Origins are like opinions: we all have at least one. My origin, at least on my paternal side, is in Scotland, in Dumfries, to be exact, a city also known as “The Queen of the South.” In the Scots dialect, my ancestral roots make me a “Doonhamer,” someone from “down home” in the Borders on the banks of the River Nith. It was my seven-times-great grandfather who emigrated from Dumfries to America in the middle of the 18th Century, and, in 1763, it is well documented that he became the last white settler to be attacked by Indians in Western Pennsylvania. Thankfully, he survived or I wouldn’t be writing this now.

On my mother’s side, I have fewer details, but I know this much: mother’s ancestors were Dutch settlers who arrived on this side of the Atlantic a few decades even before my paternal forbearers. (Mother never let father forget that.) They settled in Manhattan before moving a few miles up the Hudson River Valley to Tarrytown. It took a couple hundred years, but eventually, father met mother on a blind date in Boston, and, yada, yada, yada, one thing led to another, and I originated in Pittsburgh. That was now more than three-quarters of a century ago. Sigh…

Is this going somewhere? My point is that unless your ancestors were indigenous to this continent, we all come from afar. Some of our ancestors wanted a better life, or sought relief from persecution of some sort, or maybe just had a dream, an American one. But there are also those of us who had no choice in the matter: their ancestors were forced to come here, captured and sold to the highest bidder. Whatever it was that impelled or coerced our individual originators to leave kith and kin and cross an ocean to start anew on theses shores both blesses and haunts us to this day. In our time, immigrants are still arriving; the only difference is that instead of an ocean to cross, now there is a long, difficult trek that ends at a border with a fence painted black. There is no welcome sign.

Immigration is not an easy issue. We’ve been dealing with its tangled tendrils ever since the first white explorers and settlers set foot on this continent more than five hundred years ago. There were people already living here, and despite the vastness of this land, there was both competition for its resources and a different cultural vision of land ownership. It’s hard to get along with your neighbor when resources are finite and cultures see things differently. Just ask the Israelis and the Palestinians; they have been reading this sad story for literally thousands of years.

We are up against all sorts of knotty problems these days, and, sadly, there are no easy solutions. But I know this much: violence is not the answer, nor is cruelty, nor is authoritarianism. We have to find a way to live together; otherwise, the dream will become a nightmare and when that happens, we’re all doomed.

I’m proud to be a Doonhamer; I celebrate my Scottish roots in all sorts of ways. But, even with all that’s going on today, I’m prouder to be an American. We can get through this. We can sort this all out. All it takes is adherence to one simple rule: love thy neighbor as thyself.

I’ll be right back.

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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.

You may recall that when I was wallowing in lament last week, I promised you I would seek higher ground this week. Despite the tragic events of the last few days, I intend to keep that promise here.

The thing is, when you’re down in the valley, it’s easy enough to discern the higher ground, but sometimes getting there is another matter. Ascent is hard; you have to overcome gravity and that takes willpower, fortitude, strength, and purpose or else you’ll stay stuck in bottomland muck. As much as I admire Michelle Obama, I fear she may have been a tad naive when she told us that “when they go low, we go high.” That sounds great, but it’s easier said than done, and anyway, it’s unlikely that the bullies and bigots will get the message. They never do.

Be that as it may, there is higher ground out there. In 1898, John Oatman penned a Methodist hymn that contained this verse: 

“My heart has no desire to stay
Where doubts arise and fears dismay;
Tho’ some may dwell where these abound
My prayer, my aim is higher ground.”

A hundred years later, Stevie Wonder sang it this way: 

“teachers, keep on teaching
preachers, keep on preaching
world, keep on turning…
gonna keep on tryin’ ’til I reach my highest ground.”

The point is, there is still much that is good in this weary world. Despite all the inflammation and heartache we are experiencing these days, we can still find some higher ground. We can still help our neighbors; we can still work out our differences; we can still love one another. Despite all signs to the contrary, I still believe we can—and shall—overcome.

Over the past few days, I’ve made a point of finding some personal higher ground. I decided to start by taking better care of myself: by eating healthier, drinking less, and exercising more. If I told you it has been easy, or that I’ve suddenly climbed the mountain, I’d be lying. It has been a step-by-step journey, but I had to start somewhere, so I started at home, and if I ever find my way out of my own backyard, you’ll be the first to know. Promise!

There was a period in my life when I spent a lot of time in the high desert country of New Mexico and Arizona. I loved the arid, raw beauty of the region: the shifting play of light under an endless sky, heat without humidity, sweeping landscapes that were at once both simple and complex. There was something soothing and serene in the washes and mesas, landforms cut out of rock over eons and eons. There was a stillness, an absence of clutter and noise, in those ancient places that enabled me to feel closer to what is timeless and divine rather than immediate and temporal. I would return home refreshed and restored as though I had sipped handfuls of cool water from a hidden spring.

Many miles and years later, I crossed the Chesapeake Bay, and, as they say, the rest is history. I don’t miss the high desert, but I remember it fondly, like an old friend or lost lover. Now, here, I find myself surrounded by rivers and streams, towns and fields, sunrises and sunsets—an undiminished abundance of natural beauty. And, maybe best of all, by many good friends. 

So here is where I will stand. This is my higher ground.

I’ll be right back.

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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.

I strive for positivity, but sometimes I fall short. In the Old Testament, the primary message of the Book of Lamentations is to express the grief the Jewish people felt over the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in 586 BCE:

“How deserted lies the city,
once so full of people!
How like a widow is she,
who once was great among the nations!
She who was queen among the provinces
has now become a slave.”

I think I know how the poet of Lamentations (Jeremiah?) must have felt. I’d like to think I could process my lament for America and turn it into something hopeful and restorative. But National Guard troops on our cities’ streets, our diminished standing in the world, and the myriad woeful divisions at home make me wonder where this moment in our nation’s history leads. The exile of the Jewish people ultimately ended, and they returned to rebuild Jerusalem. Will we ever be able to rebuild America? You tell me.

Just as I strive for positivity, I struggle with resistance. I was a college student in the 1960s so I should know something about protest. How do we—how do I—resist the slow and painful death of our great experiment? I was never one to march in protest, but neither am I one to sit idly by and watch democracy die. So I muse. Does it do any good? You tell me.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’ “five stages of grief” reflect the most common human responses to change, shock, and loss. They are denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and acceptance. I get the first three, but not the last two. How does one bargain with the devil? How does one accept the unacceptable? You tell me.

Scholars believe Jeremiah’s lamentations were written to express grief, acknowledge sin and judgement, and (thankfully!) to offer hope to a people who had lost everything. Despite its roots in grief, Jeremiah’s song is a compassionate message, one promising a future restoration. Just as I am no protester, I am not a biblical scholar. But I do believe in the laws of karma and that good things happen to good people. That is the hope I carry through these lamentable days.

The Jewish people were captive in Babylon for seventy years. They returned to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem, only to see it destroyed again by the Romans in 70 CE. That was the beginning of the diaspora which loosed two more sad histories on the world, one that is currently being written in blood in Gaza. How will that tragic story end? How will ours? You tell me.

In keeping with my usual positivity, I’m searching for a happy ending to this Musing. Maybe there isn’t one. I’ll do my best to return to higher ground next week because an excess of lamentation isn’t good for the soul. In the meantime, can’t we all make an effort to be a little more kind, a little more empathetic, a little less nasty, a little less divided? 

You tell me.

I’ll be right back.

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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.

How is this possible? Where did it go? It seems only minutes ago that I was ruing the departure of spring and extolling the virtues of summer. Then it go hot—really hot!—and I began to dream about the next season in line, but it seemed too far away to really occupy much space in my overly crowded mind. But now, suddenly, it’s here; the end of summer. It’s darker earlier, traffic is snarled because schools are back in session, the leaves are falling, and just like that, we’ve turned another seasonal page on the calendars of our lives. Believe me: I know: my 77th birthday is coming later this week But I digress…

I have nothing against summer, but I have to say I’m not sorry to see this one go. Heat and humidity do not pair well in my book. Thank God for Willis Carrier who invented air-conditioning back in 1902. He came from Upstate New York and was a devout Presbyterian who no doubt didn’t want to spend a single day in Hell—it’s much too hot and humid down there. He passed away peacefully in 1950. Thirty-five years later, he was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame. One wonders what took them so long.

Anyway, summer, although not yet officially over, is on its way out. Where does it go? Like our ospreys, I guess summer migrates south because as the tilt of the earth moves the northern hemisphere farther away from the sun, the southern hemisphere reaps the benefit. That’s just the way our planet’s cookie crumbles.

Which brings me to the scary subject of climate change. The nightly news is grim enough these days with everything emanating from Washington, but the stories and scenes of enormous dust clouds, raging floods, fierce forest fires, horrific hurricanes, and extreme drought make me think I’m back in the book of Exodus watching Moses threaten Pharaoh with enough plagues to make him let Moses’ people go. Oh sure, there are those who would deny what is happening and say that this is just another blip in Earth’s history, but a “blip” is probably a few billion years and I’m not so sure we’re likely to survive this one.

I sound grouchy, don’t I? I try not to be, but it’s hard these days. You know things are getting worse and worse when there’s more “news” coverage of Taylor and Travis than there is about climate change or creeping fascism. Now that I think of it, IMHO, fascism isn’t creeping anymore; it’s running amok!

Summer’s end may be only a change of seasons, but if there’s one thing we know, for sure, it’s that the only constant is change. Perhaps to take our minds off all this sturm und drang, some friends of mine started an email discussion about who were the five best Presidents in American history. There was unanimous agreement on Washington, Lincoln, and Franklin Roosevelt, a bit less on several others: Grant, Truman, Jefferson, and Johnson (Lyndon not Andrew). I proposed Mr. Obama, and when he didn’t get anyone else’s vote, I pouted a bit, then decided to stir the pot by changing the game to the five worst Presidents in our history. Andrew Jackson, Franklin Pearce, Chester A. Arthur, and one of the Harrisons (I’m not sure which one) made the list, along with one other…

So long, summer.

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.

On Saturday evening, ten good friends gathered at a friend’s farm for dinner. The weather was spectacular—cool and dry with just a hint of autumn in the air—and the soft light spilling across the fields was nothing short of divine. The hosts were their usual generous selves, but of course we all brought something to share: a bottle (or two) of wine, some crazy-good fig appetizers, crab dip, a baguette, mixed nuts. Andy brought a nosegay of flowers—pastel shades of blush and purple with just enough white for contrast—that she bought earlier in the day at the farmers market. We oohed and aahed, but no one knew what kind of flowers they were. I thought they looked like docile thistles, if there is such a thing. But no one knew exactly what they were so we did what one does these days and asked Siri. We sent her a picture, and she responded right away: “Those are globe amaranths, dummy.” Asked and answered.

Well, not quite. There was a bit more research to do. Turns out that Globe Amaranths (Gomphrena globosa) is a heat-loving annual flower native to Central America, known for its showy clover-like blossoms that bloom continuously through summer until the first frost. (Wait; there is frost in Central America? But I digress…) The plant is valued by gardeners because it’s easy to grow, drought-tolerant, and attractive to pollinators. They thrive in full sun, adapt to most types of soil, are disease and pest resistant, and don’t require much fertilization. Best of all, if you cut the blooms for display on your table, you’ll encourage more growth. What’s not to like?

That got me to thinking: I’d like to be a globe amaranth: I’m easy to grow (especially in girth), drought-tolerant (have I told you about “Wineless Wednesdays”?), and attractive to pollinators, or at least to one certain little pollinator who shall remain nameless. I thrive in full sun, I think I’m pretty adaptive. So far I’ve been disease-resistant (knock on wood!), and require only minimal fertilization, preferably in the form of rosé wine. OK, so maybe you can’t cut me and put me on your dining room table, but otherwise, you can encourage a lot of new growth in me with minimal effort. Just give me a good book and I’m off to the races.

I wish life were that simple, but, of course, it isn’t. Human beings are a lot more complicated than a posy of globe amaranths. Many of us require a lot more pruning, better soil, perfect growing conditions, and a lot more fertilization. Now I realize that anthropomorphism is the attribution of human form, identity, character, or attributes to non-human entities. Even though it’s considered to be an innate tendency of human psychology, I think it’s relatively harmless, even if it’s a little self-centered. Think about it: maybe a globe amaranth blossom is perfectly content to be a flower; after all, why would it want to put up with all our human nonsense when it can thrive all on its own?

And remember this: globe amaranths come from Central America. Walls don’t seem to impede their spread or diminish their beauty. Thank goodness!

I’ll be right back.

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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.

My friend the Dockmaster is descended from a long line of skilled Swedish woodworkers and furniture makers. He, however, became an electrical engineer, but continues to practice the considerable skills imparted to him by his ancestors and his neighbors in a small town in Upstate New York. One neighbor in particular, the grandfather of a boyhood friend, was a man named Gottlieb (Swedish for “Beloved by God”) Peterson, a highly skilled woodworker, particularly adept in the art of pattern making. (A pattern maker creates exact wooden replicas of metal parts and gears needed for large machines. The patterns are used to make impressions in special casting sand; molten metal is then poured into the open impression to make the actual part.)  Although he probably didn’t realize it at the time, old Mr. Peterson had a profound effect on the arc of my friend’s life.

Is this going somewhere? Be patient!

Mr. Peterson believed in the importance of doing any task to the best of one’s ability. To that end, he kept a poster on the wall of his pattern-making shop listing “Twelve Things to Remember.” (These twelve “things”—or so the story goes—were originally attributed to Marshall Field of Chicago department store fame in 1889.)  Years later, when my friend Dockmaster had an office of his own, he kept a copy of Mr. Peterson’s “twelve things” on his wall—maybe as a remembrance, maybe as a guide. Dockmaster recently showed me a copy of those long-ago “things” and I was gobsmacked. They are as true today as they were then, and so now, I want to share them with you. Here goes:

1. The Value of Time.
2. The Success of Perseverance.
3. The Dignity of Working.
4. The Pleasure of Simplicity.
5. The Worth of Character.
6. The Power of Kindness.
7. The Influence of Example.
8. The Obligation of Duty.
9. The Wisdom of Economy.
10. The Virtue of Patience.
11. The Improvement of Talent.
12. The Joy of Originating.

Now read the list again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if each of us could practice all these skills, or even a modicum of some of these skills? What a better world we could create! What better people we would become!

We live in an age that seems to have devalued, or even erased most, if not all, of the items on Mr. Peterson’s list. We  power through our days, addicted to our devices, mesmerized by technology, dazzled by gold. Far too many of us live in a culture of excess that disregards all ethical considerations. We’re insensitive to all the beauty and diversity that surrounds us. Empathy, kindness, and respect have been marginalized. We’ve even swallowed Gordon Gekko’s “Greed is good!” repast, and now far too many of us believe that greed is not only good, but also necessary for progress and prosperity. (We’re even willing to overlook the fact that the “Greed is Good” philosophy was first espoused by Ivan Boesky, a notorious Wall Street inside trader!) Now, Mr. Gekko’s warped vision has been hammered into the platform of a once-great political party that currently controls two—maybe even three—branches of our government. How desperately sad!

I had dinner last night with three good friends, and I asked them how should we resist all the current abuses of power taking that are taking place in America every day. What pattern could we make to create the right tool for the job? None of my friends had a good answer, nor do I. So, I went home and reread Mr. Peterson’s (or Mr. Field’s) list, trying hard to believe we’re still capable of remembering what is good, true, and timeless. We can do better.

Can’t we?

I’ll be right back.

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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.

We had house guests over weekend, and although the guests were family, that nevertheless meant there were lots of pre- and post-visit chores on my “to do” list. Like mowing the lawn, watering the garden, helping to clean the house, overseeing the process of touching up the porch furniture with a little fresh paint, borrowing a pickup truck, unloading, and spreading 1,500 pounds of pea gravel along the side of the house (albeit with help from two angelic neighbors who took pity on my wife and me and came by with shovel and rake), watching said wife slice three cantaloupes and two dozen tomatoes while baking banana bread and cooking scrapple, picking crabs, buying beer, setting up tables for an afternoon garden party, and shucking corn. Four dozen ears of corn.

Of all those chores—and all the others on life’s “to do” list—I have to say that shucking corn is one of the better ones. Hamlet would have understood this: there is something inherently satisfying about shuffling the soul of an ear of corn from its mortal coil, freeing it from the chaos and confusion of human existence, releasing it from its earthly burden. All the beauty and goodness of an ear of corn is inside its ungainly husk, so one has to shuck it to truly bring it to life, and as the primary shucker this past weekend, I was the one designated by my little general to do the shuffling that freed all forty-eight ears of corn from their silky green mortal coil.

There is immense satisfaction in shucking corn. It can be conversational or silent. It can be done on the porch while greeting the day and the passers-by with a smile and a “Good morning!” It’s systematic: grab a husked ear from the sack, remove the tassel, strip the leaves and brush off the silk. Now build another stack, a yellow and white pyramid that one of Pharaoh’s architects would stop to admire. And all this is but a prelude to the crescendo when a steaming platter hits the table and the fun really begins. Please pass the butter and salt.

I like to find the deeper meaning inherent in mundane chores, and shucking corn provided me with a lot of good food for thought. An unshucked ear of corn is a clumsy nuisance, but once all those lovely kernels are released to the light, all their hidden beauty and goodness is made manifest. Once an ear of corn is shucked and freed from this mortal coil, it is resurrected into something glorious to be consumed and enjoyed, all part of the celestial cycle of life.

Which leads to this: over the weekend, we lost two good men. I want to name them here: Bernie Goodrich and Taylor Buckley. Both were aged and had lived good, full lives, and at the end, they both passed peacefully, surrounded by those who loved them. I will remember each  of them fondly. They are each now rid of their mortal coil, free to dream of what may come, “to be or not to be.” 

I’ll be right back.

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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.

Who doesn’t like surprises? Well, pleasant surprises, anyway. As a noun, a surprise is just something unexpected or astonishing, like a crocodile in the swimming pool. As a verb, surprise might cause someone to feel mild astonishment or shock, as in “I was surprised there was a crocodile in the swimming pool.” Don’t worry; I survived to tell this tale…

One of the most wonderful elements of life on the Eastern Shore is that it’s full of surprises. For example, we’ve had several consecutive days of sweltering weather, then—surprise!—all of a sudden, a cool front reared its welcome head, and life as we knew it could resume on the porch just in time for a gathering of friends on the First Friday of August. That was a very sweet surprise indeed, all the more so because it came just in time to make our monthly party a more comfortable and fun event. 

Sometimes, I am beyond surprised; I’m flabbergasted. For example, I like to think my vocabulary is pretty extensive, but then I encounter a new word and I’m surprised, amazed, flabbergasted. This week’s new word was “bildungsroman.” (Raise your hand if you know it.) A bildungsroman is a novel dealing with a person’s formative years or spiritual awakening—a coming of age story. Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations” is a classic example of a bildungsroman. In it, an orphan boy named Pip navigates the complexities of social class and personal growth in 19th Century England. A hundred years later, J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” introduced my generation to another poster boy for bildungsroman: Holden Caulfield. Holden’s coming of age story had just enough sensationalism thrown in to keep us awake in English class: every copy of the book I ever saw fell open to the page when Holden encounters the prostitute. That nothing happens is almost superfluous; the word “prostitute” was enough to make each of us fantasize about our own personal bildungsroman.

I have come to the conclusion that there is no proscribed schedule for an individual’s bildungsroman. We tend to think of that time of life as roughly equivalent to adolescence, but experience has taught me otherwise. One can come of age at almost anytime. Sooner is probably better than later, but later is better than never. I have known a few people who have never come of age and they strike me as somewhat lost at sea. 

We know that coming of age can be painful, but it’s as much a part of the cycle of life as birth and death. I’ve mulled over my own bildungsroman countless times, and have come to another conclusion: that my own coming of age began sometime in my mid-forties when I signed on to be a college counselor, teacher, and coach at an all-boys school in the Washington suburbs. It was a demanding crucible at times, but when I retired after twenty-two years of coming of age, I felt I was on the other side of my life. The better side.

But here’s the rub: having finally come of age, I’m now much more painfully aware of the gallop of time. I wish there were more of it. Having lived through my own bildungsroman, I feel I deserve a few more years of relative wisdom. But surprise! There’s a crocodile in the pool, and just like the one in “Peter Pan”—the bildungsroman of a boy who never came of age—this crocodile has swallowed a clock. Tick, tock…..

 

I’ll be right back.

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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.

Long ago, in Arthurian times, Avalon was a mist-shrouded island, a place of healing and magic where Arthur’s sword Excalibur was created and where the great king was taken to recover from the grave wounds he suffered at the Battle of Camlaan. It is as much a symbol of Arthurian mythology as Camelot or Merlin or Lancelot and all the other knights of the Round Table. There are even those who still believe Arthur never truly died, but will someday return in splendor—Britain’s eternal monarch, its “once and future king.”

Today, Avalon’s precise location is well known, although a bit more mundane. It’s on a barrier island just off Exit 13 of the Garden State Parkway. I know this because that’s where I am this morning, visiting friends who annually vacation on this seven-mile long island that stretches from Stone Harbor to the eponymous town of Avalon, New Jersey. I haven’t encountered Arthur yet, but I’m on the lookout.

My wife loves the beach. Any beach. She can sit for hours with her toes in the sand, chatting with her friends or family. I don’t how she does it. I run out of words in a matter of minutes, but am perfectly content to watch the waves and the human beach scene while keeping an eye out for someone—anyone!—vaguely regal.

This is the first time I’ve been to this little corner of the world, the “Jersey Shore.” We’re more Delaware Beach people. The two seasides are similar, but there are subtle differences: this Jersey beach seems wider, the bordering dunes higher, and the houses newer. In fact, every house here looks brand new, as though some precocious kid has been playing with an infinite set of Lego’s and decided to build an entire beach town over night. There are no shanties here, only palaces worthy of a once-and-future king.

Trust me: I’m not complaining. In fact, just the opposite. Yesterday, I had to run into town for some essential supplies I forgot to pack, and all the shops were open and there were parking spaces galore. That never happens in Rehoboth except on Christmas Day when I don’t need to buy a t-shirt. 

Anyway, our specie’s summer obsession with the beach must have its roots not in legend, but in some atavistic craving having to do with our single-cell ancestors who emerged out the primordial muck eons ago. I am a confirmed Darwinian, but it still boggles my mind how some creature crawled out of the surf with legs and lungs, spawning all this wondrous diversity that is life as we know it today. Just think about it: how could a rhinoceros and a butterfly have a common ancestor unless Avalon was, and still is, such a magical place.

“Avalon” derives from a Welsh word that relates to fruit trees, specifically to apple trees. Hence, Arthur’s Avalon might once have been an island of apple trees. There is no concrete evidence of this, but it’s not a long leap from that etymology to the Garden of Eden, another fabulous location shrouded in legend and the mists of time. As far as I know, there were no snakes on Arthur’s Avalon and I doubt there are any on this bustling island, but you never know. For now, I’m content to sit on Avalon’s wide, sandy beach, watching and waiting for the return of our own once-and-future king.

Well, maybe not a king.

I’ll be right back.

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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.

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.

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 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.