It’s October and pumpkins are everywhere: in patches, on porches, in pies, even in our coffee. (But not mine; I draw a sharp line after “black.”) Pumpkins are to October what turkeys are to November and the Grinch is to December. In a word, at least for the next couple of weeks, pumpkins are as ubiquitous as all those political attack ads polluting the airwaves in the remaining weeks leading up to the second Tuesday in November. Along with the aroma of pumpkin-spice lattes, there’s venom in the air.

According to Wikipedia—so it must be true, right?—pumpkins belong to the Cucurbitacae family which means they’re first cousins to cucumbers and melons. They are technically a fruit, yet nutritionally speaking, they’re more similar to vegetables. Pumpkins are starchy little devils, but they’re also rich in fiber and energy-providing carbohydrates. Because they’e loaded with potassium, vitamin A, and beta-carotene, pumpkins, ubiquitous as they are, do more good than harm.

Alas; the same cannot be said of attack ads. They are the devil’s sermons. They perpetuate hate, spread lies, and instead of educating voters, they drive a wedge between friends and neighbors. Even worse (if that’s possible), they create a tsunami of misinformation that makes the destruction visited on folk down in North Carolina and Florida by the likes of Helene and Milton pale in comparison. Truth goes missing, buried in storm surge and debris, and no amount of FEMA aid will ever uncover it.

While attack ads are a national disgrace, they’re a double disgrace here in Maryland where two seemingly credible Senatorial candidates have spent millions of dollars ripping each other apart. Money that could have been spent on educating voters about the candidates respective policies and ideas have instead have been diverted like sludge into the storm sewer. Don’t the paid politicos running these two campaigns understand the simple truth that misinformation is a snake in the grass, and that hate only begets more hate? We deserve so much better; we deserve to be informed, not manipulated.

Second alas: this screed will fall off on deaf ears. Attack ads are advancing, not retreating. They have become the bones of a political campaign, given breath by dark money and flesh by mass media. To make matters worse, we have only ourselves to blame. Whether we ridicule the attack ads or believe them, they get our attention, and in this media-driven world, that’s all that really matters.

So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about pumpkins. They might be ubiquitous, but they’re harmless. There was a time when I’d beg my parents to buy an enormous pumpkin for our front porch and let me lop off the top, scoop out the insides, save the seeds for roasting, and carve a gap-tooth smile into its orange facade. Once the candle was inserted and lit, I could step back and admire my masterpiece. It was a spooky nightmare made real, and it held a place of honor right on my own front porch. Kind of like one of those ubiquitous lawn signs that have sprung up everywhere like giant autumnal weeds. Oops, there I go again…

You know who I am and I approved this message.

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 new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

(Author’s Note: This is the fifth and final chapter of “The Dreamcatcher,” a serial story in this space. All previous chapters are available on my website: musingjamie.net)

 The last two-and-a-half decades of Tatu’s DeSouza’s life were spent in quiet contemplation at his hacienda in Tesuque Pueblo, a secluded and shady enclave just north of Santa Fe. He had never married and had no natural heirs so, at age 65, Tatu simply walked away. He liquidated his holdings in Dreamcatcher, Inc., gave away all the money away to schools, universities, and museums, and hired a new generation of entrepreneurs to run the company. Despite the fact that almost all of Tatu’s cherished patents on his Dreamcatcher device had expired, and that the very idea of such a gizmo (Tatu’s favorite description of his own device) had become commonplace, Dreamcatchers, Inc. still dominated the market. Tatu became a mythical and mysterious figure, a 21st Century version of Howard Hughes or Greta Garbo. That was just fine with him.

Still, the public and the world’s media were consumed with Tatu and his Dreamcatcher. Young entrepreneurs would trek to the gates of Tatu’s hacienda in New Mexico hoping to catch a glimpse of their hero. Renowned authors and journalists pleaded for the chance to write his life’s story. Ken Burns wanted to make a documentary. Women all over the world wrote him love letters. Tatu politely declined all such requests; he was content to live simply on a diet of tofu, vegetables and spring water, tending his gardens, taking long walks, and reading tomes devoted to the lives of Catholic saints.

Then there came a day when Tatu simply disappeared. Gone; vanished like a dream at dawn. No one, not even his majordomo, knew why he disappeared or where he had gone. There was no evidence of foul play so, after several months of public and private investigations that led to one dead-end after another, Tatu simply passed on into the rarified air of legend. No one doubted his invention—his Dreamcatcher “gizmo”—had changed the world in a way not unlike the voyages of Christopher Columbus, or the inventions of Nikola Tesla, or the plays of William Shakespeare, or the the statues of Michelangelo. But Tatu himself? Was he alive or dead?  If the former, what was he doing? If the latter, where was the body? Tatu had always loved a good mystery; now, he was one.

Or was he? A year after Tatu disappeared, a young Goan police constable was walking along Galgibaga Beach at dawn, making sure no one was disturbing the nesting places of the Olive Ridley sea turtles that loved the soft white sand of one of the world’s most beautiful and pristine beaches. The sun was rising. Small waves lapped the shoreline, rippling the crystal blue water of the Arabian Sea; a gentle breeze rustled through the fronds of the tall coconut palms that fringed the half-moon bay. Everything was as it should be: perfect.

At the far end of the beach, the constable came upon an old man asleep on the beach under one of the palm trees. This was neither unusual nor prohibited, for Goa was a forgiving place, and the man, neatly dressed in a white linen dhoti, was certainly not causing any trouble or disturbing the sea turtle nests. In fact, he seemed to be smiling. But as the constable came to say a respectful “Good morning, sir” to the sleeper, she noticed a pair of broken black spectacles and a trickle of dried blood that had seeped into the sand. Nearby was a coconut. It didn’t take the constable long to figure out what had happened. She called for an ambulance, but the damage had already been done. Oddly, the deceased bore no papers of identification.

Back at the substation, the constable filed a succinct report: an unidentified elderly man, no known name or address, had been found on Galgibaga Beach, the apparent victim of a falling coconut. The only clue to his identity was a small tattoo on the back of his right hand: a spider’s web. It looked vaguely familiar; it reminded the constable of the logo on her dreamcatcher.

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 new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

Last week, my beloved, aka the LG (Little General), took a tumble on the stairs. I was upstairs at the time but when I heard a little YELP and a big THUMP, I ran down to find her on the floor in considerable pain. Our staircase is narrow and makes a sharp turn about halfway down (just below or above the burglar step, but that’s another story), so it’s easy enough to slip. And slip she did.

You realize that neither she nor I are doctors, but we both play one on TV. Our initial diagnosis was that she had pulled a muscle or worse, wrenched her back. She gingerly made her way back upstairs and we went to bed. But by morning, the pain was sharper; “it feels like it’s burning,” she said. To be safe, we headed to the Emergency Room at our local hospital where a team of skilled health care professionals listened to her story, checked her vitals, and gave her a CT Scan. Good thing they did: they found an L2 transverse process fracture. That was the bad news; the (relatively) good news was her injury did not require surgery. She just needed a few prescription meds and some rest, but otherwise, Mother Nature will provide relief in her own good time, about 6 weeks. I gulped.

Since that day, my wife has been making great progress. Each day, she moves a little better, does a little more. Sitting still does not come naturally to her, but she’s being a good, albeit reluctant, patient. As is her wont, she went straight to Amazon and ordered a claw, one of those handy contraptions that picks up anything one drops on the floor so one doesn’t have to bend over to retrieve it. She lets me help with all the little movements we all take for granted, like adjusting the shower head or settling into bed at night. She even lets me make our meals and to be a nudge about taking her medications! All this is good for me: I’m learning to be a responsible care-giver, a skill that admittedly does not come naturally to me. We’re each doing the best we can, and in the end, isn’t that what marriage is all about?

But here’s the rub or better, maybe the window that has opened in the aftermath of her tumble: we’re reminded that neither of us is as young nor as spry as we used to be. What if she had fallen an inch or two to the left or right and done worse harm to her spine? What if I were to take a spill and injure myself to the degree that I couldn’t go up or down our steep stairs. All of a sudden, we’ve arrived on the doorstep of that age when we need to consider a different lifestyle, one centered on a first-floor owner’s suite. We love our little historic home, but it’s quirky and very vertical and we’re close to being beyond quirky and vertical. We’re on thin ice.

Assisted living may be the right option for some folk, but I don’t think it’s for us. We’d rather age-in-place with all that entails. (For us, that would include an easement from the Maryland Historic Trust so we could put an addition on the back of our home.) Whatever the solution, the future that once seemed far-away has suddenly become much closer to home. Literally.

When I came downstairs that night and found my wife in pain on the floor, I didn’t consider her, or myself for that matter, lucky. Now, a few days out from that scary moment, I’ve come to the conclusion that this accident was a shot across our marital bow. We’ll figure it out, but the grandfather clock that once ticked slowly in the corner, just got a lot louder.

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 new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

Remember this: “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name”?  Back in the day, Thursday night was sacred. No matter where I was, I went to Boston, to that little step-down watering hole named “Cheers” where everybody—Sam, Coach, Woody, Carla, Norm, Cliff, Frasier, Rebecca, and Diane—not only knew each other’s names, but everybody else’s, too. Alas; NBC shuttered “Cheers” on May 20, 1993; it’s probably still serving beers in reruns somewhere, but it’s just not the same…

These days, there are a lot of real and lively watering holes here in town: Zelda’s, The Retriever, Bad Alfred’s, The Blue Bird, Casa Carmen, to name just a few. But for me, my first stop on any given Thursday night is always The Kitchen at the Imperial, a bar and restaurant owned and operated by an award-winning chef and local hero—my pal, Steve Quigg. Not only does he know my name, but so do the sous-chef (Tori), the bartender (Rob), and many of the servers (Chrissy, Grace, et.al), too. Feels like home.

More than a dozen years ago, some of my local friends began a weekly tradition called Martini Night. Only a few of the original stalwarts still drink martinis these days, so now we order whatever strikes our fancy. Perhaps in honor of “Cheers,” the weekly gathering always takes place on Thursday at The Kitchen when we gossip, swap stories, laugh—all the usual Cheers-like banter. Over the years, not only has Martini Night survived a pandemic, but we’ve learned to tiptoe around most of the current political chasms. In summer, we sit gather curbside under the awnings, while in winter, we sit side-by-side along the cozy bar. Sometimes, it’s just a one-and-done drink, but Martini Night has also been known to morph into a second or third round with an appetizer of bartender trivia and dinner to follow. There are no rules; whatever you want is just right.

So, you might ask: is this going somewhere, or am I just trying to drum up some business for my friend’s bar and restaurant? Maybe it’s a little of both. With regard to the former, it’s certainly a hymn (or maybe just a little ditty) in praise of friendship and inclusivity. With regard to the latter, consider this to be an open invitation to come check us out. As the “Cheers” theme song asked, “Wouldn’t you like to get away?”

You see, towns like ours are built on relationships, on friendship. People know each other. For better or for worse, not much flies under the radar here. We may get some of the details of any given story wrong, but in the clearer light of Friday morning, the truth, or something closely resembling it, usually comes creeping in under the door. At the very least, Thursday’s gaggle is harmless socializing that keeps us out of trouble. Most of the time.

I’ll be the first to admit that there is an occasional fly in the Martini Night ointment. On a few occasions, Friday morning seems to come a little earlier than expected, but over the years, I’ve learned to avoid that particular pitfall. Most of the time.

“Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got. Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot.” During these hectic and highly polarized days, we all need a safe place to go where everybody knows our name. Not one of our labels, mind you, just our names.

So see you there. You’ll be glad you came.

Cheers!

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 new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.