Years ago, when we owned General Tanuki’s Restaurant, the health inspector, Margaret, stopped by for one of her routine visits. It was a raw, icy winter day, the kind when the cold rain seeps into your bones and the sidewalks glisten with a deceptively evil, slippery, shine. I remember greeting her at the door and grumbling about the miserable weather as she entered, her coat dripping, her clipboard tucked safely beneath her arm.

We had a wonderful rapport with Margaret; she was thorough, fair, and kind, a rare combination in her line of work. I tried to make light of the dreariness, muttering something about how days like this made me wish I’d stayed home by the fire. She smiled warmly, brushing the ice from her sleeves, and said, “You know, after surviving breast cancer, I don’t take a single day, or its weather, for granted.”

Her words stunned me. The hum of the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, even the hiss of the fryer seemed to fade for a moment. Here I was, fussing about the rain, while she had stared down something infinitely more daunting, and come out the other side with gratitude rather than complaint.

I never forgot that moment. Years later, karma had its quiet way of reminding me of her wisdom. After more than fifty days as a care partner to my husband during his stay at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I found myself needing time outside every single day, rain or shine, for my own sanity. The weather no longer felt like something to endure, but something to embrace, each drop of rain or ray of light a small reminder that I was still standing, still breathing, still grateful.

A study written by the Oncology Nursing Society has shown that Americans typically spend 90% of their time indoors. During the stress of the COVID-19 pandemic, many sought relief in the safety of the outdoors. Green spaces became a popular space for leisure, with a 291% increase in use during the shelter in place order. The study went on to state the mental health benefits of spending time outdoors, but most of us have reverted to the pre-pandemic lifestyle, more time inside and more stress.

Now that I’m home, I find myself outside as much as possible. The air is cooler now, perfect for long walks with my dog, the kind that quiet the mind and loosen what’s been held too tightly. It feels strange to realize that I completely missed most of August and September, as if those weeks were swallowed by hospital corridors and worry. There’s a gap in my memory, a stretch of time that exists only in fragments, the onslaught of doctors and technicians tapping on the door at all hours of the day or night, fluorescent lights, hushed voices, and the constant beeping of machines. The days and nights blurred into one long stretch of worry and waiting. Being outdoors again, I’m slowly remembering how to breathe in full sentences.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

In the 1980s, when I was raising my children, landline phones were our lifeline. My yellow rotary phone hung on the wall in the kitchen, its long, coiled cord stretched across the room while we talked. There were no text messages or FaceTime calls then, just the familiar hum of a dial tone and the comfort of a voice on the other end.

Most evenings, after my babies were tucked into bed and the house finally grew quiet, I would call my mom. At that time, I was living first in California and later in Hawaii, while she was all the way in Wyoming. The distance between us felt enormous, but somehow, the phone made it smaller.

We would talk for over an hour, about the children, our family, her friends, my friends, the weather, what I was cooking, and how her garden was doing. It wasn’t the big news that mattered most, but the sound of her steady, loving voice. After I called her, she always said the same thing: “Hang up, I’ll call you right back.” She insisted on paying for the long-distance call, never wanting me to worry about the cost.

I always kept a notebook next to the phone, part reminder pad, part sketchbook. While we talked, I would jot down to-do lists, calendar reminders, or phone numbers, then fill the margins with little doodles and swirls. Those pages became a quiet record of our nightly conversations, my drawings looping across the paper as her words filled the room.

While exploring and expanding my painting and knitting skills this fall, I found an article about the therapeutic value of doodling.  Research has shown that engaging in  creative activities can activate the brain’s reward center, releasing dopamine, the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitter.

One of the most beautiful aspects of doodling is its ability to transform chaos into creation.  Doodling taps into the part of the brain that fosters self reflection and introspection, which can be profoundly healing. In a world that often demands swift solutions and immediate results, the power of doodling offers a different perspective.

At the end of our lengthy talks, my mom would often laugh softly and say, “Well, we’ve solved the world’s problems, so the only thing left to say is, I love you.” And that’s how every conversation ended, with love that reached across the miles, carried by a simple landline phone, a tablet full of doodles, and a mother’s voice that I can still hear in my heart.

In the first days of our stay at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I wandered through every garden on the visitor’s map, searching for something to bring tranquility to a situation that I lacked control of. I couldn’t find the elusive Koi Pond at first, but when I finally did, it became my sanctuary. I returned to it again and again, sitting in the quiet, letting the still water and graceful fish bring me the peace I so deeply needed. Just being in nature was rejuvenating.

Near the end of our time there, my husband learned about the great statue of Jesus in the administrative building. Together we went in search of Him, and when we found Him, I was awestruck. The statue’s size and presence were magnificent, but even more, it seemed to hold a quiet strength that reached out and steadied me in a different way than the pond had. It was a gift to experience this Jesus with my husband, just as we had The David Statue in Florence, Italy years ago.

Now that we’ve returned to Johns Hopkins, I make it a point to visit Jesus every day. It has become a ritual of comfort and grounding, a reminder that even in difficult places, harmony and strength can be found when we seek them.

As a child, I often found church services long and tedious. Sitting still in a pew, listening to the sermon, I felt time stretch endlessly. It was no surprise that children had their own shorter service, we weren’t made for long stretches of silence and stillness. And yet, even in the midst of restlessness, there were parts of the liturgy that held me. I especially loved the pieces I had memorized, like the Doxology that always followed the Lord’s Prayer and came before the presentation of the alms. That rhythm was steady, almost ritualistic, and gave me a sense of security.

But more than anything, it was the music that gave the service its magic. Hymns filled the sanctuary with a force greater than words alone. The sound of so many voices joined together seemed to lift us all into another realm. Even as a child, I could sense that something larger was happening, something beyond the ordinary.

My favorite hymn was Onward, Christian Soldiers. I knew every word by heart. Whenever it was sung, I felt not only joy but also a sense of belonging, as if I had a part to play in something important. The words stirred me, urging me toward kindness, courage, and faith. To my child’s mind, it was not just a hymn but a call, to do good work for God, to try to live as a better person, to march through life with purpose.

As I grew older, I began to realize that this hymn carried meaning far beyond the walls of my childhood church. Onward, Christian Soldiers had accompanied moments of history. It was sung at a special service when Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt met before the United States entered World War II, a time when the world stood on the brink of immense change. Later, in 1969, it was sung at the funeral of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man remembered for his leadership in war and in peace. Each of these occasions layered new weight onto the words I had sung so innocently as a child.

The most personal moment came in 1972, when the hymn was sung at my father’s funeral. The familiar melody that had once been a source of childhood inspiration suddenly became a bridge between memory and grief. Hearing it in that setting bound me forever to its message, not only as a song of faith but as a thread that wove together history, family, and personal loss. What began as a child’s favorite tune had become, by then, a hymn of legacy.

I’ve come to see that music is where faith takes its deepest root. It bypasses intellect and goes straight to the heart. The hymns of my childhood still live in me, carrying echoes of pews too long to endure, moments of restlessness softened by melody, and flashes of wonder when voices rose together. They carry also the memory of my father, of great leaders, and of times when faith steadied people through uncertainty.

For me, church was never simply about doctrine or ritual. It was about the way music could transform an ordinary Sunday into something transcendent. It was about the way a child could be inspired to live kindly and with purpose simply by singing words with a congregation. And it was about how those same words, carried across years and history, could bring comfort and courage in the face of loss.

Faith, I have learned, is often remembered not in sermons or lessons, but in song. It lives quietly in the rhythm of life, in the stillness of a hospital garden, in the hush of morning light, in the places where our hearts are most tender.

For me, faith took shape in a quiet school of fish gliding through the Koi Pond, their movement steady and unhurried, a reminder to breathe and trust. It deepened again in the presence of the great statue of Jesus, standing tall and radiant, arms open as if to gather all the worry and weariness from those who came to Him.

Between the garden filled with hostas and the still gaze of Jesus, I found what words and lessons in church, could not give me an understanding that faith is not something we learn, but something we remember when the world falls silent around us.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Most people who know our family know, or quickly learn that my father-in-law was John General. John was not only a devoted husband, father, and grandfather, but also a man deeply committed to the life of his community. He loved his adopted hometown of Easton and worked tirelessly to give back to it. 

One of John’s proudest accomplishments was bringing the Avalon Theatre back to life. At a time when the Avalon’s doors were nearly closed for good, John and his wife, Ellen, refused to let it fade away. Despite many naysayers, they spearheaded its revival, shouldering the work, the responsibility, and very often, the cost. For a lengthy period, John personally paid many of the theater’s bills out of his own pocket to keep it afloat, because he believed Easton deserved a vibrant cultural space.

John’s commitment went far beyond writing checks. He would finish a full day at his office in Arlington, then drive all the way to Easton just to be at the Avalon for performances. It mattered deeply to him, not just that the theater survived, but that it thrived, that the lights stayed on, and that people could gather together in a place he loved.

John loved the town of Easton so much that he had a gorgeous, velvet Santa Claus costume custom made so he could take part in the yearly Christmas parade. He didn’t just want to support Easton, he wanted to bring joy to it. One year, his granddaughter, Cece walked alongside him as his elf, handing out candy canes to the children lining the streets. It’s a memory our family treasures and it perfectly captures the spirit of who John was: generous, playful, and deeply connected to his community.

In addition to the Avalon, John served his community in many other ways. He sat on numerous boards, always offering his time, expertise, and leadership whenever he saw an opportunity to make a difference. His influence extended well beyond the theater touching many aspects of community life in Easton. 

The truth is that without John and Ellen’s commitment, there might not even be an Avalon Theatre today. And yet, many of the current staff and patrons are unaware of this history. The thriving venue people enjoy now stands on the foundation they built with their vision, their labor, and their personal sacrifice. That history matters, and it deserves to be remembered.

As his family, we were proud to stand alongside John, volunteering our time whenever we could. My husband, Matt stuffed his six foot six inch frame into an Easter Bunny suit one year to greet theater goers at a children’s play, a sight that made everyone laugh but perfectly captured the spirit of the early days; doing whatever it took big or small to support John’s vision. Matt and my youngest son, Stuart were often seen out front of the Avalon placing the letters on the marquee announcing upcoming shows, often in inclement weather. It was never just about helping out, it was about supporting a dream that he made real through sheer determination.

That love of theater has carried forward. Our daughter, Cece, who earned her degree in theater at college in London, is now continuing that legacy in her own way. In its third year, her theater company, The Factory Arts Project nurtures creativity and supports the arts. Taking the baton from Marie U’Ren and Kate Levy, Cece has become the curator of Easton’s extensive costume  collection. The Factory, in its new location on Hansen Street in the Mill Place building proudly houses the costume shop, library, and prop and set piece inventory. Cece has also directed three original plays by Casey Rauch based on the ghost that haunts the Avalon. Each year, these productions played to sold-out audiences inside the Avalon itself, adding a new chapter of storytelling to the very place her grandfather fought so hard to save.

John’s legacy is woven into the Avalon and into Easton itself. The Avalon’s lights, its stage, and its community are all a reflection of his belief in the power of the arts to bring people together. His name and Ellen’s name should always be part of that story.

 

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Wyoming really only has two seasons: winter and summer. Before climate change, we would step off the plane from our summer vacation in August and be greeted by a snowstorm. Shivering in our summer clothes, we’d dash from the airport to the car, grateful for the sweaters or light jackets tucked into our bags. A day later, the snow would melt, and summer would return for just another week or two.

Halloween was always a bundled-up affair, costumes layered over long underwear, bulky sweaters, or a coat disguised as a cape. Snow was often already on the ground, but it never stopped us from trick-or-treating for hours in a big pack of friends while our parents stayed home, handing out candy.

Fall also meant homecoming, with its crisp air, outdoor parties, and giant mums pinned proudly to winter coats at the University of Wyoming game.

In Southern California, fall feels entirely different. Outdoor swimming requires heated pools, and while the beach is breathtaking on a sunny day, the Pacific stays icy, too cold for a real swim. Fall there doesn’t bite at your cheeks or dust your yard with snow, but the beauty of the season still lingers in the light, the air, and the way the year quietly turns.

Restaurants have heaters or fire pits for Al Fresco dining. Apple picking is a weekend favorite and wine festivals celebrate California Wine Month. Miramar Naval Air Station, now Marine Corps Air Station hosts a spectacular air show in the Fall. As members of the San Diego Zoo, Halloween activities were a great family activity.

In late September the Santa Anna winds would swoop in, bringing strong gusts and extreme dryness to an otherwise mildly humid San Diego. I learned that the wind can make people feel agitated due to a combination of physical and psychological factors caused by an increase in positive ions in the air. The winds also exacerbates allergy and asthma symptoms potentially causing more irritation.

The Trade Winds in Hawaii are less intense in the Fall. Temperatures drop to the low 80’s during the day but the ocean temperatures are at their warmest, perfect for swimming. For most of Hawaii, there are just two seasons: “summer,” between May and October and “winter,” between October and April. We celebrated Fall with outdoor BBQ’s and potlucks for the weekly NFL games very early every Sunday morning. The shorter days were celebrated with crazy sunsets and incredible star gazing.

And then there is fall in Maryland, which tastes like oysters; steamed, fried, or raw on the half shell. It’s Navy homecoming football games in Annapolis, haunted houses that make you scream and laugh at the same time, and evenings spent wandering through straw mazes under a crisp sky. The heavy summer humidity finally lifts, leaving the air cool and comfortable. Everywhere you turn, there’s pumpkin spice: lattes, candles, and desserts signaling that autumn has fully arrived.

From Wyoming snow to California and Hawaiian sun to Maryland oysters, fall shows up differently in every place I’ve lived, but always with the same promise: a season of change, of gathering, and of memory-making. Wherever I am, fall is still the best.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

I don’t know where my parents first heard the phrase, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Maybe it was from Thumper in Bambi, but it was repeated often in our house. After saying Grace at dinner, we would take turns going around the table, sharing something kind about a sibling or something wonderful that happened to us that day. Those small rituals left a deep imprint on me, teaching me that kindness wasn’t just a nice idea, it was a practice.

At church on Sundays, we prayed for our sister church far away and for people less fortunate or in pain. Respect and compassion were steady themes in my childhood, woven into ordinary life.

I grew up in Wyoming, where my friends came from many different religious backgrounds; Catholic, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Mormon, and Jewish. One Christmas, our dinner table conversation turned to Hanukkah versus Christmas. My parents were very clear about the importance of respecting all beliefs without judgement, reminding us that faith takes many forms. At first, we felt sorry for the Jewish kids who didn’t get a visit from Santa, until we learned about the eight nights of gifts. Suddenly, their holiday sounded just as magical as ours, and I began to realize that difference didn’t have to mean less-than.

I was very young when John F. Kennedy was elected president. I remember it being a really big deal that he was Catholic. At that time, it seemed important to know a person’s religion. I had already heard my parents talk about JFK, how he was a decorated veteran, how his faith set him apart, and how not everyone agreed with his policies. My parents didn’t either, not completely. But on the whole, they respected him. That was their way. Respect didn’t require agreement; it required seeing the whole of a person. 

When Kennedy was assassinated, our dinner table conversation shifted from disbelief to anger to pure sadness. My father remarked about Walter Cronkite showing his emotions on air, something so unusual that it struck him deeply. As Americans we were stunned about this brutal murder of a good man, a husband and a father.  How could this happen here in the best country in the world? That night, grief sat at our table alongside us.

Those early lessons have stayed with me  and have shaped how I feel about the world this past week. They taught me that kindness is not weakness, that differences are not threats, and that respect is one of the strongest forms of love we can offer. And I find myself returning to those childhood lessons around the dinner table in Wyoming when hatred seems to cause so much misery and division. 

What my parents gave me was more than a set of family rules, it was a compass. And it still points me toward compassion, no matter which way the world seems to be turning.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

I am not the same person I was two months ago, when I first began walking the Main Loop at Johns Hopkins as a Care Partner for my husband. What was meant to be a routine morning of outpatient evaluations quickly shifted. Instead of heading home, we found ourselves escorted by the head of Hepatology, first to the hepatology unit, and then through the doors of the first of three Intensive Care units. 

Since Covid, I hadn’t ventured beyond Annapolis, so even the drive itself felt daunting. By the time we arrived, the maze of city traffic and the stress of finding parking at the hospital added another layer to an already overwhelming day.

I quickly learned the trick of taking a photo of the parking level displayed on the garage walls to find my way back to my car. Luckily, the security guards were helpful when I was trying to find my way to whichever building my husband was in.

I have had days of feeling sorry for myself. This journey has been both a mental and physical challenge. Most nights I’ve slept in a chair, awakened again and again by nurses checking vitals or by medical teams making split-second decisions about my husband’s care, decisions that sometimes included another middle-of-the-night move to yet another ICU.

I am weary of the food court, endlessly searching for something healthy to eat. One day was unexpectedly brightened when I discovered a sandwich that, to my delight, included arugula.

In many ways, I’ve become invisible here, an unnoticed part of the hospital’s landscape. The only people who consistently acknowledge me are the security guard at the outpatient visitors’ entrance and the woman who makes my coffee every morning.

In the early days of our stay, I lived in a constant state of fear. Each time I opened my husband’s chart, I turned to Google to decipher the unfamiliar medical terms. Almost every definition pointed to something critical or life-threatening. My poor daughter, Jenny, became my sounding board and confidante, shouldering my fears while also managing everything at home.

In my search for peace, I discovered a hidden sanctuary: a koi pond tucked away in a tiny garden. It has become my refuge, a place I visit each day to regain my calm and steady my mind.

I’ve read three books, knit ten mittens, and filled quiet hours with my small watercolor set. Matt and I pass the time together with games; gin rummy, double solitaire, Mancala, and Scrabble, finding small moments of normalcy amid the upheaval.

I found an app that tracks my steps along the Main Loop, and it’s gratifying to see how my morning and afternoon walking meditations are strengthening me, mentally as well as physically.

Sometimes, as I walk, I make eye contact with someone wandering the halls just as I did in those first weeks. My heart aches for them. One afternoon, I overheard a woman say to her partner, “Today was a horrible day, but ice cream will make it all better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there isn’t any ice cream at Johns Hopkins; ice cream is for those few hours spent at home doing laundry and watching “Housewives.”

This journey has tested me in ways I never could have imagined, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have felt invisible, exhausted, and afraid, yet I have also discovered resilience I didn’t know I possessed. In the midst of sterile hallways and sleepless nights, I’ve found solace in a koi pond, comfort in simple games, and kindness in unexpected places. Though this chapter is not one I would have chosen and is far from over, it has changed me profoundly, reminding me that even in the hardest seasons, there can still be moments of grace, connection, and quiet strength.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

This morning, when The Last Train to Clarksville by The Monkees came on Pandora, a flood of memories came rushing back from the days of my Monkees obsession.

In July of 1967, my younger brother and I spent a month with my aunt, splitting our time between Boston, Biddeford Pool in Maine, and New York City. While in Boston, my aunt and uncle surprised us with tickets to see The Monkees in concert at the Boston Garden, a dream come true for my eleven-year-old self.

My grandmother, ever elegant, insisted that I be properly dressed for such an important occasion. She took me to Jordan Marsh, where I chose a babydoll-style dress with tiny puffed sleeves, designed by Betsey Johnson long before she became the iconic name she is today. With shiny new shoes to match, I felt like the most glamorous fan in the world, ready for the biggest night of my young life.

That same summer, The Jimi Hendrix Experience had briefly been added to The Monkees’ U.S. tour. Fresh from his electrifying debut at the Monterey Pop Festival just weeks before, Hendrix seemed an odd match for a band adored by preteens. Night after night, Hendrix endured waves of boos and shouts for Davy Jones. The mismatch became clear, and by July 17, 1967, Hendrix left the tour. Newspapers spun the story, claiming groups like the Daughters of the American Revolution had banned him for being “too erotic” for the Monkees’ young audience. The truth was simpler, two very different worlds had collided, and neither one belonged on the other’s stage.

When I took my seat at the Boston Garden on July 22, Hendrix was already gone. At eleven, I wouldn’t have understood his music anyway, but how I wish now that I could say I’d seen him perform that night. Instead, I squealed with delight as my idols, The Monkees, took the stage. For me, it was pure magic, music, youth, and the thrill of being part of something bigger than myself.

Looking back, it was one of those moments that defined an era: a girl in her Betsey Johnson dress, clutching childhood dreams in a world where pop idols and rock revolutionaries were, for a brief and strange time, part of the same story.

 

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.