The fourth hole at Chester River Golf Club is a par three over water. Depending on the pin placement, from the regular tees, a successful shot—one that lands safely on the green—requires a carry of somewhere between 130 and 155 yards, and on many days, the wind makes the hole play a bit longer. It’s a lovely hole, but don’t be fooled: it can bite.

A few years ago, I was playing with my friend Key. I stepped onto the fourth tee, addressed the ball, and sent it—plunk!—to a watery grave. At that point, I had two options: I could hit my next shot from the drop area which was considerably closer to the green, or drop another ball on the tee on the line of my previous shot. Both options carried a one-stroke penalty. I’ll admit that I was frustrated so maybe that’s why I selected the second (and riskier) option. I dropped another ball on the tee, swung, and the ball flew up and away. It landed on the green, took a hop or two, and rolled straight into the hole. Later that afternoon, when I told my guru Eggman about what had happened, he yawned and said, “just another ho-hum par.”

Of course, he was right; my score on the hole was just a three that day. But there are threes and then there are threes, and this three was the latter. Keeping score matters.

I find myself keeping score a lot lately. Not as often on the Chester River golf course, but rather on the golf course of my life. I look back and see the error of my ways, and I remember the few times I hit it in the hole. I have no doubt I am many strokes over par on that particular golf course, but the memory of unexpected, even miraculous, recoveries help to soften the blow.

If keeping score matters, so does forgiveness. Here’s an example of what I mean by that: I am twelve years old, in seventh grade. Remarkably, I am in a front-row seat in Forbes Field watching my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play the vaunted New York Yankees in the first game of the 1960 World Series. Mickey Mantle is at bat. I whisper a little prayer, something along the lines of “God, if You let me get a foul ball, I promise I will become a minister.” On the very next pitch—I swear this is true!—Mantle takes a mighty cut, nicks a piece of the ball, and that ball rolls right toward me. I lean over the railing and pick it up: a foul ball—a World Series foul ball off the bat of Mickey Mantle! I am beyond dizzy with excitement, until it hits me: I just made a promise to God. Now what do I do?

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve told this story to two people: my wife and a kind friend. (He and I happened to be on the Chester River golf course at the time.) I’d been thinking a lot about that day so many years ago, and I’m haunted by the memory because I did not fulfill the promise I made to God. But both my wife and my friend said essentially the same thing to me: look at the scorecard of your life. There are many ways to be a minister, and God is probably not too disappointed in you. Late in the game, that thought comforts me.

There are threes and then there are threes. There are ministers and then there are ways to minister.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

We were in Annapolis last week to celebrate a family milestone. A year ago, my wife’s son and his beloved headed out to Colorado, ostensibly to attend a couple of concerts. But that’s not all they did: they also got married! It was a genius move: they had the wedding of their dreams without all the attendant family hullabaloo— just two people saying “I do” to each other under a sound track provided by a guitarist from one of their favorite bands and a rushing mountain stream. When we got word of their ceremony, we were surprised and maybe even a little stunned, but that quickly turned to elation because we realized that this was exactly the way Marcus and Lauren wanted to begin the rest of their lives together,

While we were in Annapolis, we stayed with family who live on the Eastport side of Spa Creek. From the deck of their comfortable home, the view never gets old. When the weather is right and I have some time on my hands, I’m perfectly content to sit quietly and enjoy the play of light and the passing parade of boats. Like Peter Sellers’ character Chauncey Gardner in “Being There,” I, too, “like to watch.”

I feel the same way about our front porch in Chestertown: that view never gets old either. But views are only the manifestation of our personal perspectives. From one side of our front porch, my view is of the lovely pocket green space across the street. However, if I switch to the other side of the porch—my wife’s preferred side—my perspective changes. I see Jane’s Church and the Wine & Cheese Shop, two of our town’s most important landmarks. I suppose the best view would be from the middle of the porch, but my usual seat is often slightly left of center. Now remember, I’m only talking about where I like to sit on the porch.

Let’s face it: your point of view is critical. It informs your world. It centers you. It’s either the first step of your next journey, or the last step of your previous journey. Maybe it can even make you feel like the Greek philosopher Archimedes when he discerned the principle of the lever: “Give me a place to stand (or in my case, to sit) and I will move the earth.”

But back to that happy day in Annapolis. I was comfortably ensconced on Emme’s and Poppy’s deck in cool, sunny weather, watching the clouds drift over the spire of St. Mary’s church on the Annapolis side of Spa Creek. It was Memorial Day weekend, so there was an endless parade of boats going up and down the creek, most of them bedecked with flags and bunting, the unmistakable signal of oncoming summer. It was a lovely day in the new month of ‘Maycember,’ that deceptively busy time of year marked by celebrations of all kinds of endings and beginnings. Teachers know another school year is almost over. Seniors are being launched into the world with words of varying degrees of wisdom from all those graduation speakers I warned you about a couple of weeks ago. The world is looking rosier by the day. But I’m neither a Pollyanna, nor oblivious to all that is going on in the world, both at home and abroad. I feel the chaos in my bones. Nevertheless, in that brief moment under scudding clouds and despite the chilly breeze, I felt something akin to hope because the best view was just coming into focus: we were finally going to gather and celebrate the next new branch on our family’s tall tree.

Welcome aboard, Lauren, Andrew, and Daniel!

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

’Tis the season of new beginnings. And so we celebrate the completion of one phase of our lives and the commencement of the next by donning all that academic regalia—our caps, gowns, and hoods—and step off into an unknown future with all the pomp and circumstance we can muster. We’ll joyfully move the tassels on our mortarboards from right to left, the traditional signal that tells all the world we are no longer merely undergraduates, but full-fledged GRADUATES! So, Gaudeamus igitur, everybody; Let us rejoice today, for now that we are armed with all this knowledge, we’re ready to take on this brave, new, crazy world, and make it better once and for all! Really?

I have a friend who used to make it his business to annually compile a list of significant commencement speakers and their words of wisdom. I haven’t heard from him for a while, but maybe he was on to something. Surely someone will say something somewhere that will make it all right again. So I’ve decided to explore the universe of this year’s graduation speakers. Who are they ? What words of wisdom will be spoken? Will they be sane or silly? You decide…

I’ll warn you: it’s a long and certainly incomplete list, but don’t worry; I’ve culled it for you. There are, of course, lots of politicians, because what politician worth his or her salt can pass up a chance to step up to the microphone and pontificate? But there are plenty of others on the guest speakers’ list, too: activists, actors, artists, and athletes; business leaders and bureaucrats, professors and philanthropists, scientists and soldiers. A plethora of illustrious alums. Even a Muppet! Ready? Let’s go!

Want to be entertained? Sandra Oh is speaking at Dartmouth while Henry Winkler—the Fonz!—is at Georgetown.  LeVar Burton—aka Kunta Kinte—is the speaker at Howard University and Steve Carrell is on the podium at Northwestern. Snoop Dogg will do his thing at USC. Usher is at Emory University in Atlanta, and Elizabeth Banks (“The Hunger Games”) is at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. And down in Nashville, Gary Sinise, Forrest Gump’s Lieutenant Dan, will be at Vanderbilt

Jerome Powell will deliver Princeton’s commencement speech. Wonder what’s on his mind? Kristi Noem will be keeping the homeland secure at Dakota State. And Donald Trump is on the list—twice: once at West Point and again at the University of Alabama. Hold on to your mortarboards!

Cue the fanfare: Katie Ledecky and her fourteen Olympic medals will be on display at Stanford. Another Olympian, Mia Hamm, is the speaker at the University of North Carolina. Simone Biles will be the speaker at Washington University in St. Louis. Ten!

Derek Jeter is on the dais at the University of Michigan and Orel Hershiser is on the mound at Bowling Green.

The Media is everywhere this spring: Scott Pelley will speak exactly for 60 Minutes at Wake Forest. Jonathan Karl is right here in Chestertown at Washington College. Al Roker is watching the weather at Siena College, and Steve Kornacki will be wearing khakis under his robe at Marist College.

Pope Leo XIV won’t be speaking at Villanova or anywhere else this year, but I wish he were. He’s seems both willing and able to speak truth to power.

My favorite? Kermit the Frog, croaking at the University of Maryland. You heard me: Kermit is coming to College Park! Will Maryland change its colors to green? Will Miss Piggy be in the audience?

So that’s the lineup, or at least some of it. As for any words of wisdom, truth, like beauty, will be in the eyes and ears of the beholders. Let’s just hope there is some humor, creativity, grace, and a sense of hope in the messages delivered. Especially hope; we need hope.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

Well, friends, the world sure got a little crazier since I was here last week. I mean, can you believe it? The new Pope is an American, and from the South Side of Chicago, no less! Pope Leo XIV may have spent a third of his life serving the people of Peru, and another third of his life deep in the quiet recesses of the Vatican, but c’mon: the White Sox haven’t looked this good since Shoeless Joe Jackson was in the lineup!

Meanwhile, over at the White House, Santa Clause apparently no longer resides at the North Pole but instead in Doha, Qatar, and he just delivered an early Christmas gift to the President: a brand, spanking new Air Force One that comes with absolutely no strings attached, even to the reindeer who’ll be pulling it on countless trips to Mr. Trump’s personal golf properties or down to Mar-a-Lago for the weekend! Thank you, Sheik Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, and a very merry Christmas to you, too!

Closer to home, our very own little property here on the Eastern Shore continued to observe its own special Mother’s Day tradition. We call Mother’s Day “Mulching Day” and we celebrate it by loading eleven inordinately heavy bags of black mulch into the back of the car, then unloading and opening the same into several iterations of a broken plastic wheelbarrow so that my wife—mother of two, grandmother of eight—can spread it all around the back and front yards under my patient and loving supervision. We also planted four new boxwoods in front of the porch, a new row of white begonias in front of them, and all kinds of bright new flowers in the big stone planters by the front steps. The lawn got mowed (I did that!), and another large bag of weeds went out to the curb, ready for pickup. My back is tired and my fingernails are dirty. Believe me: it’s not easy being a supervisor!

But then, of course, we had to clean up. We put away all the tools (which really means we had to reorganize the shed again), swept another dune of pollen off the porch, and recoiled at least a mile-and-a-half of garden hose because, as I’m sure you know, no project is really ever done until there’s no evidence there was a project in the first place. We aim for the appearance of effortless upkeep, a skill many dream of, but only a lucky few ever master.

But I have to say: I love seeing our house emerge from its annual winter doldrums and step sprightly into spring. Apparently, passersby do, too. My wife is far too modest to boast about all her hard work, but I enjoy basking in the glow of all the compliments we get from the folk who stop to admire her handiwork. I just flick a little water on my face to make it look like I’m sweaty and humbly accept the kudos they toss over the fence. “Yes; it really does look nice, doesn’t it? Thank you!”

And meanwhile, this crazy world continues to spin. This just in: remember those 145% tariffs the President imposed on China? Well, they just got slashed to 30% because “neither side wanted a decoupling.” Even Shoeless Joe wouldn’t take that bet!

So stay tuned: it really is a crazy world out there! I wonder what’s next…

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s that time of year: some atavistic impulse kicks in and we all go off on a cleaning tear. Maybe we’re just shaking off the winter doldrums, or maybe it’s all that green pollen that coats everything, our noses and throats included. Or maybe it’s just that we want a clean, fresh start, and what better time to do that than now, when this lovely planet is doing its own version of spring cleaning: trees in bud, bulbs blooming, grass growing—everything is regenerating and rejuvenating after months of dormancy and despair.

At home, I should have seen it coming. A week ago, my wife said she wanted to touch up a “one or two” spots in the kitchen with some fresh paint. Well, give a mouse a cookie and pretty soon, everything was off the walls and a major project was underway. A few days later, same thing, same room, but in our other home over on the Western Shore, except this time, everything had to come off all the counters and out of all the kitchen drawers and cabinets. All the silverware, all the plates and glassware, the coffee pot, the blender, the toaster oven, the fruit bowl…EVERYTHING. Them, of course, EVERYTHING needed a temporary place to reside which means that the dining room began to look like the Beltway during rush hour—all backed up with no place to go. Fortunately, two professional painters came to our rescue, so my wife was promoted to supervisor and the work got done in just two days. However, three more days later, the mouse and I are still in the process of moving things back to where they were, albeit with a little culling of the herd. Decluttering is good for the soul.

Remember that mouse who wanted a cookie? Now, she wants a glass of milk. This time her target is the porch that’s covered with last year’s dead leaves and this year’s whirligigs and pollen. That means everything has to come off so that our handyman friend can now paint the floor of the porch (we’re still over on the Western Shore, mind you) while we hose off all the wicker furniture which we’ve temporarily stacked in the driveway where the cars used to be. At one point,  I couldn’t find something I needed and began to mutter and moan. “What’s the matter?” my wife asked. I said, “Nothing, dear,” never daring for a moment to tell her that what I wanted to do was to stake my claim in the easy chair in front of the television so I could celebrate Easter by watching another golf tournament. Nothing says “Christ is risen!” like watching golf on TV.

Anyway, it’s probably true that once everything gets reassembled and properly stowed away, we’ll feel a modicum of satisfaction because we’ve done our duty and are on track to properly greet the new season. Nope; not so fast. Now that Mother Nature is awake and active again on the Eastern Shore, there’s a backyard full of work to do over there: weeds to pull, edges to cut, mulch to spread, and grass to mow. Fortunately, we know another guy whose back is strong and whose rates are reasonable so, like a baseball manager making his second trip to the mound in the same inning, I’ve signaled to the bullpen for my ace relief pitcher without a pang of regret or remorse. We’ll share the fun!

John Wesley, the father of Methodism, claimed that “cleanliness is next to godliness.” Well right now, I’m feeling especially godly, so on this spring Sunday afternoon, I’m finally going to sit down and watch a few grown men attempt to roll a small white ball into a hole with a flat stick. The mouse and her next spring cleaning project will just have to wait.

I’ll be right back.

 

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

I admit it: I spent most of last weekend watching The Masters. I assume most everyone is familiar with The Masters—the first of the golfing world’s four annual “major” tournaments. It takes place at the Augusta National Golf Club, a storied property in Georgia, and it comes at a time when those of us who live “up north” are desperate for spring. The Masters more than delivers spring in all its color and glory. Each of the eighteen holes on the property are named for a tree or flowering shrub, and the lush green fairways are always a promise of better weather ahead. Add to that splendid vernal picture, the history of the game, our nostalgia for its past champions, and the soothing theme music written by Dave Loggins that seems to waft thought the tall Georgia pines that line the fairways, and you find yourself transported to another, more peaceful world, a place without tariffs or even a hint of malice. It doesn’t last forever, but it is a welcome respite from the din and constant chaos of the moment.

And this year, there was another compelling storyline to The Masters. Rory McIlroy, an Ulsterman and one of golf’s most popular superstars, was on a quest to complete the Career ‘Grand Slam,’ a victory in each of golf’s four major tournaments. The Career Grand Slam is the holy grail of professional golf; only five players had ever achieved the prize: Gene Sarazan, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tiger Woods. By 2014, Rory had three of the four majors under his belt, but the fourth—The Masters—has eluded him for the past eleven years. He had come tantalizingly close, only to fail at the last. Would he ever finally reach the summit?

I don’t want to bore you with the details leading up to Sunday’s final showdown. Rory had played well, and at the start of the final day, he had a two-shot lead over Bryson DeChambeau. Other notables—Scottie Scheffler, Ludvig Åberg, Patrick Reed, and Justin Rose—were well within striking distance. Would this finally be Rory’s year, or would he stumble again? We would know soon enough.

When Rory doubled bogeyed the first hole on Sunday and his playing partner Bryson made par, there was suddenly a tie atop the leader board. And there was a feeling in my throat, a lump, that fear of failure that haunt us all. Some people may find golf boring or elitist or both, but the final round of this year’s Masters had all the toppings of a consummate Greek tragedy. The gods on Olympus were once again conspiring to thwart Rory’s dream, denying this mere mortal his dream of joining golf’s pantheon. And even worse: they would make Brash Bryson the cupbearer of defeat.

But that didn’t happen. DeChambeau crashed and burned, while Rory was all grit and resilience. He rose, he fell, and rose again. And on the final hole of regulation play, when only a putt of a few feet stood between him and victory, he fell again. He looked painfully drained, maybe even defeated.

And now Rory is in a sudden-death playoff with Justin Rose, a worthy opponent who had seen his own share of ups and downs over the previous three days. At the end of his round, Rose sunk a difficult twenty-foot putt to reach 11 under par. Twenty minutes later, when Rory missed his par putt on 18, there was another tie atop the leader board. A playoff, sudden-death; the gods could not have written a better script.

On the first playoff hole, both men hit commendable drives and then even better approach shots. Rose had about twelve feet for his birdie; Rory was inside him, only five feet away. Rose’s putt just missed; he tapped in for par. Now it was Rory and history, face to face. The nerves, the lifelong dream, all the hard work and disappointments along the way. But then, with a single sure stroke, Rory’s putt dropped in the hole and it was over. Rory won. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. It all came pouring out and now there are six members of the Career Grand Slam Club.

Golf is a silly game. If you ever want a good laugh, watch Robin Williams’ monologue on the genesis of golf in Scotland. It’s profane, it’s ribald, it’s maniacal, but it will make you laugh until you cry. Just like the game itself.

Congratulations, Rory!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

One of the many reasons I like this time of year is that it’s when we emerge from our winter burrows and begin to sniff spring. We’re tentative at first; we know how ephemeral, how quirky, spring can be. All this talk about lions and lambs, April showers and May flowers leaves us wondering if any part of spring is reliable. But with each new day, we come closer to the truth of spring: its effervescence, it’s optimism, its annual promise. And what really seals the spring deal for me is night talking, particularly with friends on the front porch in hushed voices. Makes me feel like we’re all by ourselves in some candle-lit Gothic cathedral, whispering secrets only the angels can hear.

Of course, sometimes the conversation can get a little rowdy; spring has that effect on people. Blame it on the wine, or maybe some medicinal herbs, or just plain old-fashioned human enthusiasm. Whatever or whoever turns up the dial doesn’t really matter; it’s a common enough reaction to the end of a long, cold winter and the beginning of that time of year when we shed all those heavy, dull clothes for something lighter and more colorful, and boots and wool socks for flip-flops or bare feet. Passers-by must wonder: what time do those people go to bed? Don’t they have to work tomorrow? Good questions!

Night talking—the porch variety—comes in many different shapes and sizes, It can be light or heavy; moody or cheerful; funny or serious; secretive or public. Perhaps we think that because it’s dark outside, we need to be more forthcoming than we do in daylight. Facial expressions don’t carry much weight after nightfall, so words have to be more like meteors arcing through the nighttime sky. And touch means more after dark…but you knew that.

I haven’t dabbled much with Artificial Intelligence, but what the heck, I thought, let’s give it a try; might find a nugget. So, I requested a poem about night talking and this is what I got about one second later:

The world is hushed, a somber scene,

As twilight fades and darkness keen

Invades the air, a velvet cloak,

Where secrets sleep, and shadows spoke.

 

But in this hush, a different sound,

A gentle murmur, soft and profound,

Two voices rise, a whispered plea,

In the quiet space, just you and me. 

 

No need for words, a knowing glance,

A shared emotion, a silent dance,

The night unfolds, a canvas wide,

Where hearts connect, side by side. 

 

The moonbeams dance, a silver stream,

Reflecting thoughts, a waking dream,

In this hushed hour, we find our space,

In the quiet night, a loving embrace.

 

The stars above, like watchful eyes,

Observe our words, as time flies,

A symphony of shared delight,

In the magic of the silent night.

I was, you might say, gobsmacked. OK, so maybe it’s not Shakespearean or even Nashian, but I did begin to wonder if maybe there was something to this AI magic after all. Here I sit, week after week, year after year, struggling to produce another week’s Musing for you and you and you, but now, all of a sudden, with just the touch of a button or two, out pops a few verses worthy of recitation…to friends…on the porch…late at night.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.