?

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books. 

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All In by Laura J. Oliver

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I was at a dinner party this weekend, and bizarrely, all four women at the table had endured the same emergency surgery. We each had a story. Pretty sure mine was the worst.

My tale begins at Hever Castle, Anne Boleyn’s family estate 30 miles southeast of London. Mr. Oliver and I were visiting our eldest daughter and her family. We had decided to do a little sightseeing that morning when I felt suddenly odd but in an indefinable way. 

The 13th-century house and gardens proved to be a distraction for a couple of hours, although I was becoming vaguely more uncomfortable. Even so, I was absorbed by the framed letter Anne had written to King Henry the 8th the night before her beheading. Knowing she was going to die, she transmuted all the rage, injustice, and terror into unconditional love. I got it. Maybe because I was feeling increasingly ill, I could empathize with the feeling that when you can no longer save your body, you can save your soul. The only room to stand in was compassion and forgiveness. I felt a new sympathy for Anne and a bit of envy that she was at peace. The fact that I was now envying a dead person should have been a clue that something was seriously wrong. 

By that night, I was in so much pain, I asked to be taken to a hospital where I was examined by what is known in the UK as a Junior Doctor. Young and very pretty, she failed to perform the one test that would have quickly led to a diagnosis and sent me back to our rental with a charming shrug.

A day later, still feeling awful, I hauled my luggage to Heathrow and boarded a United Airlines flight back to the States alone. I struggled to lift my overpacked suitcase onto the scale at check-in, to hoist my carry-on over my head, and to endure the 8-hour flight. 

I landed at BWI after dark, where my son met me at baggage claim and drove me home in a blinding thunderstorm. I don’t think I mentioned feeling ill. I hauled my luggage inside the musty house and bumped it up the steep wooden staircase to the second floor. There, I threw worn clothes in the hamper, delighted in a warm shower, and laid down. (Hello, my own bed! Hello my pillows!) It was midnight by then, and I felt dreadful, but I was home. I arranged myself on top of the covers, fully clothed, and waited to die. If I didn’t, I’d make a doctor’s appointment in the morning—whichever came first—didn’t care. 

At 9:00 am the following day, I lay on the crinkly white paper of an exam table, and my very American doctor plunged his fingers deeply and quickly into my abdomen in a rebound test to see if it hurt. I yelped, he nodded with satisfaction and told me I had a ruptured appendix. “Go get an MRI to confirm it,” he said, “then come back here.” 

I walked slowly back to my VW and drove myself to the radiologist, where I’d have to be worked into the schedule. Sagging against a chair, I waited my turn. An elderly lady in a wheelchair was taken back. Someone with a broken wrist was called. I wondered if I should explain (again) to the receptionist that my appendix was leaking toxins into my abdomen—and maybe in this one case belly trumped broken bone—but I didn’t want to be rude. Americans do one thing nearly as well as the English. We queue. We are not line jumpers. We are very democratic about waiting our turn. I like us for this. 

Eventually, I was called back. A kind radiologist said, “How are you doing?” then quickly looked from my face to the screen in front of us and said, “Never mind, I know how you’re doing. You’re one sick girl.” She then showed me the shadowy rupture and the little leaking river of poison.

Having confirmed that my appendix had ruptured sometime between feeling odd at Hever Castle and now, I drove back to the doctor to get a referral for surgery, then drove myself two miles to the hospital. Upon arrival, I wondered if I could make it from the parking garage to the entrance. I decided to try valet parking for the first time and pulled up in front. But the valet wasn’t there.

Somehow that was the first unfathomable obstacle I’d encountered. I stared at the empty podium where he usually stands all zippy-helpful, got out, and looked around. Perhaps he was behind a pillar having a smoke. I walked into the hospital. “I need surgery. I can’t find the valet,” I said, as mystified as if they were hiding him. A kind and intuitive volunteer in a pink smock held out her hand. “Just give me your keys,” she said, and a wheelchair appeared. 

Up on the surgery floor, I was offered a landline at the intake desk to contact a friend or family member. I called my son at work in Baltimore. 

And that’s when I lost it. The instant Andrew said hello, the dam broke. Abruptly I could no longer speak. I tried to choke out my story, but it was such a terrible story I couldn’t articulate it. I think the only understandable thing I said was, “Andrew, it’s Mom.” And all I heard, all I will ever hear in memory, was, “I’m on my way.” 

I lost it at the sound of the cavalry.

 Why is love our undoing? Why is it that love breaches our defenses when no obstacle could? Later, he said the call was horrifying. I was unrecognizable. 

The surgery was a success, but I was hospitalized for five days. I guess it was a close call. But was it?

I wonder if the end is written into the beginning. I’ve fallen through ice on the river as a child, and been held underwater so long by a breaking wave at Cape Hatteras that I could only feel detached surprise that this was how I was going to die. 

I’ve been fired upon by someone with a rifle while exploring the woods with my best friend as a girl. We dropped to the ground in a hail of gunfire as tree bark exploded shoulder-height around us, then stood up and ran. Did the shooter think we were deer? We were 14. We were lucky. Or were we?

If my time of departure is on a calendar somewhere, already marked, it means I only have to drop my resistance to love. How much I love will equal my reluctance to leave when it’s time to let go, so I parse it out. I think I live avoiding heartbreak which is such a waste because I know deep in my soul there is no end to avoid. It’s safe to go all in. I won’t be leaving; I’ll just be walking into another room of the same house.  

So, I could die today, tomorrow, or decades from now. All I ask of grace is that I find the courage to live a life I don’t want to relinquish. All I ask of Love is that I get home first, where I’ll be waiting for you. 

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.e

 

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From and Fuller: Grading Kevin McCarthy After Debt Ceiling House Compromise

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Every Thursday, the Spy hosts a conversation with Al From and Craig Fuller on the most topical political news of the moment.

This week, From and Fuller discuss last night’s successful passage in the House of Representatives of a debt ceiling compromise and assess Speaker Kevin McCarthy’s political leadership and possible consequences from the far right unhappy with those results.

This video podcast is approximately sixteen minutes in length.

To listen to the audio podcast version, please use this link:

Background

While the Spy’s public affairs mission has always been hyper-local, it has never limited us from covering national, or even international issues, that impact the communities we serve. With that in mind, we were delighted that Al From and Craig Fuller, both highly respected Washington insiders, have agreed to a new Spy video project called “The Analysis of From and Fuller” over the next year.

The Spy and our region are very lucky to have such an accomplished duo volunteer for this experiment. While one is a devoted Democrat and the other a lifetime Republican, both had long careers that sought out the middle ground of the American political spectrum.

Al From, the genius behind the Democratic Leadership Council’s moderate agenda which would eventually lead to the election of Bill Clinton, has never compromised from this middle-of-the-road philosophy. This did not go unnoticed in a party that was moving quickly to the left in the 1980s. Including progressive Howard Dean saying that From’s DLC was the Republican wing of the Democratic Party.

From’s boss, Bill Clinton, had a different perspective. He said it would be hard to think of a single American citizen who, as a private citizen, has had a more positive impact on the progress of American life in the last 25 years than Al From.”

Al now lives in Annapolis and spends his semi-retirement as a board member of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University (his alma mater) and authoring New Democrats and the Return to Power. He also is an adjunct faculty member at Johns Hopkins’ Krieger School and recently agreed to serve on the Annapolis Spy’s Board of Visitors. He is the author of “New Democrats and the Return to Power.”

For Craig Fuller, his moderation in the Republican party was a rare phenomenon. With deep roots in California’s GOP culture of centralism, Fuller, starting with a long history with Ronald Reagan, leading to his appointment as Reagan’s cabinet secretary at the White House, and later as George Bush’s chief-of-staff and presidential campaign manager was known for his instincts to find the middle ground. Even more noted was his reputation of being a nice guy in Washington, a rare characteristic for a successful tenure in the White House.

Craig has called Easton his permanent home for the last five years, where now serves on the boards of the Academy Art Museum, the Benedictine School, and Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum.  He also serves on the Spy’s Board of Visitors.

With their rich experience and long history of friendship, now joined by their love of the Chesapeake Bay, they have agreed through the magic of Zoom, to talk inside politics and policy with the Spy every Thursday.

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