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December 2, 2024

Cambridge Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Cambridge

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The Eastern Shore as Teacher and Muse By Neil King Jr.

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“Along the Shore” All photos by Jeff McGuiness

How do you thank a place, not just for showing you things you hadn’t seen before but for showing you a new way of seeing? Maryland’s Eastern Shore did just that for me during the first year of COVID-19—an offering that hasn’t stopped since.

When the virus hit in March of 2020, a dear friend offered my wife and me her guest house in Claiborne beside a pond and large meadow that skirts an inlet of the Chesapeake. The whole of it—the pond, the meadow, the inlet, the roads radiating out from that corner of Talbot County—became an open-air schoolhouse, instructing me in multiple mysteries and cleansing my eyes.

I had planned to take a slow walk later that month from my house near the U.S. Capitol to New York City. Instead, as we all sought distance from each other and the virus, I had this refuge, this silent teacher.

When I did set out, exactly a year later, on a walk that then became a book, I was a changed being, enriched and sensitized by my time in those soggy woods and fields. Neither the walk nor the book would have been what they were without the enchantments, and lessons, of the Eastern Shore.

Leeds Creek 

As a Colorado native and longtime Washingtonian, what did I know of pond frogs, redwing blackbirds, the habits of crickets, or the nest-building drama of the osprey every spring? I became attuned, as are all country people, to the phases of the moon and how they color—or make treacherous—any nocturnal stroll.

When I found dead deer in the woods, often led there by the circling vulture, I learned how the tender, juicier parts go first, which birds get first dibs—eagle, vulture, crow—and how long it takes to strip the bones clean. I marveled at the mechanical clicking of geese wings when vast flocks flew overhead.

I learned where the deer slept at night and how the snakes, shrew and foxes moved through the grasses. The budding, blossoming and leafing of the many trees revealed the intricate phases of each spring that I hadn’t understood before.

Snow Geese

The deeper lessons, though, were the human ones. My wanderings spoke to how quickly the land consumes what we leave behind and how the earth, too, wants to forget. How weather and vines will devour the untended barn. How whole family graveyards, if neglected, can be gobbled by earth and woods so that even the headstones sink into the ground.

What we call our history, our telling of the past, is equally slippery. I became obsessed with the memoirs of Frederick Douglass, Talbot County’s greatest native son, and particularly the accounts of his 16th year when he was sent to work for a brutal farmer about a mile from where I slept. He fought with that enslaver—a now-famous moment in the annals of American slavery.

Field in Winter

But where was this field exactly? What had happened to the house? Did anyone along that stretch of highway between St. Michael and Tilghman Island have any knowledge of these events? When I finally pinpointed the place, there was no marker, no remembrance of any kind. Just a soggy cornfield with cars speeding by.

That quest drove home the vital importance of place and of honoring the land for the stories it holds, even when they remain mute. The micro-observing of one patch of Talbot County trained me in a more devotional way of interacting with the land—a slower, more deliberate, more attentive way of seeing.

All this fed into my long walk in the spring of 2021. That journey didn’t bring me anywhere near the Eastern Shore but instead took me straight north from Washington into Pennsylvania and then east to Philadelphia and on to New York City.

But with every step, I carried a bit of the Shore with me, a deepened awareness and attentiveness that those many months had given.  I better understood the stories of all I passed along the way. The railbeds, the intricate stone walls, the canals dug with unimaginable exertion, the varied styles of the old barns, all whispered secrets I might not have heard otherwise. For which I give the place abundant thanks.

Neil King Jr. is a Washington-based writer and the author of “American Ramble: A Walk of Memory and Renewal.” 

Jeff McGuiness was the senior partner of a public policy law firm based in Washington, DC, and founder of HR Policy Association.  A fine arts major in college who served as a photographer in the Air Force during the Vietnam War Era, he has picked up where he left off 50 years ago with Bay Photographic Works. He lives in St. Michaels, MD.

The Bookplate is continuing its 2024 season of author lectures on Thursday, April 4th, with Neil King, Jr. for a 6 pm event at The Kitchen and Pub at The Imperial Hotel in Chestertown.

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

A Powerful Ode in Photos to Douglass’s Talbot Childhood

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In all, Frederick Douglass devoted a total of 41 chapters in his three autobiographies to his childhood and adolescence in Talbot County, in many ways the most pivotal years of his life. Those books helped catapult him to international fame, which in turn made Douglass one of the most recognized and photographed of Americans in the 19th century.

And yet, even today, Douglass’s Talbot County years remain cloaked in mystery and obscurity. Except for a few road markers, a statue in Easton’s Courthouse Square, and a highway that bears his name, little remains to help Americans remember—much less understand—the landscape that left such an indelible mark on one of the greatest of early Americans. It’s as if the county’s soggy soil has gobbled up the memory of those vanished years. 

Jeff McGuiness—photographer, writer, St. Michaels resident—has devoted five years of his life to filling that void. In all seasons and all kinds of weather, McGuiness roamed the rivers and fields, the houses and eroding shoreline with one mission in mind: To match selections from Douglass’s own writings with scenes that brought them to life. He sought to capture through his camera lens the watery recesses and farmland where Douglass spent 11 of his first 20 years, starting with his birth in 1818.

The result is a lush, 250-page, large-format book, Bear Me Into Freedom: The Talbot County of Frederick Douglass. The book is an evocative, beautiful, and essential addition to the history and literature of Maryland and the Eastern Shore. Published by the St. Michaels Museum, it is also a testament to the bubbling cultural ferment of the county itself.

Anyone who has spent significant time between the Tuckahoe River and Tilghman Island should know that the region is dotted with the places that formed Douglass as a child and young man. Born enslaved and fatherless along the banks of the Tuckahoe. Sent at age six with his grandmother to the gleaming Wye House plantation on the Wye River. Dispatched to the home of Thomas Auld in St. Michaels after years in Baltimore. Marched off at 15, as a disciplinary action, to a small farm near Whitman, where he had his famous fight with a sadistic enslaver, Edward Covey, near the shores of the Chesapeake. Seized at the age of 18 at the Freeland farm north of St. Michaels over an aborted escape plot and frog marched to the Easton jail.

Of all those events—the tragedies, the heartbreaks, the triumphs—there are precious few remnants or markers. Our country is far from equal in doling out its “Washington Slept Here” signs.

At a time when Talbot County and much of the nation has been embroiled in battles over our past and what monuments to erect and which to tear down, McGuiness celebrates and honors what matters most: The land itself, where momentous things happened, so many now forgotten and washed away. 

We fight over symbols and abstractions—that granite statue, now moved to another state, carved with the names of the Talbot Boys, or the accompanying signs people stuck in their yards demanding we “Preserve Talbot History.” But neither the statue nor the signs were in active service of remembering or unearthing our true past. We neglect or let fall into oblivion the places where our weightiest events occurred 

McGuiness sets out to right this imbalance and to nudge our eyes back to the land itself. His is not a monument-building or sign-erecting exercise. Instead, McGuiness captures fragments of Douglass’s own past much as Douglass would have experienced them then, in all their haunting brevity.

Douglass’s Talbot County roots have been more than ably accounted for in words. Douglass in his three autobiographies devoted extraordinary attention to his childhood and to his tormented love for Talbot County. In addition, Dickson Preston provided a vivid account in his Young Frederick Douglass: The Maryland Years, while David Blight provided still more detail in his Pulitzer Prize-winning Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom. 

McGuiness’s premise in assembling and writing his book is simple, as he points out in his preface: “Frederick Douglass cannot be fully understood without a visual representation that accompanies the written.” One suspects Douglass would agree, as the great orator and essayist was himself a fervent proponent of the “mighty power” of photography. 

McGuiness acknowledges the delicacy of what he set out to do. The book, he notes, is not intended as “archeological or historical documentation nor is it an attempt at a photographic depiction of the unimaginable horror of enslavement.” Instead, the aim “is to place the events Douglass describes so searingly into a visual context, so that the reader can appreciate the physical environment that gave rise to his literature and oratory, which remain vibrant parts of America’s discussion of race.”

On page after page, McGuiness’s images capture the sadness, the longing and even the joy of Douglass’s own words. All were taken after 2018, and yet they feel like magical windows into the first half of the 19th century. His six-image rendering of the young boy’s pilgrimage to Wye House in 1824 perfectly accompanies the awe and ache of Douglass’s own words. 

In a few cases, the faithfulness of the photos to Douglass’s own time comes thanks to the wizardry of our own. The gorgeous shots of Wye House, for instance, are all the purer for the meticulous plucking out of all overhead wires or modern amendments. Similarly, McGuiness features an extraordinary aerial shot of Tilghman Island rid of all contemporary clutter and jutting piers. On many a page, you wish the book was several times larger so you could disappear into the vast horizons. 

Bear Me Into Freedom is primarily a photo book, but it also contains just enough historical context to guide the reader through each chapter of Douglass’s young life. Its ample citation of sources at the end also gives the book a scholarly heft. This is a volume made with great care.

Fittingly, the book’s title speaks directly to the omnipresence and potency of the Chesapeake Bay itself. During the dark year he spent on the Covey farm at 15, Douglass would often stand along the shore and look longingly at “the countless number of sails moving off to the mighty ocean.” He saw his best route to freedom being a watery one. “I will take to the water,” he wrote later in his first autobiography. “This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom.”

McGuiness has stepped forward at just the right moment with a cultural gift to both the county and the country. Bear Me Into Freedom brings an immediacy and urgency to Douglass’s early life, and with all the dignity you should expect of such an endeavor. Ours is a raucous, ugly, and disjointed era, increasingly unmoored from taste and truth. McGuiness’s book is the opposite of all that: quiet, meticulous, gorgeous, and respectful to a fault.

Neil King Jr. is a former Wall Street Journal reporter and editor who spent much of the past three years in and around Claiborne. His book about his long walk to New York City, American Ramble: A Walk of Memory and Renewal, will be out in March. He and McGuiness worked together on a piece published in The Talbot Spy in early 2021 examining a forgotten field where Douglass spent a pivotal year of his life in 1834.

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

In Praise of Winter Geese by Neil King Jr.

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As I rounded the Long Pond one night in the chilly mist, the geese on the inlet through the woods were squabbling among themselves, agitated, opinionated, loquacious. Not all of them, but enough across such an expanse for me to know that a vast gaggle was spread across several acres of water.

They knew I was there. They saw the thin beam of my flashlight pointed to the ground. Some of their conversation—edgier now, more nervous—surely centered on that wraith of a man in the woods bearing light. When something rustled along the shore, I turned my beam that way without thinking and triggered a cacophony of wings scattering over water. Their honking quintupled, and perhaps a thousand geese took to the sky. An unthinking move of my arm had stirred mass panic, and their bodies now were thick enough across the sky to blot out the hazy moon.

How, in the city, could any simple gesture result in such drama?

The next night I walked to the point, where the pines open onto the inlet. It was late and many of the geese bobbed quietly, but others kept talking, gossiping, perhaps warning the others that they’d caught sight of me coming their way. I went slowly, silently, and then stood still to see if the geese grew quieter as the human threat subsided. Their honking did wane, so after a few minutes I decided to talk back, to mimic their urgent tones. My calls were loud but simple. A single note, more or less in alignment with theirs. When I cried out, the geese seemed to pause for a second to take it in. And then they resumed their chatter.

Could one’s ear, property attuned, tell the difference between the geese talk that says, “There’s a fox over there!” and those that say, “All’s quiet on my end”? Are some geese just irredeemably verbose? To my ears, some of the honking sounded habitual and matter of fact. Other strains spoke of fear, of sentinels broadcasting warnings to the others.

The geese in winter along this stretch of the Chesapeake are so numerous, so omnipresent, that it’s hard to know what to make of them. We want to see them in orderly Vs heading diligently south, but instead they wing east, north, west, and south, in Ws and Ys and every other letter, with no intention of relocating anywhere. They can make a great racket in the air, or when on water–“harsh and exiting,” as Mary Oliver famously described their call–and they fall dead silent when standing by the thousands in a field of shorn soy.

Birdwatchers nationwide hit the roadways and forests just days before Christmas to conduct a huge national Christmas Bird Count, something that has been going on since the late 1800s in some places. I ran into our local bird counter coming out of a swale late on the designated day with his binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. We got to talking birds. You have to be sort of meticulous, he said, to keep track of the geese. If you spot a huge gathering of them in one quadrant you have to be careful not to to double count that gaggle it if ups and moves to another inlet an hour later.

So, as he crisscrossed our neck of the Chesapeake all day tallying ducks and eagles, owls and chickadees, he tried to keep a huge abacus active in his mind of the geese going hither and the geese going yon. Adding, subtracting, rounding, estimating. Keeping one eye on nearby branch and the other on the sky, monitoring huge migrations of the galloping geese. Bird watcher meets vast sky watcher.

“By my calculation,” he said, and I waited for it, held my breath for it, “there are 8,000 geese in Claiborne today.” At most, a couple hundred humans reside in the whole of greater Claiborne. There aren’t but twice that many households in the entire county. “Sounds about right,” I replied. While we talked, a flock of robins alighted high in a tree behind him and he took no note.

One morning, out for a brisk one, I heard them all jabbering on the inlet and I maliciously rushed the shore. As I burst from the woods an enormous wave of geese 500 yards wide and as many deep lifted from the water and wheeled into the gray sky. A few days later I was out walking in a vast field and hadn’t even seen the downed squadron until the whole of it caught wind of me and took flight in an enormous burst of caution. To them I was the embodiment of menace.

In my own mind, as though that matters, I couldn’t be less threatening, but they see me as a predator and methodically keep their distance. Out walking the roadways I will edge along a field thick with geese, and as I progress they will all move away, like a wave that proceeds me, assuring a distance between us of forty yards or so. They must have calculated my presumed swiftness, or the range of any gun I might have.

One day, just to test them, I ran a few steps into the field and several thousand geese took flight all at once in a vast phalanx of wings and bleating fear. Once aloft they broke into half a dozen flocks that then wheeled this way and that above me, the gleeful scaremonger.

Three days later I was on the far side of the Long Pond rounding the woods near an inlet of the Bay when a large squadron of geese came gliding down toward the water and flew 15 feet over my head, 30 of them at least, wings outstretched, their plump goosey breasts fully exposed. The hunter in me thrilled a little at the shot I would have had were I out right then with a 12 gauge. It’s a shot I would never have taken. Watching a bird in flight crumple to Earth would give no pleasure.

In their sheer number, Canadian geese are seen as pests to the humans who live in leafy neighborhoods with large lawns, or near parks with a cute curving pond. Something like large mice with wings or like the deer that nibble the daisies and the rhododendron. Out here, you see things properly, that the geese in their plenitude are at home in these waters, and that we are the pests and the grubby passersby. In the cities where the geese try to find a place to land or eat, the humans with their mowers and cars and bikes are the persistent annoyance, too many in number, too loud, too unkempt. They are the scourge, proliferating and gobbling up the hills and fields to build their ungainly houses.

If I had to make a long-term bet on which species will outlast the other and be more at home a millennium from now in the swampy innards of our cities, I would bet on the geese.

Neil King Jr. is a veteran reporter and editor for the Wall Street Journal and other publications.

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