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May 21, 2025

Cambridge Spy

Nonpartisan and Education-based News for Cambridge

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Remembering Mid-Shore Philanthropist John Wyatt

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After decades of starting and running lucrative businesses, John Wyatt could have easily retired and enjoyed his spoils. But that wasn’t his style. Following the sale of his sixth business, he turned to his spouse, Janice, for ideas about what to do next.

“Our children had just graduated from college or were well on their way, so we knew they would be fine,” he explained to this writer once. “And [Jan] said, ‘Well, what about all the kids who haven’t had the advantages?’”

By “advantages,” she meant educational ones. John had always been grateful for the excellent education he’d gained at James Ruse Agricultural High School and the University of New England in his native Australia. That’s why, when he came to the United States in the late 1970s, he was so shocked by the substandard quality of our schools.

Eventually, he would be able to afford to help change that in his own modest way. One of the places he would concentrate on was Dorchester County. So, when John Wyatt died on May 5th, children of all ages in Dorchester lost a significant advocate and friend.

After moving to the U.S., John became involved with a number of successful technology concerns, including Cohen & Wyatt (president), James Martin & Co (CEO), Ariel Research Corp (president & CEO), and Cigital Inc (president, CEO, and chairman). In June 2018, he and his spouse invested that success in the John & Janice Wyatt Foundation.

J2W’s central goal was to create educational equity for disadvantaged children so they had a stronger chance of going on to be contributing citizens. It began providing grants to public education institutions and non-profits for specific programs in Winchester and Fairfax County, Virginia, and in Dorchester County, Maryland. The reason those locations were chosen was that J2W’s executive director lived in Winchester while the Wyatts had homes in Fairfax and Cambridge.

John wasn’t just an “angel investor” who provided money and stayed out of the way. In 2018, he started Wyatt Consulting, which was dedicated to improving the effectiveness of education & social programs. He joined the board of the organization Moving Dorchester Forward. He attended meetings of the Cambridge Association of Neighborhoods. He talked to the press at length about J2W and his beliefs in childhood learning. And he personally contributed to the campaigns of Dr. Susan Morgan and Dr. Theresa Stafford when they ran for the Board of Education (and won).

“He approached me asking probing questions as to what I wanted to achieve,” remembered Dr. Morgan. “Since I loved talking about ways to improve education, we struck up a conversation. He ended up contributing to my campaign. But that wasn’t the end of it, he would contact me regularly after my election to see if there was anything he could do to help.”

Despite decades of living in America, John still had an Australian accent and said, “Cheers, mate.” He was a nice guy with a passion for what he was involved in. And he will be missed.

“His warm laugh and laid-back personality made him an easy person to talk with,” said Dr. Morgan. “His death has left a large hole in the community of Cambridge and Fairfax. I will certainly miss him greatly. My heart goes out to his family and all who had the pleasure to have known him.”

“John was simply a wonderful human being,” remarked J2W Executive Director Matthew Peterson, “incredibly wise and determined to ensure excellence in all things: himself, his team, and in the performance of the work. At the same time, he was so full of life, he was kind, and he met every day with a broad smile and inclination to laugh. Every community, around the region and the world, in which John was a part of lost something real and true with his passing.”

Three years ago the Spy sat down with John to learn more about his commitment to education.

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

When Your Life is the Story By Laura J. Oliver  

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Note: On June 4, Laura Oliver and Andrew Oliver will be reading stories as part of the Spy Night Series at the Avalon Theatre. Doors open at 5:30 pm

Three years ago today, when I started writing these weekly stories, I confided, “You might as well know up front that I believe in life after death, mental telepathy, and mind over matter.” I was being a little facetious since I also mentioned having spent my childhood trying to make my cat Purrfurr levitate. But I’ve created a book of these columns now and titled it “Something Other Than Chance” because when I think about how we met and about the other intriguing connections we’ve explored, I do believe we experience inexplicable miracles of timing that may be an expression of a power we have yet to comprehend.

As a panelist at the Washington Writers Conference two weeks ago, I had the opportunity to pitch this next book to several of 12 literary agents who had come for a ‘pitch fest.’ If this sounds kind of fast and aggressive, that’s because it is. Each pitch is precisely five minutes. Having sold my first book without an agent, I’d never subjected myself to a multiple pitch fest before. It’s like Speed Dating meets Shark Tank.

Here’s how it works. You line up ahead of your appointment time outside the pitch room, with the 11 other writers pitching one of the agents in that time slot. If your appointment is, say, 11:52, then at exactly 11:52, on the dot, the door opens, and you all crowd in simultaneously, scanning the room for the desk at which your target is seated. Once you find her, you have until 11:57 to vacate your seat for the next hopeful. If you don’t get up on your own at the sound of the bell, you are tasered.

Not really. You are escorted out by a very polite timekeeper.

Having helped other writers prepare queries and pitches, I had learned a few things about this process. Like know who your target readership is, which means who will buy your book? And the answer can’t be “Humans.” Or “Earthlings,” or “Everyone with eyeballs.”

So, you sit there wishing you could just do a Mr. Spock mind-meld—put three fingers on the side of the agent’s temple and telepathically transmit your book into her brain so that you don’t even need your whole 5 minutes. Instead, you must articulate your subject, audience, books similar to your own that have sold well, your ability to market, and your credentials– in a charismatic yet professional way.

In 300 seconds.

The gun went off, and we all pressed through the door only. I couldn’t recognize which agent was mine because all the seats filled immediately. Bewildered, I approached desk after desk as if searching for a seat in a game of musical chairs, only to realize someone had taken my spot and was using up my precious five minutes pitching her book out of turn. The timekeeper saw my distress, recognized the interloper and made her leave, but by that time I had less than 240 seconds. Four minutes to explain how the agent would make money helping me get my book published and why I would be a low-maintenance, super-fun person with whom to collaborate.

I think I said I love dogs because I knew from her bio she had a labradoodle. I hope we bonded over All Creatures Create and Small. The stakes felt so high at the time, though less than 1% of agent requests to see the manuscript become a book.

The high stakes made it feel like the proverbial life review when we make the transition from this life to the next. When we end this book and start another and hope for a 4-star review or a positive blurb.

This is my story, you say, and I am the only one who could have written this particular tale. I needed a lot of help, thank you. It’s full of conflict and loss, and the protagonist is deeply flawed, but she knows this and works hard to improve.

Here, you see the timekeeper edging over, and you revert to sputtering everything you know about plotting a story and crafting a life. And nothing is as it appears! Someone goes on a trip! A stranger comes to town!

“Sorry, you’re out of time,” the timekeeper says, and you rise to stand in front of the person who holds your fate in her hands.

A girl loves a dog. Has babies. Makes bad choices, then better ones. 

“Is there transformation,” the agent asks?

I hope so. After all, that was the point of this effort, this book, this life.

“What’s the genre?” the agent asks. “ Adventure? Romance? Mystery? Coming of age?”

Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

“Sum it up in one line,” she says as the timekeeper touches your arm. “What’s this book really about, and why would I read it?”

“Because it’s about you,” I say, suddenly realizing this is true.

And because, in the end, it’s a love story.

 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

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

Food Friday: Deelish Sammies

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Ah, late spring. It is a beautiful time of the year. The fireflies are beginning to sparkle in the blue twilight of the back yard. A bunny is enjoying chowing down on the new grass in the front yard. There are even more wondrous smells these days for Luke the wonder dog on our daily tours of the neighborhood’s hedges and flower beds. The long days stretch slowly toward the last day of school. There are too many awards nights, school field trips, graduation parties and political protests to attend – who has time for normal, sit-down family dinners? For that matter, who has time to plan those meals? Maybe Martha, but don’t forget, she has staff on hand. The rest of us, running our own tiny on-a-shoestring-enterprises, need to plan on the fly. Which is why I am suggesting deelish Sammies for every occasion. They can be made ahead, they are portable, they are economical, and they are filling. And they are easy to accessorize.

In this complicated, overly-scheduled, anxiety-fraught, spread sheet-specific life, don’t be a Stanley Tucci. I know, Stanley Tucci is sweet and winsome. He has sparkling eyes, and tasteful scarves, and the jovial air of bonhomie. He is a foodie. He got us through COVID with his videos of nice, stiff homemade Negronis. We loved him in Julie and Julia. He helped us understand the mysterious ways of the Vatican in the timely film Conclave. If I see him passionately swallow one more obscure regional Italian delicacy on yet another travel show, I will surely puke. I have maxed out on the ubiquity of Stanley. He was quoted in a recent Food and Drink Magazine about the most delicious sandwich he has ever eaten. He didn’t wax poetical or nostalgic about his mother’s homemade tuna salad sandwiches, or the prosaic turkey sandwich he could have had at his local London pub. He didn’t mention even the legendarily expensive burger from Balthazar in New York City. No. Stanley Tucci’s best sandwich was street food in Rome. It was a smoked cow tongue, with Romaine lettuce, and homemade mayonnaise, on local bread. Surely, without a doubt, it was the best he has ever tasted. We cannot top that. We cannot possible compare our own boring, drab, suburban life with his glittering world.

But we can try. Luke, Mr. Sanders, and I are not going to Italy any time soon. In fact, cooking has been a challenge this week, because we have been painting the kitchen cabinets, and the long pine table is crammed with boxes of silverware, plates, bowls, cookie sheets, wooden spoons, measuring cups and boxes of foil, Saran Wrap, and parchment paper. It’s hard to find anything. But there is a cutting board around here, someplace, and a good bread knife. We don’t need homemade mayo. Bring on the tomatoes and the fresh mozzarella, Stanley.

When you are driving home from a graduation, or get stuck in traffic going to the beach, you can pull over along the way, and reach inside your souvenir Trader Joe’s insulated bag, and pull out a homemade burrata caprese sandwich. You won’t need homemade mayo. In fact, some Utz Sour Cream & Onion chips and a Diet Coke can only enhance your foodie experience. Go ahead – you can be an Eastern Shore original, and have Utz Crab Chip seasoned chips. (Stanley will probably opt for Italian chips: San Carlo – PiùGusto Porchetta. Ewwww. )

The Spy Test Kitchen Caprese Sandwich.

Don’t take my word for it – here are some more Deelish Italian sandwiches for your own armchair travel experience.

Here is the interview with our worldly, movie star pal, Stanley Tucci:

“There is an art to the business of making sandwiches which it is given to few ever to find the time to explore in depth. It is a simple task, but the opportunities for satisfaction are many and profound.”
― Douglas Adams

Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil, and ink.

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

Growing a Special Tree at BAAM: A Check in with Director Dina Daly and Dr. James Bell

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In the Spy’s regular check-in with BAAM—Building African American Minds—we sit down again with co-founder and director Dina Daly and director of instruction Dr. James Bell to discuss the latest developments in one of Mid-Shore’s most transformative education and afterschool programs.

From the long-anticipated opening of BAAM’s new facility to the expansion of its summer enrichment offerings and an inspiring investment in its girls’ program, Daly and Bell reflect on the vision, the momentum, and the deep community partnerships that continue to drive BAAM forward. They also share stories behind the building’s symbolic tree mural and announce a community summit to help shape the future of girls’ programming at BAAM.

This ongoing series highlights the people and programs shaping opportunity for the next generation.

This video is approximately six minutes long. For more information or to make a donation to BAAM, please go here.

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

 Tenants of the Heart By Laura J. Oliver

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What’s worse than spotting a quarter-sized spider on the ceiling above your bed as you turn out the light?

Instantly switching the lamp back on to discover he’s gone.

How will you know in the morning he didn’t crawl out the window? The idiotic scenario your half-asleep partner tried to sell as you high-stepped on the mattress clutching a paper towel?

Each itchy red bite on your shoulder will have two tiny punctures, not one.

Spider-fun-fact.

When I was about six, and we still lived at Barnstead, the house my parents built by renovating a barn, there were plenty of creatures that bit, stung, or were just generally gross when hopping across the wide wood planks of my bedroom floor at night. Knowing the distinction was a matter of experience in which we kids took pride. When the neighbors invited cousins from Baltimore to visit (kids with very white feet, who called minnies “minnows”), those interlopers got more side-eye than sympathy upon shrieking, “I got bit by a bee!”

“Bit by a bee,” we’d repeat with an eye-roll.

The first time I was bitten at the Barn I was about five, playing out by the white wood rail fence that led down to the river. I’d seen a soft tunnel of mounded dirt and had decided, as one does, to poke a stick in it. Only a few inches down, I encountered a soft gray vole. Delighted with my find, I picked the creature up, and it promptly sunk its tiny, beaver-like teeth into my thumb. I yelped in disbelief—unable to reconcile my harmless intentions with the unwarranted aggression. I ran back to the house to show my mother my wound, but she barely glanced from the kitchen sink. She was seldom alarmed if you still had a pulse.

Our cat was a biter, too. Kimmie was a demented Siamese who liked to hide under the Early American sofa skirt at bedtime, lying in wait for bare, little-girl feet to make a run across the braided rug for the stairs. She’d streak out from her hiding place, wrap her front legs around the closest bare ankle, and sink her teeth in, back claws thrumming and latched on with the diabolical tenacity of an ankle monitor.

We talked about the possibility of being bitten by a snake; there were plenty of them in the pasture and pine woods (and one in the clothes dryer), and I often wondered if I’d actually suck the venom out of my sister’s leg should such a crisis arise or alternatively, thank her for her model horse collection and take off for the house.

But the worst biting incident was our own dog and one of the neighbor’s visiting cousins. Stormy was a German Shepherd pup named for my father’s dog as a boy growing up in Illinois—the loyal companion who, badly injured, had waited for Dad to return home from school to die.

My mother was walking our Stormy on a leash, on our own beach, when a little girl visiting from next door, crossed the property line uninvited, rushed up to the dog, and reached out to touch his face.

Startled, not yet thoroughly socialized, and perhaps protective of my mother on the other end of the lead, Stormy instinctively snapped at the child, leaving a bite just below her eye.

Chaos ensued. Face wounds bleed a lot. The neighbors threw the wailing child in a car to make a mad dash for the hospital; the fan belt broke, it was a hot July afternoon, and I don’t know how she finally got there. Pretty sure she needed stitches, and we needed a lawyer we didn’t have when her parents sued. We needed money we couldn’t spare when they won $600 and a demand that our dog, on a leash, on his own property, be put down.

I would come to see my mother cry three more times before I was 12, before we moved from the river. But the first time you see a parent cry is the worst, I think.  When they took Stormy away, Mom told me he was going to police school, but she wouldn’t let me see her face when she said it.

It’s a funny thing how mothers will literally throw themselves in front of a moving train to save their child, but there is less written about what a child would do to save her mother. To make her happy. To never see her cry again.

She might take on a profession she would not have otherwise considered. She might live in a town she’d rather leave. She might live her life on a river and always wonder about mountains. She might marry a young man with the right stuff Mom approved of and wonder what happened to the bad boy with the six-string guitar and gold Mustang. The boy leaving for Scotland who wanted her to skip college and come with him.

It’s a rite of passage, I guess. Coming to be grateful for your parents’ influence. Realizing parents cry, mothers’ hearts break. That you will one day want to protect the one who protected you.

When I was newly married and very young, I used to imagine that my husband and my mother were both drowning, and I could only save one. I agonized over my choice.

I know, I know. Who does this???

I felt this was a test I had to pass—a question to which I had to know the answer. I felt as if I had to break my heart open to see who resided there.

I am less black and white these days, and the heart’s occupancy and weight restrictions are without limitations.

No matter who resides there now, dear reader, no matter how many people you love and how many love you, for all of us, there first was a mother.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

 

 

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

Food Friday: Rhubarb Spring

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There are many issues that can drive us nuts here in the Spy Test Kitchens. We are only human, after all, except for Luke the wonder dog, who is sanguine and tolerant of almost anything but a knock on the door, or a passing UPS truck. We like simple, reliable, and tasty. We do not like recipes that call for extraordinary ingredients that can only be found in exotic Middle Earth market stalls one week out of the year, or in haute organic Brooklyn food co-ops. Our time is valuable, and who wants to waste it searching for obscure and expensive ingredients? Not us. We have books to read, streamers to watch, and garden weeds to ignore. Please – be sure that the ingredients are easily found.

As you wander through the farmers’ market, or the more prosaic grocery store produce department, these warm spring days, you will see piles of lovely, gleaming, jewel-like fruits and vegetables, and you can channel the excitement of all the fancy pants food editors: suddenly, you can see why Bon Appétit has a page about the beauty of rhubarb. Or why Felicity Cloake of The Guardian is practically waxing poetical about Rhubarb Crumble

Just look at that rhubarb! Look at the chartreuse greens – the shocking rosy pinks! Rhubarb could be a charming vintage Lilly Pulitzer print, without all the cumbersome Palm Beach pretenses. Rhubarb, that coy herbaceous perennial, is here, but it isn’t going to last forever, so get out your thinking caps and pre-heat your ovens.

I was super pleased to find this recipe for rhubarb scones on the Food52 website. Rhubarb Scones I had gone off on an internet stroll, looking for something timely and spring-y for this week’s column. I like rhubarb. It reminds me of spring, and makes me think about strawberries and cream and picnics and garden parties I have only read about. Which leads to clotted cream and scones and a long ago tea I had with a dear chum in a churchyard in England. So much of food enjoyment is thinking of connections, and remembering ideal meals and happy times.

What is best about this recipe is that it is highly adaptable. What? Your grocery store doesn’t have rhubarb? Rhubarb hasn’t ripened yet in your area, so there isn’t any at the farmers’ market? Don’t panic – substitute! The comments on this recipe in Food52 are loaded with helpful suggestions. Use strawberries! Use peaches! Use strawberry jam! Try frozen rhubarb. We are baking the scones, after all, which transforms the fruit. We can wait until June to decorate these scones with tiny fresh strawberries and raspberries. Right now we need some comfort food, and we need it fast.

Growing up, we had a couple of rhubarb plants growing in the lower garden, near the compost pile by the barn. We never ate the rhubarb. My mother was never going to serve Rhubarb Spritzers, so I think it they were plants she inherited from the original owners of the house. Like the Jack-in-the-Pulpit by the back steps and the bank of Lilies of the Valley by the stone wall. I have to use store-bought (or farmers’ market-bought) rhubarb, as yet tariff-free.

Every spring there are cascades of recipes for rhubarb and strawberry pies, cakes, jams, lemon bars, tarts, crumbles and fools. Which are all wonderful and delicious, but this year I want to try a couple of new recipes; where rhubarb isn’t just a novelty ingredient, but is included as a subtle and unusual spring flavor.

Martha has a very posh rhubarb dessert, if you stumble upon a great stash of rhubarb: Rhubarb Pavlova

Maybe you want to have coffee instead of tea? Here is a Brooklyn coffee cake recipe that you can try. There is nothing in it that can’t be found at our less-than-fancy corner grocery store: Rhubarb Coffee Cake

And you can re-visit the 1950s with a rhubarb upside down cake, with help from Betty Crocker. Sometimes a cake mix is worth it! Rhubarb Upside Down Cake

More modern is a Rhubarb Pound Cake

But I am saving the best for last – a Rhubarb Collins. This is the way to enjoy spring, a nice tall Collins glass in hand as you sit on the back porch, watching the cardinals dart from the bird feeder, while that bunny sits calmly in the back yard, nibbling the grass that you had no intention of mowing today. Pour some more Champagne, please! Let there be fireflies!

Rhubarb Collins
1 stalk rhubarb, trimmed and cut into 1/2 -inch pieces (about 3/4 cup)
1/2 cup sugar
2 ounces gin
1 ounce lemon juice
2 to 4 ounces Champagne

Make a simple syrup with the rhubarb and sugar: combine the rhubarb and sugar with 3/4 cup water in a small pot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to moderately low and simmer until slightly thickened and bright pink in color, about 20 minutes. Let the syrup cool then pour through a colander set over a bowl. Press down gently and toss the solids. (The rhubarb simple syrup can be made in advance and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to one week.)

Combine one ounce of the rhubarb simple syrup in a cocktail shaker with the gin and lemon juice. Fill the shaker with ice and shake vigorously until completely mixed. Strain into a chilled highball glass and top with Champagne or Prosecco. Add a straw, and a strawberry for decoration. Drink. Repeat. Enjoy. Spring is fleeting!

“Well, art is art, isn’t it?
Still, on the other hand, water is water!
And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does.” —Groucho Marx

Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil, and ink.

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

The Maryland Caucus with Foxwell and Mitchell: Jake Day vs. Andy Harris, Grading Wes Moore and Easton Election Results

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Every Wednesday, Maryland political analysts Len Foxwell and Clayton Mitchell discuss the politics and personalities of the state and region.

This week, Len and Clay take turns evaluating the chances of former Salisbury mayor and now Wes Moore’s cabinet secretary, Jake Day, taking on incumbent Congressman Andy Harris in the 1st District next year. They also discuss the challenging legislative session for Governor Moore and end with some closing thoughts on Easton Town Council election results that saw a decisive victory by challenger Don Abbatiello over incumbent, and Republican-party endorsed, Frank Gunsallus.

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This series brings together two of the most experienced and respected voices in Maryland public life—Len Foxwell and Clayton A. Mitchell, Sr. Their mission: to explore the evolving political terrain of Maryland, from the State House in Annapolis to the communities of the Eastern Shore.

Foxwell and Mitchell may come from different corners of the public square—one a strategist and public communicator, the other a jurist and administrative law expert—but they share a lifelong commitment to the mechanics and meaning of public service. Together, they offer something increasingly rare in American discourse: thoughtful, informed, and good-humored conversation grounded in facts, history, and lived experience.

Len Foxwell, founder of Tred Avon Strategies, is widely regarded as one of Maryland’s most influential political strategists. A veteran of nearly three decades in public life, he served as chief of staff to the Comptroller of Maryland from 2008 to 2020, where he was credited with helping build one of the nation’s most effective and forward-looking tax enforcement offices.

During that time, the Comptroller’s office recaptured more than $6 billion in unpaid taxes and won national praise for combating tax fraud and unethical financial practices. But Foxwell’s public impact wasn’t limited to budgetary stewardship. He also played a pivotal role in modernizing Maryland’s craft alcohol industry, working to ease outdated regulations and encourage growth for breweries, wineries, and distilleries across the state.

A writer and educator at heart, Foxwell also teaches professional writing and crisis communication at Johns Hopkins University. As one veteran journalist once wrote, “There are plenty of operatives who are talented and indispensable to their bosses. But only Foxwell has actually changed the trajectory of Maryland politics.”

Clayton A. Mitchell, Sr., brings an equally deep and distinguished record of public service. A native of the Eastern Shore, Mitchell served on the Maryland Department of Labor’s Board of Appeals for nearly 30 years, including four years as its Chairman. Appointed in 1994 by Governor William Donald Schaefer and reappointed by four successive governors from both parties, Mitchell presided over the state’s highest appellate authority for unemployment insurance disputes, helping shape how fairness and due process are applied to tens of thousands of Maryland workers.

A magna cum laude graduate of the University of Baltimore School of Law, Mitchell has also worked to expand legal access through education. He founded the Student Attorney Advocacy Program at his law school alma mater to ensure indigent claimants could receive representation in appeals proceedings. In addition to his public duties, he has maintained a part-time legal practice focused on administrative, land use, and environmental law.

Mitchell is equally respected for his civic leadership. He has served on the Selective Service Board and the Maryland Attorney General’s Environmental Advisory Council, authored legal reference works, and endowed a scholarship to help Maryland students pursue legal careers. As he said in a recent reflection, “Public service isn’t just about policy. It’s about people—about making sure the system works for everyone, especially those who don’t have a lobbyist or a lawyer.”

Together, Foxwell and Mitchell represent two sides of the same democratic coin—strategy and structure, politics and process, insight and institution. With the Maryland Caucus, they’ll shine a spotlight on the issues shaping Maryland today: education funding, judicial reform, land use, regional economics, environmental priorities, campaign strategy, and more.

Expect each episode to be as frank as it is thoughtful. Or as Foxwell recently quipped, “It may be called The Maryland Caucus, but we’re not handing out talking points.”

This video is approximately 15 minutes in length.

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

Making the Case for Nursing: A Chat with Shore Regional’s Danielle Wilson

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In this month’s installment of our ongoing series on healthcare on the Eastern Shore, The Spy sat down with Danelle Wilson, Chief Nursing Officer at Shore Regional Health, last week to discuss her path from military service to nursing leadership—and the urgent need to rebuild the nursing workforce as the region prepares for a major healthcare transformation.

With ground broken on a new $500 million regional medical center across from Easton Airport, Shore Regional Health is focused on attracting and retaining qualified nurses to meet the demands of a growing and aging population. As Wilson notes, “The new facility is more than just a building—it’s a commitment to innovation, excellence, and the future of healthcare on the Mid-Shore.”

Maryland is facing a significant nursing shortage. In 2022, nearly 25% of hospital nursing positions were vacant statewide, with a projected shortfall of 15,000 registered nurses by 2036. The challenge is even greater on the Eastern Shore, designated as a medically underserved area.

Wilson sees promise in new partnerships—with Chesapeake College, Salisbury University, and the University of Maryland School of Nursing—as well as programs like UMB’s R-HEALE (Rural Health Equity and Access Longitudinal Elective), which help train healthcare professionals committed to rural service.

“People want meaningful, flexible careers,” Wilson says. “And nursing offers that. At Shore, we’re building not just a hospital, but a pipeline—from classroom to bedside.”

As Nurses Week approaches, Wilson emphasizes the importance of recognizing frontline caregivers, supporting their well-being, and creating career pathways that last a lifetime.

“Whether you’re just starting out or looking for a new chapter, there’s a place for you in healthcare,” she says. “And we want you to find it here.”

This video is approximately ten minutes in length. For more information about nursing at Shore Regional Health please go here.

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

Sleepless in Annapolis By Laura J. Oliver

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Can you feel me staring at you as you sleep? You are as still as my pink robe tossed at the foot of the bed. You are not even dreaming by the look of it.

I’m gazing at you with more intrigue than resentment, although that may be a lie. Not only are you sound asleep, oblivious to my scrutiny, but you were unconscious 30 seconds after your (stupid) head hit the pillow.

Sorry. That was immature.

I’m tired, and I’m envious. And I’m ascribing to you all kinds of virtues that may be unwarranted. It just seems as if you should have at least a few things to worry about, be mentally replaying at least a few cringeworthy moments.

I love the warmth of your shoulder near mine, but let’s face it. That head doesn’t contain much except “come,” “treat,” and “squirrel,” in reverse order. I’ll take you for a walk in the morning and try not to disturb you as I turn over.

The primary reason I can’t sleep is this persistent ache in my left glute, for which I’m trying various remedies. A spinal injection and a month of intense acupuncture haven’t helped enough, so I’m thinking about massage, which I’m afraid I will love too much.

In search of additional sleep remedies, I’ve been asking friends what they do to fall asleep. My friend Joe doesn’t monkey around with the mind monkeys—he goes straight for the drugs. Unisom is his friend.

A guy in the waiting room at acupuncture swears the key is counting backward from 498. I like that he has a specific starting point that clearly is no one else’s.

Till now.

I want to ask him why we are using 498, but he already has his shoes on and is heading out as I’m heading in.

My friend Haley has recently discovered a sure-fire method: seeing how many words she can make from a single word. She is way too excited about this.

Like monkey-mind. There’s key, monk, on, oink, din, mind, in, dim. Are you sleeping? Like  gratitude. There’s read, it, are, rate, great, dear, due, rag…still awake.

So, I’ve come up with my own method. It’s making a list of what if’s?

If I’d been the first-born girl instead of the last in my family, I would have no girl skills and standards at all.

If I had not gone on a blind date when I was 19, I would not have my three children. I’d have other children, no doubt, but who wants those?

If I had married my sophomore-year boyfriend, Will, I’d have been a widow at 55.

If Sue D. hadn’t majored in drama the year I majored in drama, I would not have changed majors.

If I had not had an offer to work for a magazine the same day I was accepted to graduate school in pastoral counseling, I’d have been a therapist, not a writer. And yes…I do question whether there’s much of a difference, you memoirists.

If I had not volunteered at the SPCA, my solitary heart would not have been rescued by the warm body sleeping belly up in my bed.

But backing the camera up, if my 10th great-grandfather had not transferred passage from the leaking Speedwell to the Mayflower in September 1620, I might not have been born in America.

If the planet Theia had not hit proto-Earth with a glancing blow 4.5 billion years ago, we would not have seasons and a moon.

If we didn’t have a moon to slow us, an Earth day would still be 19.5 hours as it was a billion years ago.

No full moons, Harvest Moons, Wolf Moons.

No moon rivers.

If I had gone to visit my mother more when she was in assisted living, perhaps I’d sleep better at night.

How many words can I make from regret?

How many from love?

Some words are indivisible.

Like me, beloveds. Like you.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

Note: On June 5 Laura Oliver and Andrew Oliver will be reading stories as part of the Spy Night Series at the Avalon Theatre. Doors open at 6:00 pm

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

Food Friday: Fiesta

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Cinco de Mayo is coming already. There will be tacos, and maybe some good Mexican beer. I have to confess that I came to the taco party late. When I was growing up our cooking spices were limited to Christmas egg nog nutmeg, cinnamon for cinnamon toast, black pepper and baking powder. Garlic was an exotic commodity. Red pepper was on the tables at Italian restaurants. I doubt if my mother was acquainted with cumin. We never had Mexican food. My mother’s idea of adventurous ethnic cooking was preparing corned beef for St. Patrick’s Day. And so my indoctrination came from my peers, as do so many seminal youthful experiences.

The first tacos I ever had were at my friend Sheila’s older sister’s house, down near the beach. Margo was sophisticated and modern. We adored her and the string of characters who wandered through her tiny house. She made tacos with regularity, and we mooched often. From her I learned how to shred the cheese and the lettuce and chop the onions that went on top of the taco meat, which we browned in a frying pan and then covered with a packet of Old El Paso Taco Seasoning Mix and a cup of water. I thought it couldn’t get any better than that.

Like Tim Walz, my introduction to Mexican cuisine came via “white guy tacos” which are “pretty much ground beef and cheese.” We must have had similar upbringings: “Here’s the deal… black pepper is the top spice level in Minnesota.”

Sheila and I graduated to platters of nachos and tacos at the Viva Zapata restaurant. (I think we were actually more attracted to the cheap pitchers of sangria, which we drank, sitting outside in dappled shade under leafy trees, enjoying languid summer vacations.) And then we wandered into Mama Vicky’s Old El Acapulco Restaurant, with its dodgy sanitation, but exquisitely flaming jalapeños on the lard-infused refried beans. Ah, youth.

True confession: my children were raised on tacos made with Old El Paso Taco Seasoning, but they always had vegetarian or fat-free refried beans. None of that deelish, heart-health-threatening lard.

Beef Tacos
45 minutes, serves 4

½ cup vegetable oil
12 small 5-inch corn tortillas
1 pound ground beef
Salt & pepper
1 medium onion, chopped
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 fresh hot chile (like jalapeño) seeded & minced, optional
1 tablespoon ground cumin
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 cup roughly chopped radishes for garnish
2 limes, quartered, for serving

Crumble the ground beef into a frying pan, sprinkle with salt and pepper, breaking up the meat as it cooks, until it starts to brown – about 5 or 10 minutes. Add the onion and cook, until it softens and begins to color. 5 or 10 minutes more.

Add the garlic and the chile (be sure to wash your hands thoroughly after handling the chile – I didn’t and rubbed my eye and wept for a good while afterward) and cook about 3 minutes, until they soften. Add the cumin and tomato paste and cook and stir until fragrant. I added a little water, perhaps a throw back from my Old El Paso training, but the mixture just seemed too dry. Experiment for yourself.

Warm the oil in another frying pan over a medium-high heat. Lay a tortilla shell in the oil, and let it bubble for about 15 seconds before turning it over, carefully, with tongs. Let that side bubble away for another 15 seconds or so and then fold the shell in half. Turn it back and forth until it is as crisp as you want. Mr. Sanders likes a softer shell, I like explosively brittle.

Divide the meat into the lovely, crunchy shells and top with cilantro and radishes. Squeeze some lime on top. Good-bye to grated cheese. Good-bye to too much sodium. (There are 370mg of sodium in a 1 ounce packet of Old El Paso. [I still have a packet in the spice cabinet, obviously.] Plus it costs about $2.59, so just imagine how much better this recipe is for you, sodium-wise and financially.)

Open beer, pour beer, drink beer.
Other topping suggestions:
 guacamole, chopped tomatoes, shredded cabbage, chopped scallions, black beans, salsa, shredded lettuce, chopped peppers, sliced radishes, sour cream.

When my children were little, I used spinach for their tacos instead of lettuce. I don’t think they have forgiven me yet. To keep up with current trends, you could try using kale for your healthy tacos.
But don’t trust my word for it, try these excellent healthy taco recipes: Celebrate Cinco de Mayo

How to turn leftover roast lamb into mouthwatering tacos – recipe

Happy Cinco de Mayo!
“On the subject of spinach: divide into little piles. Rearrange again into new piles. After five of six maneuvers, sit back and say you are full.”
—Delia Ephron

 

Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil and ink.

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