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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

Board games were always a much desired birthday or Christmas gift in my childhood home. Saturday morning cartoons were filled with commercials for the latest toys and games. Most of the kids in my friend group had Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, and Scrabble, but it was a big status thing to have a game closet. As the third child in a family of four kids, my game closet was filled to the brim. Games were there on rainy summer days, weekends, and times when boredom took hold.

I can still sing the jingle, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,” from the game Camp Granada. It was one of my very first favorites. The object of the game was to move the camp bus, collect three “icky” animals, and then make your way out of Camp Granada. Of course, if the bus “broke down,” the unlucky player had to lose a turn.

Another favorite was The Game of Life. Unlike the quick turns of Camp Granada, this one was an event, it could take up to forty-five minutes to play with as many as six players gathered around the board. I loved how it simulated the journey from childhood to retirement, with all the big milestones along the way, choosing a career, getting married, having children, and eventually reaching retirement. Spinning the colorful wheel and watching where the little plastic cars would land always made the game feel like a miniature version of real life.

Another television commercial driven gift was Mouse Trap. The real thrill of this game wasn’t as much the competition as building the mousetrap. Piece by piece we cooperated in assembling the Rube Goldberg style machine. Watching the ball roll, gears turn, and the trap finally drop was pure childhood excitement, it felt like magic every time we played.

Clue was a game that made frequent appearances in our house. It had so many moving parts that it always felt a little more sophisticated than the others. The rooms, the character cards, and the tiny weapons added a layer of mystery and excitement. We loved slipping into the roles of Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, (especially Miss Scarlet) or Professor Plum and trying to be the first to solve the whodunit. Every roll of the dice brought us closer to uncovering the culprit in the grand old mansion.

As the years went on, Clue became a favorite with my own children. Unlike some games parents secretly dread, this was one I was always happy to play. In lieu of television, one night a week we set aside time for a family board game, and Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, and Clue were always at the top of the list.

For my youngest, Cece, Clue was more than just a pastime, it was a passion. She loved it so much that when she packed her trunks for college in London, she made sure to tuck the game inside. Now, years later, Cece has come full circle. She’s not just playing the game, she’s embodying it, appearing as Miss Scarlet in the local stage production of Clue at the Oxford Community Center in a sold out crowd to rave reviews. From rolling dice around the family table to stepping into the spotlight, it feels like the story of the game has woven itself right into her own life.

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.