Both of my grandfathers were geologists who worked for oil companies, which meant they got “transferred” every few years. Travel was a major part of my parents’ lives, so vacations weren’t exactly a novelty. But they both loved history, and that meant most of our family vacations doubled as educational experiences.

The first vacation I really remember was a week at Yellowstone National Park. My parents thought it would be fun to rent a travel trailer and do some camping. That first night in the campground was wonderful. We cooked dinner over an open fire, everything tasted better outdoors. After dinner, we went for a walk and found arrowheads, which was beyond exciting for a group of kids.

The trailer didn’t have a bathroom, so getting four small children to the campground restroom before bed was quite the production. But the real adventure came in the middle of the night when a family of bears completely trashed our campsite kitchen. They dumped over the big Coleman cooler and ate everything, even my mom’s homemade brownies.

Unfazed, my parents restocked the dented cooler the next day, and our second dinner was just as delicious, including rainbow trout that we had caught on a fishing trip to Jenny Lake. For dessert, Sara Lee brownies replaced my mom’s homemade batch. The cooler spent the night locked in the car.

But that night brought a new challenge, a summer snowstorm. The trailer didn’t have a heater, so we all froze. The windows in the trailer were caked with ice. The next morning we layered our jeans and T-shirt’s with our new sweatshirts and headed to the warmth of a diner for breakfast. My parents wisely decided to move us into a small motel down the road, one with heat and, most importantly, a bathroom. My grandparents had flown in from Denver and were staying at the Jackson Lake Lodge, a beautiful lodge with huge windows overlooking the mountains.

Our last night in Yellowstone, after visiting Old Faithful, we met them for dinner at the Lodge. Dressed in our Levi’s and boots, our camping clothes, we felt just a little out of place in the elegant dining room. But after bear raids, snowstorms, and campfire dinners, we didn’t mind being the underdressed ones at the table. It felt like we’d earned it.

The next year we swapped the mountains for the Atlantic Ocean when my family flew to Georgia. The helicopter ride from Atlanta to Sea Island, Georgia, when I was five, was almost as exciting as learning to ride my brand-new bike on the beach. The only downside to the beach were the massive piles of seaweed that washed up along the shore, they absolutely terrified me. Because of that, I much preferred my grandmother’s beach club for swimming. Honestly, the beach club had its own perks: the luxury of ordering hot dogs, sandwiches, ice cream, and lemonade from a waiter made it hard to resist.

On Saturday nights, we would get dressed up and head to the Cloisters for dinner. The grown ups lingered over their meals while we were sent to the kids’ lounge where we would play games. I won a Peter Pan game after being the last one standing during a musical chairs game. We drank numerous Shirley Temples and ate hot fudge sundaes.

One morning, my older siblings (we were nine, seven, and five years old) and I were sent on a guided tram tour (no parents, it was the 1960’s) to St. Simon’s Island. We climbed the lighthouse, and saw the Bloody Marsh, Fort Federica, and Christ Church Churchyard. It was one of the most boring trips, ever. I now wonder what my parents were off doing that day, probably enjoying the adults only pool at the beach club.

Not long after, we traded planes for a road trip. The summer of my cousin’s wedding in New Mexico, my parents bought a Buick Vista Cruiser. It had three rows of seats, roof-mounted skylights, and best of all: air conditioning. For a family of six, it felt like pure luxury.

That was also the summer we discovered the joys of Holiday Inn motels. We loved everything about them, the pools, the ice machines, the food, it was every kid’s dream. To us, the bright green Holiday Inn sign practically meant vacation magic.

We spent the next summer on a bus touring New England. We visited the Ocean Spray Cranberry bog, Plymouth Rock, Bunker Hill, Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s house. We ate lobster rolls almost every day while visiting my aunt’s summer home in Biddeford Pool, Maine. Our days were spent swimming in the freezing North Atlantic and drinking six ounce Cokes in glass bottles. I learned to play solitaire (the card game) and Scrabble with my family in front of a roaring fire at night.

My parents, while on vacation taught us how to roll with the unexpected, how to find wonder in new places, and how to always keep a sense of humor no matter what the road had in store. Travel didn’t always go smoothly but each trip became a story we would repeat at family dinners and laugh about years later.

Agent 86 was recently reminded that the Spy has many readers south of the Choptank River and that he should occasionally train his camera in those areas.  86 took this to heart and overflew Cambridge, the new Harriet Tubman Museum outside of town, and the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge. He hopes that the resulting video will return him to favor with readers in the southern portion of the Spy’s service area.

This video is approximately three minutes in length.

On the advice of a good friend, this spy travelled to St. Michaels early on Sunday morning to board the Patriot at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. My mission was to observe and photograph the log canoe race held on the Miles River. 

Because the agency is committed to monitoring everything that goes on in St. Michaels, I considered my trip to be an agency mission. The mission was a success.

Pictures often provide more intelligence than written reports, even when written by the best spies working for the agency. That is the case here. My photographs give an accurate record of what transpired at Miles on the morning of June 29th. 

If asked, and to date I haven’t been asked, to provide a one-word assessment of what I witnessed, my response would be “beauty.” (Yes, I know, that word does not often appear in this spy’s reports.)

Without further description, here is a sampling of the photos I captured last Sunday morning:

Note that the log canoes are not all the same size. The difference in boat size is factored into determining the winner of the race. The larger log canoes, because they travel faster than the smaller ones, are awarded “time” based on their size. Thus, even though a large log canoe may cross the finish line first, it may not win the race.

Yes, I know it’s a bit complicated, but accuracy in our assessment of the outcome requires us to understand, at least superficially, the rules of the race.

This small log canoe necessitated careful coordination of the crew to avoid an unscheduled swim in the Miles.

This spy wishes he were a sailor, but he’s not—difficulty in determining which boat was doing what was experienced. 

Observing the log canoe race was most enjoyable. I am available for future races.

One last photograph. I took over 200 . . . 

Screenshot

Additional log canoe races are scheduled for July 27 and 28, and Sept. 7, 8, 14, and 15. Information on the races, the Patriot, and the opportunity to purchase tickets can be found at: https://cbmm.org/resources_tags/log-canoe-races/.

With everything in the news these past two weeks, I’ve found myself thinking about my family, and how, really, everything is connected. Einstein once said, “look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” But I think that he really meant: “ look deep into your family, and you will understand everything better, or realize that chaos is inevitable.”

Physics tells us that everything is related, actions create reactions and forces push and pull. I see that playing out on every scale especially in current events.

My dad held very conservative political views. After serving in the Pacific Theater as a Naval Officer in World War II, he was acutely aware of the devastating effects of war. Our nightly dinner conversations often revolved around our day, current events, and world news. In winter, when we discussed the weather, it was mainly about how much snow we might get for skiing. In summer, it was all about how important rain was for my mom’s rose garden.

I grew up believing communism was not a workable concept, despite its appealing promise of equality. As a seventh-grade student, I was taught that America needed to help South Vietnam hold onto its freedom from communist rule. Sending in our military seemed like the answer and the right thing to do. Watching the draft lottery on live tv in December of 1969 was deeply upsetting, just knowing that boys as young as eighteen could be sent to fight a war so far from home.

As the spring of 1970 approached, my Dad received news that he had been admitted to the Supreme Court Bar. He was to fly to Washington, D.C. for a swearing in ceremony and then was invited to the White House for a reception in the Rose Garden with President Nixon. Of course, my Mom would be joining him for both the ceremony and the reception.

My grandparents were in charge of us while my parents were in Washington. My brother, Harris, had suffered a terrible ski accident in January and was now in a full thigh-to-foot cast, relying on crutches to get around. He had broken so many bones that the surgery required metal rods and screws to hold everything together.

To help pass the time, and ease the boredom and frustration of not skiing, my brothers and I invented a competition to see how long we could balance ourselves on the crutches with our feet pressed against the wall. Harris quickly became the reigning champion despite having to lift and hold his heavy cast, that is until he lost his balance, fell, and broke his cast. My grandfather was perturbed. It was good for Harris, though, because his cast was reduced to just below his knee and included a rubber heel for walking. This newfound mobility, was thrilling, which he took too far when he broke the new cast while out riding his bike. My grandfather had gone from exasperated to completely beside himself.

Meanwhile, my parents missed their flight from Denver to Casper (my grandfather was paged over one of the dreaded white, (bad news) phones at the airport). Needless to say, my grandfather was truly vexed.

Finally, when my parents arrived, my mom was bursting with excitement about meeting President Nixon. But in truth, what delighted her most was simply spending time among the countless beautiful roses. She later remarked that the experience rivaled the famous cherry tree blossoms, truly a gardener’s dream.

My dad passed away before the disgrace and shame of Nixon’s Watergate scandal came to light, but I can still clearly hear him saying, “feet of clay,” a phrase that refers to a hidden flaw or weakness in an otherwise admirable person.

I also remember an offhand comment my dad made one evening at dinner. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it, but his words have stayed with me for years: “The third World War and potential downfall of this country will come from within, we’ll collapse like a third-world country.”

Looking back, I realize my dad’s grim dinner-table predictions weren’t just warnings, they were reminders. Reminders that what holds a family or a country together is resilience and humor, even if the leader of the free world turns out to have clay feet.

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.