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. 

Based on recent intelligence reports indicating that Rock Hall has become one of the most popular communities on the Eastern Shore in recent years, the Spy assigned Agent 86 to conduct aerial reconnaissance to capture the town and the nearby Eastern Neck Island Wildlife Refuge for a close examination of these remarkable assets.

This video is approximately two minutes in length.

October opens with Saturn, just about a week past opposition, high up in the eastern sky after dark and visible all night.  Look for it just below the nearly Full Moon on October 5th.  Full Moon is one night later.

This month the tilt of Saturn’s rings narrows so that only larger telescopes will reveal them clearly.  The variation of Saturn’s and Earth’s orbital planes around the Sun cause this.  Most of the time we, on Earth, are either above Saturn’s orbital plane, or below it.  But now we coincide with its plane from our point of view.

Saturn’s continues to be the guide for our finding Neptun through binoculars.  Centering the ringed planet in a binoculars field of view, Neptune may be seen at the outer edge of that field.  That would be at 11:00 o’clock if the field of view were a clock face.  Currently Neptune is 2.7 billion miles from Earth, while Saturn is 816 million miles away!

On the night of October 9/10 the Moon, just 3 days past Full, will appear to pass through the Pleiades open star cluster in the eastern sky.  It will temporarily block several of the Pleiades stars, especially between 11 pm and 1 am that night.

Jupiter comes up in the eastern night sky around 12:30 am local time on October 1st but will be well up in the east before midnight by October 31st.  Jupiter appears below and left of Gemini’s two brightest stars, Castor and Pollux.  The waning crescent Moon will be above Jupiter in the early morning hours of October 13^th before dawn.

Jupiter always pleases sky-watchers with telescopes because of its colorful cloud bands.  Watching Jupiter with patience over several minutes through the eyepiece will reveal other swirling details in its active atmosphere.

Brilliant Venus continues to shine in the eastern sky before dawn, but its altitude is shrinking as its orbit is bringing it around between us and the Sun.  Next month it will be lost in the glare of the Sun for a while.  Note the crescent Moon near Venus on October 19^th and near Spica, brightest star in Virgo on October 31st.

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Dennis Herrmann developed a life-long interest in astronomy at an early age and got his first telescope at the age of 12. Through his 43 years of teaching at Kent County High School he taught Astronomy and Earth/Space Science and coached track and field and cross country. He led and participated in numerous workshops on astronomy at the Air and Space Museum (DC), the Maryland Science Center, and the Mid-Atlantic Planetarium Society. He loves sharing and explaining the night sky to increase understanding and enjoyment of it to folks of all ages.

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. 

The weather was perfect, but the cars were better.  There were dozens of them, ranging from an extremely rare 1913 National to Porsche 911s fresh off the showroom floor.  Where were these spectacular cars?  At the Oxford Community Center awaiting the checkered flag marking the start of the annual Oxford Road Rally.

This Spy was sent to observe the start of the rally.  A 1970s Trabant, an East German car built by communists, had been spotted at the OCC earlier in the month, at the Cars N’ Coffee event. 

 

Cars lined up early for the race, providing spectators with an opportunity to see some of the finest automobiles on the Eastern Shore. I was thrilled to see a 1940 Packard 110.

 

 

And a 1954 Buick Eight Super woody station wagon, restored to perfection.  

 

 

This spy admires the courage of the owners entering these museum-quality cars in a road race.

Among the more remarkable entries was a 1953 Jaguar XK 120 race car.  Look at that windshield.

 

Have you ever seen the 1913 National?  The Smithsonian Institution doesn’t have one, but, last Saturday one was parked in front of the OCC and participated proudly in the rally.

 

 

More modern cars at the rally included an early Dodge Viper. The car boasts a 10-cyclindar engine that is sometimes described as sounding like a milk truck.

 

 

And I always love seeing Ford GTs.  A red one looked ready for this year’s Le Mans.

 

 

At 9:00 a.m. Oxford police led the cars out of the OCC.  The race was on!

 

 

The race was a fantastic success.  This Spy recommends that anyone with a sports or classic car participate in next year’s rally.  Fun is guaranteed.

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.