Now, I don’t know about you, but I, for one, am done with winter. Especially this one. To begin with, winter is overrated. After the December holidays, New Years Day (forget its Eve; sometimes I do), and a few college Bowl games, there’s really not much to warrant all the trouble—the cold, the snow, the ice, the wind, the rain, the endless string of gray days. Even getting dressed is a pain in the boots, gloves, layers, scarfs, hats, and coats that make me look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man on steroids. My flip-flops are bored out of their skulls; my shorts and golf shirts feel like federal workers who have been fired. Sigh.

It’s not just the weather, although that is certainly the crux of the matter. It’s the backyard and the garden that look so forlorn; it’s the front porch that’s crying out for a gathering; it’s the golf course waiting to mock me; it’s my friend Chrissy whom I haven’t seen since the geese flew in from Canada. (Speaking of Canada, let me just say it’s a great nation and Canadians are wonderful people. I’m proud to be their neighbor. Same goes for the Gulf of Mexico.)

Anyway, I’m done with winter. Overdone, like the steak I left too long on the grill. Like a few writers I know who eschew simplicity and opine with words that require their readers to Google their meaning. (See what i did there?) Overdone like a metaphor hanging like low fruit on the bough waiting to be plucked. (Oops; I did it again.)

As a child, I was taught not to carp about the weather. The sun will come out tomorrow. Soon enough, I’ll be complaining that it’s too damn hot, or that we need rain, or that I’m sick and tired of tomato pie. There’s some truth to that, so let’s think about what’s good about winter.

I’m waiting…

Someone’s hand is up. “What about skiing? Skiing is fun, isn’t it?”

No. Skiing is expensive; it’s lift lines, broken bones, or, in my post-Montana case, a cold that has hung on like a leech for the past eight weeks. (Hmmm…maybe that’s why I’m so grumpy.)

I see another raised hand: “What about the beauty of a new snowfall? The revenant silence, the morning sparkle, making snow angels, or the gift of a day off from school or work.”

OK, maybe that was a little bit fun. Once upon a time, I could sleep in, or go sled-riding, or throw snowballs at cars, except for the time some huge man slammed on his breaks and chased me all over the neighborhood. He didn’t catch me, but I’m still breathing hard. And as for making snow angels, I got my face snow-washed more times than I made snow angels. I grew up in a tough neighborhood!

No; try again. “What about delaying gratification? Doesn’t a long winter make a verdant spring greener, more promising, all-the-more spectacular?”

OK; that may be true, but we’ve delayed long enough now. Let’s get on with the next act!

We have some friends who have escaped to Jamaica for a week. My wife and I could have gone, but for a variety of reasons, it wasn’t in our cards. I need a new deal.

The forecast for the week ahead doesn’t look promising. Inches or feet? Maybe ol’ Phil up in Punxsutawney is on to something. I wouldn’t mind going back to bed for another few weeks.

I’m sorry; I shouldn’t be so down on winter. I guess there are a few benefits: the crackle and warmth of the fireplace; another good book, beef stew. Hmmm…maybe that’s the antidote: beef stew!

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.

 

 

 

You’re probably aware that we—that is to say, my wife and I—have a small home in Chestertown, so small, in fact, that we call it SRO: Standing Room Only. One of the by-products of our housing situation is that when anything new comes into the house, the question one of us inevitably asks is, “Where are we going to put this?” The answer is always, “On your side of the bed.”

That’s easier said than done. There’s already a lot on her side and my side, everything from our computer printer to suitcases, shoes, two outdoor plants wintering over inside, a stack of books, a humidifier, and a large cedar chest full of next/last (take your pick) season’s clothes. To make matters worse, even the space under the bed is already claimed: storage bins, some artwork that has yet to find a permanent home on a shelf or a wall, even the bulky case where my bagpipes have resided, unused, since the onset of COVID. Sigh.

The attic might be a solution, but it involves a pull-down staircase and some careful footholds that are increasingly difficult for us to navigate. Plus, a lot of Christmas paraphernalia lives up there for eleven months of the year. To be blunt, there’s just not very much freeboard, anywhere.

But somehow we make do. I like to think that whatever furniture or artwork or dinnerware or knick-knacks that we use or display have risen to the top, cream-like. In these cramped quarters, if you’re used and enjoyed, it means you have passed muster and become part of the family. You’ve proved yourself worthy. You’ve won. In Darwinian terminology, you’ve survived by being the fittest!

There is, of course, attrition. Styles change, things break. Like the player who has toiled for years in the relative obscurity of the minor leagues, suddenly there’s an opening on the big league roster and its your turn to shine. You better be ready to make the most of that opportunity because if you’re not, someone or something else will come along and take your place.

But back to the issue of one side of the bed or the other. The truth is that if we want something to be part of our lives at SRO, we’ll find a place for it. There’s always room chez nous. We’re a naturally inclusive couple and we have no intention of abandoning our DEI roots. Exclusivity and minimalism may have its place somewhere in this crazy world, but not at SRO. That’s not to say we’re hoarders. We have standards. There is a certain set of dinnerware left over from my bachelor days that has been on my wife’s chopping black for a few years, but so far, I’ve been able to hold her at bay. Like faith, hope, and love, my old dinner plates and pasta bowls abide, and they’re not even on my side of the bed. Yet.

Cramped as it is, we love SRO. We’ve talked about finding bigger quarters that can give some extra space and accommodate the grandkids, but the conversation always returns to what we love most about our small house: our in-town location, our welcoming front porch, and our wide and warm circle of friends. There’s always more than enough room for them!

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today is my ninth birthday. OK; so I’m not counting in human years, not even dog years. No; today marks the beginning of my ninth year as a columnist in this space—that’s 417 consecutive weeks of Musings, thank you very much. I’m not bragging, you understand, just multiplying. Since that first Tuesday back in February of 2016, my wife and I have added four more grandkids to the roster—now, that is bragging even though I had nothing to do with it. It’s also a good reminder that some things are more important than deadlines, but don’t tell a writer that.

I call these Musings my happy discipline. The very first one was called “Geese Not Groundhogs” or something close to that. It came to me when I heard what sounded like a traffic jam in the sky. I looked up and saw an enormous V of geese heading north. It occurred to me that those northbound geese were much better prognosticators of spring’s annual arrival than some groggy groundhog up in Punxsutawney, PA who never knew whether to get up or go back to sleep. So I wrote a story, sent it off to the Spy’s worthy Publisher who, to my surprise and delight, ran it as the lead article in this very space the following Tuesday. That was the very first Museday and I’ve been coming back ever since.

A writer’s life is not easy; just ask my wife. On many a morning when it’s still dark, she mumbles, “Where are you going?” as I rise as quietly as I can and head downstairs to my designated writing space in the living room. “I have an idea,” I tell her as she rolls over and goes back to sleep. On a few occasions, if I’m lucky, I’m able to get back into bed before she even realizes I was gone. I like that.

Now, in full transparency and shameless self-promotion, I confess this is not my only writing gig. In these past nine years, I’ve produced two compilations of essays, two novels (both historical fiction), a couple of short stories, a novella, and a children’s book (also a song) with lovely illustrations by a talented local artist and friend. And while I’m hesitant to say this publicly, I’m well along in my third novel, the culmination of a trilogy centering on the fictitious life of Declan Shaw, an Irish journalist who has been witness to many of the important events of the last century. (Here, my wife, who is also my Vice President of Marketing, insists that I insert a line stating that all these offerings are available on Amazon, as well as in many fine local bookstores. Well, not the novella; I’m still trying to decide what to do with that.)

Writers know a critical truth: writers need readers. One of my favorite parts of producing these weekly Musings is when I get to read comments from readers. They are almost always generous—almost always—and I am very grateful when people take the time to offer an opinion, gently point out an error, or simply say “thank you.”  I hope you realize it is I who should be thanking you for being a good listener and faithful reader. You are the fuel that runs this old jalopy…such as it is.

And while I’m at it, I want to express my thanks to other links in the chain: publishers and editors; proofreaders and book designers; independent booksellers and cheerleaders. You know who you are. And if anyone should happen to know a good agent who is in search of new (old) talent, please let me know.

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.

Twenty-four hours ago, my wife got the phone call no one ever wants to get. One of her oldest and dearest friends, Betsi, aka Boo, had died suddenly. What do you say? How do you console? Her grief was overwhelming.

We’re all just passengers on this journey. Life is so full of twists and turns; one day, it’s sunny and hopeful, and then the next day, along comes one of these terrible Arctic blasts that freezes everything, including our hearts. The world appears to be the same, but it isn’t. Life goes on, but it doesn’t.  It is all such a mystery, and for me, that is when faith needs to kick in.

Faith doesn’t provide any specific answers—it never explains why—but it can comfort. Without some small measure of faith, our lives are lived only in real time, minute-to-minute, day-to-day, year-to year. And when a life is suddenly cut short, time stops forever. “Boo was so happy. We had all these plans. Now…”  Silence. Empty, endless silence.

My mother came from hardy New England stock. She was outgoing and accomplished but like many of her generation and ilk, she was not given to displays of emotion. Once, when I was struggling to climb some personal mountain, she gave me the “you made this bed so lie in it” talk; she was right, but what I really needed was a a gentle pep talk and a strong hug. But that’s not the point. This is: mother lived to be 95 and was in good health and of sound mind right up until the time doctors found a cancer near her spine. She was in the hospital for only a week, then came home to hospice care. Near the end, she was in that twilight stage for several hours when suddenly her eyes flew open and she raised herself from her pillows and said, “I’ve never seen such love before.” It was clear to me that at that moment, she was already in the company of saints, and that her taciturn New England nature had turned into something akin to rapture. Maybe that was the moment my own faith really kicked in.

I am no longer a church-goer. I was once, but I’ve retreated from that obligation. That said, I do have a strong faith. and while I’m not inclined to believe that God has a master plan for each of us, I do take comfort in the belief that even when bad things happen to good people, there is more, something beyond death. I have no idea what that is, but I do believe there is an afterlife, and that all the love we have accumulated along the way returns to us at the end.

Today, Betsi—my wife calls her “my shining star, my angel friend”—at the very least lives on in our minds and in our hearts, but I think there is more. I think I can see her walking on the beach with her beloved old vizsla Auggie: he is once again young and spry and he bounds happily ahead, while Betsi’s footprints stretch away into the distance, indelible marks along the tideline of my own infinite consciousness.

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.