Jamie Kirkpatrick - Cambridge Spy

The Dreamcatcher Part Three: Dreamcatcher, Inc. By Jamie Kirkpatrick

September 17, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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(Author’s Note: This is the third chapter of “The Dreamcatcher,” a serial story in this space. If you missed a previous chapter, it’s available on my website: musingjamie.net)

When he was still a student at Haddon, Tatu felt something brewing inside his brain, something akin to herbal tea, but he was never quite able to put his finger on what that something was. However, within a month of arriving at Clark University, Tatu had not only discovered what that something was, but he also began to discern how to realize it, how to make, as it were, his personal dream come true.

And therein lay a great irony, for what had been lurking in Tatu’s mind for several years now was a Dreamcatcher. We all know the feeling: asleep, we enter a world where anything is possible, where random events and people emerge out of our subconscious past to sweep us up into some grand scheme or some devastating pitfall. But upon waking, it all fades away, leaving, if we’re lucky, only an ephemeral footprint which unsettles us throughout the following day. If only there were a way to capture our dreams so we could watch them again and again until were we were able to decipher their true meaning, their deeper message. In a word: a Dreamcatcher!

And so Tatu set out to invent just such a gizmo. And guess what! Within six months, he had a prototype: a nightcap that looked something like a ski hat with ear flaps that covered the temporal lobe of his brain. Made of a soft, plush material and infused with filaments and electrodes that could capture images produced by synapses deep within his brain, as well as the additional images produced by the rapid eye movements of deep sleep, Tatu’s first Dreamcatcher was able to capture and record his dreams as they occurred. Moreover, it was able to download those dreams to an App on Tatu’s bedside smartphone so that in the morning, he could push the play button and watch his dreams in all their glorious and disjointed detail. Then, in a move of marketing genius, Tatu decided a simple smartphone app would be free with the purchase of a Dreamcatcher headset ($999), but for an additional subscription fee, the Dreamcatcher app could be upgraded so that any sleeper’s dream could be forwarded to any therapist anywhere in the world for instant analysis. Therapists would have to pay a modest subscription fee to Dreamcatcher, Inc., but the return on that investment would be make it more than worthwhile.

All Tatu needed was some start-up capital. With the help of Clark’s Alumni Affairs Office, Tatu reached out to a few potential investors who were not only intrigued by the idea, but were also willing to invest the necessary funds for a reasonable return or a small stake in Tatu’s company, “Dreamcatcher, Inc.” With their seed money in hand, Tatu was off to the races. By the middle of his sophomore year at Clark, he had dropped out of school and was negotiating for production facilities in Taiwan, South Korea, Vancouver, and, in a nod to his Goan ancestors, an off-shore distribution center in the Azores that would service both the lucrative European and African markets.

Word of Dreamcatcher, Inc. quickly reached Hollywood, and Tatu was asked if he would like to pitch his idea to a group of potential investors with very deep pockets on Shark Tank. He agreed. A few months later, he made his pitch, describing his product, his manufacturing costs, his business and marketing plans, and his projected earnings. He even revealed his new company’s logo: a stylized image of a spider web. The chum was officially in the water, and the sharks acted as sharks do—they went into a frenzy. One shark offered Tatu a billion dollars for 51% of Dreamcatcher, Inc., at which point Tatu laughed and walked off the set.

A few weeks later, 60 Minutes aired a segment on Tatu’s Dreamcatcher. It included a lengthy interview with Tatu who, although admittedly a tad quirky, came across as a charming entrepreneur with an admirable social conscience. Soon thereafter, Dreamcatcher, Inc. went public and its stock soared like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Within a few years, little Tatu DeSouza, the boy whose classmates once called Clam, was as rich as Bill Gates, Elon Musk, and even Jeff Bezos. People all over he world were buying the Dreamcatcher; Tatu’s production facilities found it hard to keep up with demand. Moreover, Tatu’s tech people were almost overwhelmed: not only did everybody want the hardware that would record their nighttime ramblings, but they also wanted the upgraded software package that would enable them to share their dreams with anyone, anywhere, who might be interested.

Within a few months, the world seemed to become a kinder, gentler place, all thanks to Tatu’s plush little sleep hat, the sophisticated software that accompanied it, and the variety and vividness of the dreams they revealed. Within a few years, the human subconscious was rendered conscious, and the lingering shadows of our common psychoses gave way to dappled sunlight.

And what of Tatu’s parents, Solomon and Hyacinth? They did what all parents do: they basked in their son’s glory, for they had never doubted, not even for a second, that all his dreams (and theirs) would come true.

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 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.

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

The Dreamcatcher, Chapter Two: “Haddon” By Jamie Kirkpatrick

September 10, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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(Author’s Note: This is the second chapter of “The Dreamcatcher,” a serial story in this space.)

By the time the newly-minted Dr. Solomon DeSouza accepted a position in cyber security with the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, and his wife, Mrs. Hyacinth DeSouza, reported to her new job at the Department of Education in downtown Washington, DC, the family had moved to a small rambler in Silver Spring, Maryland, an appropriately diverse enclave accessible to both parental postings.

Little Tatu had just turned eleven and was preparing to enter fifth grade. His parents decided to enroll him at Haddon, a well-respected, all-boys school in the adjacent suburb of Bethesda. Coming from the relative freedom and independence of the Montessori method, the transition to the academic discipline and social mores of Haddon was not easy for Tatu. Moreover, Haddon boys were interested in sports almost to a fault, while Tatu was anything but athletic. In the fall, he tried soccer, but his large, black-rimmed glasses came home broken—twice. In winter, he attempted to dribble a basketball but couldn’t manage more than a bounce or two before losing control to gravity. In spring, Tatu’s parents bought him a tennis racket in hopes he might make new friends on the court. But the ball never seemed to find the strings of Tatu’s racket, and by the end of the first week of spring sports, Tatu was a spectator, not a participant, sitting and studying on the sidelines.

That was when the teasing began in earnest. As his parents ascended their respective professional ladders, Tatu descended his social staircase. One of the more popular boys in his class decided Tatu was a stupid name, and that his classmate’s real name was Ragu, as in the spaghetti sauce. From that moment on, his classmates rechristened him ‘Ragu,’ which soon morphed into ‘Clam,’ which was the acronym for Ragu’s advertising jingle, “Cook Like A Mother.” Tatu at home, Clam at school.

A lesser spirit might have withered on Haddon’s thorny social vine, but all the taunts and teasing never seemed to penetrate Tatu’s sense of self. During recess or after school, he retreated to the library and, using his Montessori skills, began to reach for the stars in what was becoming to be known in academic circles as STEM: Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math. To relax, he played Sudoku. By the end of fifth grade, he was doing algebra. In the summer between fifth and sixth grade, he conquered geometry. By the time he graduated from Middle School, Tatu was versant in multivariable calculus. The mathematical world and its STEM shoreline was his proverbial oyster.

This might seem like a pathway to scholarly success, but a single lane is hardly a highway. Tatu had very little interest in his other required subjects: his foreign language class (Spanish) bored him; American History made him somnambulant; and his Upper School English classes tortured him with their aphorisms and ambiguities. Haddon prided itself on developing men of character who could think and write as well as wrestle and play lacrosse, but Tatu adamantly stayed in his own STEM lane. That he was a social orphan never seemed to bother him, nor did he bring any apparent social malaise home from school.

As a result, Solomon and Hyacinth were oblivious to Tatu’s situation. Absorbed in their own jobs and used to Tatu’s closed bedroom door, they focused all their attention on their careers up until the day when Tatu, midway through his junior year in Haddon’s Upper School, came home and announced that his college counselor wanted to schedule a family meeting to discuss Tatu’s college aspirations. Solomon and Hyacinth immediately saw an opportunity to ascend another rung on the ladder of the American dream and threw themselves into high gear. They did their research and then, with Tatu in tow, they went off to meet with Haddon’s college counselor, a seasoned veteran of the college admissions wars. Solomon and Hyacinth expressed their desire—more, their expectation—that Tatu attend an Ivy league institution. The counselor listened patiently, then diplomatically pointed out that while Tatu did indeed excel in STEM-related subjects such as math, computer science, and robotics, his overall GPA put him somewhere in the fifth decile of his class, well below the standard of what any Ivy League institution would deem acceptable for admission. Moreover, the counselor said, Tatu did not have any meaningful extracurricular activities, nor was his college essay—his Personal Statement, the counselor called it—likely to impress an admissions officer. “Aim a bit lower,” he suggested.

As a result, for reasons neither Solomon nor Hyacinth could quite fathom, the counselor strongly recommended adding a few what he called “foundation schools” to the list of schools to which Tatu should apply. That neither Solomon nor Hyacinth had never heard of any of these schools made for a rather ticklish meeting, but in the end, they agreed that in addition to Harvard, Yale, Brown, Princeton, and Cornell, Tatu would also submit applications to Stanford, the University of Chicago, the University of Illinois at Champagne-Urbana (“Our alma mater!” Solomon proudly told the counselor), the University of Michigan, and someplace called Clark, a well-regarded private research institution located in Worcester, Massachusetts, which, the counselor assured them, had world-class STEM programs. Tatu remained silent throughout the meeting.

Now you shouldn’t be surprised to learn that midway through the following year, Tatu was rejected at Harvard, Yale, Brown, Princeton, and Cornell. He was also denied at Stanford, the University of Chicago, and the University of Michigan. Perhaps because both his parents had once attended the University of Illinois, Tatu made it to the Wait List there, but that was as far as he got. Thankfully, he was accepted at Clark. Haddon’s college counselor breathed a sign of relief. Hyacinth and Solomon were disappointed, but a generous scholarship from Clark helped to soften the blow.

I’ll be right back….

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

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

The Dreamcatcher: Chapter One

September 3, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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Author’s Note: For the next few weeks, I will be unraveling a serial story in this space.)

Chapter One: “Coconuts”

Tatu DeSouza’s marvelous story begins in India, in Goa, to be precise, a place where (or so it is said) when a coconut falls, it is sure to hit a DeSouza on the head. (You see, DeSouzas are everywhere in Goa; they are the Smiths or the Jones of Goa.) However, in this case, the DeSouza that got hit on the head was Solomon DeSouza, Tatu’s father-to-be. And it was not a coconut that hit him that day. Rather, it was the sight of another DeSouza, Hyacinth DeSouza (no relation), a diminutive girl ten years younger than Solomon who was walking along the beach collecting sea shells.

How is it possible, you might ask, that someone from India, a Goan at that, would be named Solomon, or, for that matter, Hyacinth? Shouldn’t he or she be named Dinesh or Aisha, Rohan or Veda, Muhammad or Maryam even. True enough, but Goa is a breed apart. The Portuguese arrived in Goa in the 16th Century, and it was Portuguese missionaries who implanted Catholicism on its white sandy shores, and so, to this day, the coconuts that fall from the palm trees not only are likely to hit a DeSouza, but also a practicing Catholic. Such is life.

But back to Solomon and Hyacinth. Within just a few weeks of Solomon’s first glimpse of Hyacinth, a marital contract had been negotiated, a dowery had been proposed and accepted, and the local priest had been engaged to perform his priestly duty. He did so with such aplomb that, despite the not-insignificant difference in their ages, the new husband and wife did what new husband and wives do, and within a year, Tatu was born.

His name at birth, of course, was not Tatu. That came later when Tatu, né Caleb, was a two-year old living in Urbana, Illinois and just beginning to speak his first words of English. On one of his first attempts to say “thank you,” the words sounded more like “tatu” which made both Hyacinth and Solomon laugh out loud. Seeing his parents laugh, Caleb repeated “Tatu,” and from that moment on, his parents called him Tatu. It was a spontaneous and happy christening.

But wait: how did Solomon, Hyacinth, and baby Tatu come to be in Urbana, Illinois? Whatever happened to Goa? Simple. Both Solomon and Hyacinth had aspirations that went well beyond palm trees and coconuts. Solomon was a gifted mathematician and Hyacinth had dreams of becoming a teacher, in fact, a special education teacher. And so, Solomon and Hyacinth applied to several universities in the United States, and when the University of Illinois at Champagne-Urbana accepted Solomon into its doctoral program with funding, husband and wife obtained student visas and, with little Tatu, set sail for America.

Upon arrival, Solomon threw himself into his studies of logarithms and algorithms while Hyacinth tended to the baby. That arrangement worked for a few months until Hyacinth became restive, at which point, she found a nearby Montessori school for Tatu. Once Tatu was enrolled, Hyacinth applied to the University as an undergraduate. (You might think Solomon would have objected to this new arrangement, but to his credit, he did not. In fact, he supported his wife’s ambitions if only because in his mind, another university degree would only serve to shinny his little family higher and quicker up the flagpole of the American dream.)

For the next three years, all three DeSouzas applied themselves to their education. Solomon wrote his dissertation on the intersection of mathematics and national security. Hyacinth submitted an honors thesis entitled “Brave in the Attempt; The Impact of the Special Olympics Movement on Special Education” which earned her a Magna Cum Laude degree. And Tatu? He went about becoming a typical American boy.

Goa was quickly receding in the DeSouza’s collective rearview mirror.

I’ll be right back…

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

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

Rumspringa By Jamie Kirkpatrick

August 27, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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I’ve bumped into a word and a concept I previously knew nothing about: rumspringa. It’s an Amish word and concept that refers to a time in the life of Amish teenagers in which they face fewer restrictions on their behavior and are less subject to the Ordnung—the community norms that traditionally govern Amish life. In essence, rumspringa permits Amish adolescents to taste English ways and gives them the opportunity to choose the lifestyle they wish to adopt as adults.

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll be right back.

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

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

Thin Ice

August 20, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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Last week, my beloved, aka the LG (Little General), took a tumble on the stairs. I was upstairs at the time but when I heard a little YELP and a big THUMP, I ran down to find her on the floor in considerable pain. Our staircase is narrow and makes a sharp turn about halfway down (just below or above the burglar step, but that’s another story), so it’s easy enough to slip. And slip she did.

You realize that neither she nor I are doctors, but we both play one on TV. Our initial diagnosis was that she had pulled a muscle or worse, wrenched her back. She gingerly made her way back upstairs and we went to bed. But by morning, the pain was sharper; “it feels like it’s burning,” she said. To be safe, we headed to the Emergency Room at our local hospital where a team of skilled health care professionals listened to her story, checked her vitals, and gave her a CT Scan. Good thing they did: they found an L2 transverse process fracture. That was the bad news; the (relatively) good news was her injury did not require surgery. She just needed a few prescription meds and some rest, but otherwise, Mother Nature will provide relief in her own good time, about 6 weeks. I gulped.

Since that day, my wife has been making great progress. Each day, she moves a little better, does a little more. Sitting still does not come naturally to her, but she’s being a good, albeit reluctant, patient. As is her wont, she went straight to Amazon and ordered a claw, one of those handy contraptions that picks up anything one drops on the floor so one doesn’t have to bend over to retrieve it. She lets me help with all the little movements we all take for granted, like adjusting the shower head or settling into bed at night. She even lets me make our meals and to be a nudge about taking her medications! All this is good for me: I’m learning to be a responsible care-giver, a skill that admittedly does not come naturally to me. We’re each doing the best we can, and in the end, isn’t that what marriage is all about?

But here’s the rub or better, maybe the window that has opened in the aftermath of her tumble: we’re reminded that neither of us is as young nor as spry as we used to be. What if she had fallen an inch or two to the left or right and done worse harm to her spine? What if I were to take a spill and injure myself to the degree that I couldn’t go up or down our steep stairs. All of a sudden, we’ve arrived on the doorstep of that age when we need to consider a different lifestyle, one centered on a first-floor owner’s suite. We love our little historic home, but it’s quirky and very vertical and we’re close to being beyond quirky and vertical. We’re on thin ice.

Assisted living may be the right option for some folk, but I don’t think it’s for us. We’d rather age-in-place with all that entails. (For us, that would include an easement from the Maryland Historic Trust so we could put an addition on the back of our home.) Whatever the solution, the future that once seemed far-away has suddenly become much closer to home. Literally.

When I came downstairs that night and found my wife in pain on the floor, I didn’t consider her, or myself for that matter, lucky. Now, a few days out from that scary moment, I’ve come to the conclusion that this accident was a shot across our marital bow. We’ll figure it out, but the grandfather clock that once ticked slowly in the corner, just got a lot louder.

I’ll be right back.

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

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

Time Flown By Jamie Kirkpatrick

August 13, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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According to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, time is not constant; it is, in fact, relative to the speed of light. In other words, the passage of time depends on the reference frame of the observer. If, say, you are moving faster than the speed of light and I am moving slower than the speed of light (which I must certainly do!), time will pass faster for you, slower for me. At least I think that’s relativity in a nutshell. If I’m off by a second or two, I’m sure some physicist reading this will correct me. (Right, Bob?)

Beach Week 2024 is over. It does seem to fly by, although less so for me, perhaps. To paraphrase Julius Caesar, “I came, I saw, I survived.” It was touch and go for a while, like the time I was designated “elderly” by a certain Bonepicker who shall remain nameless, and therefore eligible for a higher beach chair than the low riders favored by the cool members of the younger generations. OK, so I am older; I admit it. But mock me at your own peril; my memory is still razor sharp, and someday, young pups, this old dog just may bite you back.

And then there was Debby. As Hurricanes or Tropical Storms go, Debby didn’t pose as much of a problem as we had feared. She graciously veered to the west, giving us merely a glancing blow. (Others were not so fortunate; there is not an ounce of schadenfreude in me.) To be honest, I was glad to have a day off from the beach; my skin was already turning to leather and I had just fallen in love with a new book: Charles Frazier’s new novel “Varina.” It’s an account of the the last days of the Civil War, as told by Varina Davis, Jefferson Davis’ wife. Frazier is a sumptuous writer. I first encountered him in “Cold Mountain” several years ago. A subsequent novel didn’t rise to that occasion, but not only does this one satisfy, it’s also a feast of words, metaphors, and ideas. Anyway, some delightful couch reading with the Olympics in the background was just what the doctor ordered for our one rainy day. But never fear: the next day, the surf was up and we were back on the beach, albeit with our numbers somewhat reduced from 34 to 24.

If our days were spent on the beach, our nights were devoted to Valkyrien feasting. At least for the adults; the kids needed nothing more than chicken nuggets and tater tots with an occasional dollop of mac-and-cheese. The adult fare, however, was much more epicurean and substantial; crab cakes one night, lobster tails another night, sushi yet another. OK; on our last night maybe we did just order a couple of pizzas, but you know what? They hit the spot, too.

The house we rented didn’t make a great first impression, but first impressions are often inaccurate. Most of the chaos stayed on the second floor near the ping-pong table, while the third floor offered a reasonably quiet breakfast nook and plenty of room to play games or watch the Olympics. Thankfully, there was an elevator for the elderly among us; I can’t imagine how we would have moved in or moved out without it.

But back to time and its quirky relativity. Already, there is talk of what will happen fifty-one weeks hence. Some say they may plan a different adventure for next year; others cry, “Heresy!” Elderly me? Since I’m slower than the speed of light, I’ll just wait and see.

I’ll be right back.

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

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

That Time of Year By Jamie Kirkpatrick

August 6, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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Geese know when it’s time to migrate and exactly how to navigate along the flyways to their proscribed destinations. Osprey know this, too. Nomads move their flocks with the seasons and where to find water in the midst of a vast desert. Our tribe? If it’s the first week of August, we pack up and move the family show to Rehoboth.

It’s that time of year: we’re off on our annual family gathering at the beach. Our numbers are a tad down this year: there are only 34 of us spread out over just 3 houses. Miraculously, there are an even number of kids and adults on this year’s roster, so we’ll be playing man-on-man, not zone, defense. Looking ahead, the only problem I foresee is that the long-range forecast doesn’t look all that promising. Rainy days and family beach week don’t mix. Beach Week can turn into Camp Catastrophe in a rainy day heartbeat.

Which leads me to this: “Beach Week” is a gross misnomer. It’s more like “Beach Month’ given all the planning and packing that goes into keeping everyone fed, hydrated, and entertained, rain or shine. For the past few weeks, items going to the beach have been growing like weeds throughout our house: clothes and bathing suits and beach cover-ups (you-know-who needs a different outfit for each day!), ice chests and groceries, toys and games for the kids, soda, beer and wine for the grownups, beach chairs and bicycles and pumps and helmets, even fly swatters and a couple of battery-powered fans—you name it and we’re taking it. Somehow everything will get crammed into one of our two cars (note the plural) prior to takeoff. I cringe: we look like the Beverly Hillbillies except we’re not motoring down Rodeo Drive, waving to the stunned locals; we’re stuck in traffic on Route 1. I hide behind my sunglasses.

Moving in to our home-away-from-home is the first order of business. Load, carry, drop, and repeat. Stock the fridge. Get ice. Make the beds. Put clothes away. Get more ice. Order sushi. Has anyone seen the baby? And it’s only Day One…

If the weather cooperates, Days two, three, four, five, and six will all begin and end on the beach. Umbrellas and chairs are set up, sometimes in rows, sometimes in a huge horseshoe or even a giant powwow circles depending on the time and tide. Beach wagons loaded with buckets and shovels are hauled across the blazing hot sand by strong dads; coolers full of drinks and snacks are stashed in the shade. Games—volleyball and Can-Jam—are unpacked and set up; NBC should cover this because the Paris Olympians pale in comparison to our own young beach athletes. As for Day Seven—well, we don’t talk about Day Seven, our last day. It lurks just offshore like a giant white shark.

But what if the weather doesn’t cooperate? That’s when all the years of training and planning and practicing pay off. Board games, card games, jigsaw puzzles, arts and craft projects, indoor bowling, (did I just say INDOOR BOWLING??), pizza or ice cream making…believe me, rainy days at the beach are not for the faint of heart! Now if you were to provide me with a good book and some peas-and-carrots, my rainy day would pass quicker than an afternoon nap. But alas; that’s in another universe, not this one.

All three generations of this boisterous family thrive on Beach Week; they spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year either reliving this year’s adventure or planning the next one. Well, all but one. Me? I just apply more sunscreen, hold my breath, and hang on tight. I think about all those geese up in the far-off tundra fields of Canada preparing to head south in another month or two. It’ll be a long flight, but geese know how to travel light. Sigh…

I’ll be right back.

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

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

Cheers! By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 30, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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Remember this: “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name”? Back in the day, Thursday night was sacred. No matter where I was, I went to Boston, to that little step-down watering hole named “Cheers” where everybody—Sam, Coach, Woody, Carla, Norm, Cliff, Frasier, Rebecca, and Diane—not only knew each other’s names, but everybody else’s, too. Alas; NBC shuttered “Cheers” on May 20, 1993; it’s probably still serving beers in reruns somewhere, but it’s just not the same…

These days, there are a lot of real and lively watering holes here in town: Zelda’s, The Retriever, Bad Alfred’s, The Blue Bird, Casa Carmen, to name just a few. But for me, my first stop on any given Thursday night is always The Kitchen at the Imperial, a bar and restaurant owned and operated by an award-winning chef and local hero—my pal, Steve Quigg. Not only does he know my name, but so do the sous-chef (Tori), the bartender (Rob), and many of the servers (Chrissy, Grace, et.al), too. Feels like home.

More than a dozen years ago, some of my local friends began a weekly tradition called Martini Night. Only a few of the original stalwarts still drink martinis these days, so now we order whatever strikes our fancy. Perhaps in honor of “Cheers,” the weekly gathering always takes place on Thursday at The Kitchen when we gossip, swap stories, laugh—all the usual Cheers-like banter. Over the years, not only has Martini Night survived a pandemic, but we’ve learned to tiptoe around most of the current political chasms. In summer, we sit gather curbside under the awnings, while in winter, we sit side-by-side along the cozy bar. Sometimes, it’s just a one-and-done drink, but Martini Night has also been known to morph into a second or third round with an appetizer of bartender trivia and dinner to follow. There are no rules; whatever you want is just right.

So, you might ask: is this going somewhere, or am I just trying to drum up some business for my friend’s bar and restaurant? Maybe it’s a little of both. With regard to the former, it’s certainly a hymn (or maybe just a little ditty) in praise of friendship and inclusivity. With regard to the latter, consider this to be an open invitation to come check us out. As the “Cheers” theme song asked, “Wouldn’t you like to get away?”

You see, towns like ours are built on relationships, on friendship. People know each other. For better or for worse, not much flies under the radar here. We may get some of the details of any given story wrong, but in the clearer light of Friday morning, the truth, or something closely resembling it, usually comes creeping in under the door. At the very least, Thursday’s gaggle is harmless socializing that keeps us out of trouble. Most of the time.

I’ll be the first to admit that there is an occasional fly in the Martini Night ointment. On a few occasions, Friday morning seems to come a little earlier than expected, but over the years, I’ve learned to avoid that particular pitfall. Most of the time.

“Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got. Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot.” During these hectic and highly polarized days, we all need a safe place to go where everybody knows our name. Not one of our labels, mind you, just our names.

So see you there. You’ll be glad you came.

Cheers!

I’ll be right back.

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

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The Road to Megiddo by Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 16, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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A few years ago—three to be exact—I mused in this space about Chiaroscuro, the artistic technique that makes strong use of the contrast between light and dark. It’s a visibly arresting technique that impacts not just a particular object in a scene, but the entire composition of a canvas, often giving a painting or a photograph focus a sense of volume—three dimensions on a two-dimensional surface. Leonardo da Vinci, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio were all masters of the chiaroscuro technique; so, too, were Reubens, Velásquez, Vermeer, and many others. Their use of harsh, dramatic light served to isolate the subjects of their paintings and heighten the emotional tension of their themes. Want to see what I mean? Just Google Caravaggio’s “The Deposition of Christ” or Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring” to visually experience the full impact of the chiaroscuro technique.

But if you really think about it, chiaroscuro is all around us, all the time; it’s an inherent part of our lives. Chiaroscuro is not simply an artist’s use of the contrast between light and dark; it represents the eternal jostling of good and evil, reason and belief, joy and grief, even life and death. It depicts all the opposing forces, the yins and yangs, that combine to create the whole cloth of our individual universes. Even a carefree snapshot of family members gathered around a cell phone gives evidence of the twin towers of light and darkness that rule our lives.

Without a good dose of chiaroscuro, the surfaces of our lives would be sadly flat. Without darkness, we can’t experience light. Without cold, we can’t appreciate heat. While we may sometimes rue the duality of life, without it, we would be nothing more than stick figures on scratch paper. We need shade and depth to be human.

A few days ago, all these thoughts came rushing back as I watched the events unfolding in western Pennsylvania. Although we may not know it yet, it seems to me that we’re on the road to Megiddo, a city in northern Israel built on a tell, a high hill created by many generations of people and civilizations all living on the same spot. Its Biblical name was Armageddon and according to the Book of Revelation, it will mark the place of the end of days when the forces of light and dark, good and evil, will collide in one final cataclysmic confrontation.

When I set out to write this Musing, I had my mind’s eye fixed on the benign family photograph that accompanies this piece. My intention was to title the piece “Screen Time” and to muse about how we’re all addicted to our various electronic devices. But this morning, I looked at this same photograph and saw only its inherent chiaroscuro, a road sign pointing the way to Megiddo. I know it’s impossible to rewind time, but yesterday is gone and I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. The future is built on sand, and the tide, predictable as it may be, can change the shape of the shoreline in a heartbeat.

Or a grazed ear.

I’ll be right back.

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

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

Beachfront Property by Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 9, 2024 by Jamie Kirkpatrick
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Two of our eight grandchildren—ages eleven and nine—came to visit last week. Three days together in our small house and nary a tear or a cross word. The weather couldn’t have been better; the sweltering heat was yet to come, but there was plenty of warm sunshine, good for swimming in a friend’s pool or putting on the practice green or riding bikes. The ice cream store around the corner did a brisk business thanks to us, as did one of our favorite local purveyors of steamed crabs and shrimp.

But the highlight of our time together was the day we drove out to the little beach on the Bay we call Coast Guard Beach and spent several delightful hours doing nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. We had a paddle board and a raft, beach chairs and an umbrella, books, sandwiches, drinks, and snacks. The tide was out and the shallow water was perfect for the kids. They played and we watched, that is until we decided it was time for us to join in the fun, too. Never too old to play in the water…

At some point, Gavin (our eleven year old) decided to build his own beach house. He gathered large pieces of driftwood and ingeniously stacked them together in the form of a teepee and covered the structure with a beach towel at the water’s edge. He called it his beachfront property. He spent considerable time in his beach house, surveying his watery domain.

When it was finally time to go, we packed up all our beach paraphernalia and headed back into town. (It’s only a thirty minute ride but it seems a world away.) We showered, spread out the the crabs and shrimp on the dining room table, and set to work, whacking and sawing away. Well, they did anyway. Much to my Maryland family’s chagrin, I’m not much for crabs, but I’m plenty happy peeling shrimp, sipping a cold beer while listening to the endless chatter of whatever crowd is gathered around the table.

After dinner, we decided that since it was our last night together, we would go get one last round of ice cream. The store is really just around the corner, but flip-flops are necessary for in-town journeys. And that’s when we discovered Annie’s (our nine year old) flip-flops were miss missing. We looked everywhere for them…no luck. By process of elimination, we decided that they must have been left behind on our little beach. So with about 45 minutes of daylight remaining, we all piled back in the car and headed back to our private little Bay-side paradise. We arrived a few minutes before sunset. The tide had come in, but Annie’s flip-flops were right where she left them and the little house that Gavin built was still standing, albeit now with a watery floor. Happy to have found the flip-flops and the house still upright, we savored the last, gentle remains of the day before heading back into town and the ice cream store.

I only knew one of my grandparents: my father’s mother. She was already quite old when I was born, but we would occasionally go to visit her in the same house where she had raised my father and his six older siblings. (Like me, he was the baby of his family.) I have fond memories of sitting on the floor in front of Grammy while she rubbed my neck with her strong hands. When she died—I think I was about ten—I remember seeing my father cry as he stood beside her coffin. I don’t think I ever saw him cry again.

And now I wonder what Gavin and Annie (and Jake and Boden and Blake and Reese and Andrew and Daniel) will remember about us. Maybe the beachfront property and the found flip-flops. That would alright with me.

I’ll be right back.

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

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

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