Still More Snow? Ask Weatherdog

About all anybody talks about these days, except the meatloaf at Lulu’s, yum, and the Beer League going dry, yow, is the weather. It got me recalling what Mark Twain supposedly said: “Everybody’s always talking about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Now that’s not quite true, even the quote, which somebody else may have said first and somewhat differently. And folks here have been doing plenty about the weather, with shovels. What Twain did say — “Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get” — is not very helpful. To find out what’s coming our way, and what we can do about it, I had to find another source with a long record of being right on an assortment of matters, involving pig spleens, goose bones, persimmon seeds, wooly bear caterpillers and, consequently, the weather.

Yep, The Old Farmer’s Almanac, it being the trusty stand-by of the Eastern Shore, which probably has the earth’s greatest concentration of old farmers. And they tell me the Almanac was right on the money about two of the blizzards that whomped us and is calling for “the mother of all snowtorms here” on Sunday, March 7. Now, when I go to the Almanac’s website, I find it does call for rain and snow then, but even more of it and “unseasonable cold,” too, around March 10-18.

The Almanac boasts its predictions are 80 percent right. How does it do that? Well you can do it too – starting with the wooly bears. Proof goes back to the fall of 1948 when Dr. C.H. Curran counted the reddish-brown segments on these caterpillers and decided that the more bands there are predict a milder winter and narrower than normal bands anticipate a harsher one.  Scientists today say the brown hairs may, in fact, have something to do with the woolly bear’s age and what it’s been through, but the thing is, they’re indicating events of the previous year. But The Old Farmer’s Almanac has other ways to prognosticate.

Just cut open a persimmon seed. If the kernel inside is knife-shaped, cutting winds are coming your way. If spoon-shaped, lots of heavy wet snow. If fork-shaped, expect light snow and a mild winter. Also, before there was a National Weather Service, there was the famous goose-bone method. You cut away all the meat and let the breastbone dry. White bone indicates a mild winter. Bluish bone predicts a real bad winter. Purple tips are “a sure sign” of a cold spring.

Of course, many prefer the system of no less an expert than Gus Wickstrom of Tompkins, Saskatchewan, which I understand is the other side of Cecil County. Gus divides the spleen into six areas, each representing one month. The part closest to the pig’s head is January, and if it’s a half inch thick, it’s going to be cold. Not much doubt about that one. Go down a couple segments, and if it’s ¾ of an inch thick March will have “some snow, wind, possibly rain.” That sounds right, too. Get to the bottom, and if you find it’s one inch thick, expect that June to have “rain, maybe thunder and lightening” and “a hot summer is on the way.” Is Gus good, or what?

The one drawback to this sure-fire predicting is that the pig must be slaughtered in the fall, so, if you didn’t take that precaution, you’re squat out of luck this winter. Sure, some might scoff at these antique insights, but when it comes down to when the snow meets the roads, who are you going to trust — one of those chuckling TV baritones, or a weathered Old Farmer?

Tallulah: Heck on Earth

Unfortunately, just as February began, I was forced to leave Chestertown, where there’s always something to do and everybody knows your name, and go away to a strange land where every day’s the same. I have landed on an island where the most interesting thing to do is watch whales have sex. It’s the end of their breeding season in Maui but the brutes are still at it. It’s just disgusting, as you would imagine. They roll and thrash all around, huffing and puffing huge sprays, flippers and flukes spanking the surface, rising their big heads way up to see if anybody’s looking (well of course they are). There’s so little else to do here that people pay $29 each to line the rails of ships and watch the shameless spectacle, or go by the hundreds to points of land where they stare at it through binoculars.

I really can’t blame folks for becoming voyeurs in a place where even the weather reports are boring. There’s a Maui  weather channel, presented with no sense of irony at all, which gives a seven-day forecast, every week, that goes like this: Sunny and 80, Sunny and 80, Sunny and 80, Sunny and 80, Sunny and 81, Partly Sunny and 79, Sunny and 80. That day the temperature plummeted from 81 to 78, I saw people had bundled up in windbreakers. Nighttime lows also can be a trial for the unprepared, varying wildly from 63 to 60, when you have to sleep under a heavy sheet.

Occasionally Maui weathermen do shift to the mainland, and we learn that Hawaii is the only state in the Union that doesn’t have snow on the ground. So everybody here has been avidly focusing on the more interesting times in Kent and Queen Anne’s and whatever surrounds them. It’s either Weather Channel, or drag yourself to the beaches where it’s just horny whales, enormous turtles, colored fish and young women tanning in string bikinis, day after day.

Now, don’t for a minute think life’s without hardship here, so far from home. There’s mosquitoes, centipedes, snails and Hawaiian music. The very first day my nose pinked. Already it’s peeling. And today’s just like yesterday and tomorrow. Y’know, when theologians talk about a paradise, they never dwell on its possibility of everlasting sameness. I’m here to tell you, when you’ve seen one whale sporting or one hottie tanning, you’d best keep checking. For something to do.

When I get home, what am I going to talk about? Not only did I miss all the excitement there, I bet nobody’ll want to hear one word about the troubles I’ve known.

Check Out the Census

Opening the mail is always fun around home – for the groans, curses and lamentations of Old John at his desk. I got to hear all that the other day when he opened an envelope marked “Census” and picked up pen to dutifully answer all the questions, as a good citizen does. The first question: “Do you generally identify yourself as a [  ] Conservative Republican [  ] Independent Voter who leans Republican [  ] Moderate Republican  [  ] Liberal Republican [  ] Other.”

“Huh?” Hadn’t the U.S. Census heard of Democrats? Now they’re “Other?”

Then came, “How much does it concern you that the Democrats have total control of the federal government.” And, “Do you think the record trillion dollar federal deficit the Democrats are creating with their out-of-control spending is going to have disastrous consequences for our nation?” And, “Do you believe the Obama Administration is right in dramatically scaling back our nation’s military?”

From the mutterings I gathered there was some measure of doubt as to whether these were all completely neutral questions. Such as, “Do you believe the Republican Party should continue to embrace social issues?” Might there be a slight slant? And why is the Census Bureau asking that? We were right puzzled until happening on a signature at the bottom of an enclosed letter, signed by Michael Steele, RNC Chairman. He’d become census director? Easy to be misled on that, from all the officialese markings on the questionnaire: “Census Document” and “2010 Congressional District Census” and “Census Tracking Code.” But no, this was an invitation to contribute $25, $50 “or even $500” to elect more Republicans.

Old John went looking for his checkbook, or Advil, or something, leaving it to me to complete the survey. It was some fun. Now there’s one thing the various Republicans and  the “Others,” too, might all agree on: that Michael Steele sure knows how to get some attention.

Bird-Dogging the Bird Dumpers

As a naturally gifted birder, one who likes nothing better than to find a field where geese have been feeding and then roll in their leavings, as no doubt you do too, I am troubled by something really stupid. Somebody is shooting ducks and geese and then dumping their carcasses on roadsides in Queen Anne’s County. How widespread this practice is I can’t be sure. But I’ve overheard Harry Sears of Grasslands Plantation telling of seeing this on maybe four occasions roads in his neighborhood, on Kibler and Roundtop, in particular.

“On two occasions in the last two days, my wife saw it and started objecting to it,” says Sears. “Some people who live around here have seen it before, too. I don’t think it’s happening only around us. People are shooting birds but instead of taking them to get them plucked, they’re just dumping them on the side of the road. Today it was four ducks and two geese, lying in the same area I picked up carcasses just a couple days ago.”

Nancy Taylor Robson says she found four geese on the side of a road near Rt. 301 outside Galena a couple weeks ago and assumed it might have been hunters who over-shot limits and were about to get caught by DNR. “The idea that they would be shot by someone who just wanted to kill something (and not even a farmer worried about their crops) amazes and horrifies me.”

What sort of hunter would do this? Says Sears, “I’m a bird shooter. But that sport, the hunting fraternity, attracts a wide spectrum of people. Maybe somebody shot too many. Or their wives don’t like to cook them. Or they don’t want to go home and bother to pluck ‘em themselves.” It’s a question, Sears suggests, for the Department of Natural Resources.

And Peter Jayne, associate director for game management with DNR’s Wildlife and Heritage Service, says, “It’s a problem.” But he doesn’t think it’s a big regional one or even a wide practice in Queen Anne’s or Kent counties. “I don’t think it’s frequent. I think it’s localized. I don’t have information on how widespread it is, but I think maybe one or two people tend to do it.” Jayne explains, “Many times those birds have been breasted out, with people taking the edible meat. But it’s still inappropriate to dump them on the side of the road. In fact, it’s illegal.” Jayne says there are no natural resources laws against doing that, but it does violate littering law.

It violates good sense, too, and I speak as one who can find infinite pleasure in a fresh carcass, or even a very old one, just ask my groomer, Bert Lindauer of Splash ‘n Dash. But some are so ignorant. Again and again, feckless folks are wasting fine opportunity. I am, as usual, appalled.

WoooOOOOoooOOOOooo

Every so often somebody who’s just bought a nice house on Water or Queen Street – and whose realtor somehow failed to mention the firehouse siren – will call up Town Hall and want to know why something shouldn’t be done about that sound. This person immediately becomes known (but not to him-or-herself) as The Chair of The Committee to Do Something About The Siren. This unofficial appointment lasts only until the next person calls to protest that infernal noise. At least, that used to be so. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I’ve got my sources. So, I’m thinking about doing a little piece that makes some sport of folks in fine neighborhoods and the Fire Department, too, when I go to bed the other night. I won’t say it’s the last thought in my mind, but it’s rattling around in there among things to do real soon, as I fall asleep.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-FIRE-FIRE-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-FIRE. . .

Huh? Whatthe? Fire? Fire! There’s smoke everywhere. I can hardly see, I can hardly breathe. So naturally I go to the back door and wait to be let out. Takes Old John forever to hear the smoke-alarm but he finally does, lets me out and stumbles around, muttering. He sees it’s the wood stove that’s clogged somehow and the smoke is backdrafting. And now — figuring we’re out of immediate danger, he hesitates to call the fire department. Get this: he’s embarrassed about the attention it will bring; he’s worried it will wake the neighbors. His dithering lasts just a moment and he dials 9-1-1.

Right away, from every direction, we start hearing sirens. Soon there are 10 trucks parked up and down the street, motors rumbling, lights flashing and, yes, waking the neighbors. I look around and start counting, one. . .well counting’s not my strong suit, but Im told later there were a couple dozen volunteer firemen swarming around our house. It’s a half hour past a cold and windy midnight — and all these guys have been called out of bed to save us – and they’re volunteers  – and they’re not being paid one thin dime for this — and I was about to write something making fun of Chestertown’s siren?

So they unclog the chimney, clean the coals out of the woodstove, open windows, clear the house of smoke (but not the stink) and they leave. Fire’s out, nothing to sign, nobody owed, no goodbyes, no thanks necessary.

Next morning though, we call the Chestertown Volunteer Fire Department to express our gratitude and happen to get Deputy Chief Phil Russum. He was at my house, he says, “and my son was up on your roof.” Chief Bruce Neal was there, too. In fact there were volunteer firemen from four companies — Chestertown, Church Hill, Crumpton and the rescue squad as well. And as far as they’re concerned, what they did for us is routine. The Chestertown company, for example, answered over 600 calls last year, and my house was number 507 for this year.

Russum has been turning out for fires going on 40 years, was a junior volunteer when he was 14 years old. His father did it before him. His son does it now and will after. There are some answering fire calls here who are fourth generation volunteers. Fire-fighting is very much, and almost exclusively, a family tradition. It’s the same way with  Galena, Rock Hall, Crumpton, Church Hill, with every company everywhere. Russum says it is very hard to recruit new members who don’t have it in their ancestry. It’s curious, but true.

I don’t have the nerve to tell Russum I was about to write a spoof about the siren on top of the Chestertown Fire House, but I do ask him about it, kind of sly. And guess what? “It’s dead,” he says. “It was put up in ’63, but it broke last year, and we can’t find parts for it. The one folks hear, that’s up by the college. It goes off — if the fuse doesn’t blow. Now, we’re relying on pagers, mostly. The old siren, we can’t get it fixed. And people who live around the fire house are probably thankful.”

Probably some are. Me? Not so much, anymore. Once your house is about to go up in smoke, and maybe you in it, you’ll find there’s something to be said for whatever traditions it takes that brings these folks out on fiery nights. You hear that wailing, you know they’re on their way, it’s a comfort.

Reflections of a Bird Dog

A question for the day: where do pigeons go? Oh, I know, in general they go to the heads and shoulders of statues of famous men in the parks in big cities, to leave rude suggestions of their disregard. What I mean is, where do our pigeons go? Right, the Chestertown Pigeons.

I’ll bet most people hereabouts don’t even know about them, another fine secret kept from the voter-card-carrying, tax-paying residents of Chestertown. As opposed to those of us who are only Post Office Chestertownians and live over the water. The things we see . . . that the others don’t. Like sunsets over Chestertown. Or, that Chestertown is even prettier from the outside in than the inside out. Example: how the sun rising above the Rive Gauche shines on the Right Bank and bathes Chestertown golden every clear morning, City of Light.

And, the pigeons. There’s a flock, not a big one, maybe 30-50 birds, that takes to wing each sunrise and flies in long loops up and down the Chester, just over the Kent shoreline, approximately between Custom House and the for-sale former Parsonage by the bridge. I first noticed them a month ago when I changed a routine. Now, they’re a part of my coffee hour, along with the heron that patrols my low-rent side of the river, the three mallards who present bottoms, the gulls, the geese, a muskrat. On Monday the pigeons don’t show at their regular time, 7 a.m., for what we’ve come to call Pigeon Zumba, their frisky loops along the far shore. I think, weekenders? No, it turns out, they’re still here, but it’s raining, and they apparently sleep in for another half hour before their exercise class starts. I feel relief.

Yes, you know you’re getting older when you find yourself watching reruns of Murder She Wrote, you begin to yen for yard ornamentation, you think you’re making sense out of Glenn Beck — and you realize you’re appreciating pigeons. Ah, but not just any pigeons. These are Chestertown Pigeons, remarkable specimens, fleet and graceful, and as befits us, color tolerant with one whitey among the gray brethren. They are, too, unlike ordinary pigeons in city parks that get underfoot and tempt a kick. They are mysterious.  Because, after Pigeon Zumba, they vanish. Anyway I can’t find them. I’ve looked: Wilmer Park anytime of day? Nope. Fountain Park? Never. The head and the shoulders of the statue of Swish Nicholson next to City Hall? No sign any ever rested there. Where do they go after Zumba? Can anybody help out with this? It’s not like I want to change anything, or wish they’d come to Farmer’s Market. It’s just a little itch, a niggling curiosity idling through my mind, something on the order of, I wonder what Angela Lansbury is up to now?

Walgreens’ Ho Ho Ho

I nap a lot, so I miss much. Is it Christmas? The reason I ask  — that decoration I just saw. It’s in the squat tower that looms above the new Walgreen’s, and if you drive by it at night you can’t miss it, all lit up like that, red and white and shining. Looks like Santa Claus’ chamber pot. With a bowl brush. Or maybe it’s supposed to be a mortar and pestle, something to do with the drug trade . . . I mean, pharmaceutical.  Whatever, it’s a peculiar escutcheon to raise above an historic town. And why is it the most brightly lit object in Chestertown? For that matter, why is anything lighted like that at night in a country town?  I couldn’t help wondering what some of our local architects  might be thinking about Walgreen’s edifice rex.

Peter Newlin could hardly restrain himself : “What we see is an outsider corporation that has raised, at the top of College Hill, a tower to shopping. . . Walgreen’s tower is flat and empty compared to its bookend downtown, the clock tower of Stam Hall. . . Stam Hall is solid, heavy and elaborate. It honors the endurance of our institutions. It expresses hope for our cultural sophistication. Walgreen’s shopping tower is only a shallow sign. With pretense to signifying more, it’s really only attempting to promote impulse shopping.  . . It’s true shame may be that the Walgreen building is a much better piece of planning than anything the shopping center holds behind it.”

Alex Castro declined to comment, after his own fashion: “As to the pharmaceutical icon you mentioned, it would be improper of me to say anything at all about this most studied and inspiring cultural statement. With its graceful configuration, subtle hues and sensitive scale, it is destined, I am sure, to become ever closer to the hearts of all Chestertown. Where are the design police when you need them?”

Reading for Free

I’m not much of a reader. When darkness falls and I settle down before the fire in the woodstove, guess I’d have to say I’m more of a dreamer . . . of squirrels, rabbits, postmen and tasty footwear, topics like that. Now, Old John, reading’s about all he ever does, just sits and reads. Except for going out and buying more books. Fact is, that unchecked habit would probably have us in the poor house, instead of being only house poor, if it weren’t for those fine people, the Friends of the Kent County Library. Thanks to their used book sales, we’ve got heaps of bargain tomes all around to occupy the degenerate reader. And more’s to come, because the Friends are having another sale in conjunction with the Chestertown Book Festival.

There’s the exclusive members’ preview night on Thursday, Nov. 12, from 5:30 to 7:30, at the Kent County Library, 400 High Street. Not a member? Join at the door. It’s cheap. The sale will be open to the public all that weekend and again the next Monday and Tuesday.  A quarter to a buck a book – and childrens’ softbacks are free. But you know? It adds up. The Friends raise just about $25,000 a year for the library through membership dues and their sales of old books. Funny that, how cheap and gently used books helps to keep the new ones free.

Go, Pig, Go

Did you know that Maryland is the first and only state to have dogs as part of its honeybee inspection program? Well I didn’t, until I got a look over Old John’s shoulder at the state’s agriculture department web page. But it figures. I’ve been keeping an eye out for ‘em ever since I sat on one. Still, the things you can learn that you didn’t even know you wanted to know!

Like, “Maryland has more horses per square mile than another state in the nation.” That’s what our agriculture department boasts, word for word, though it doesn’t specify which lone state has fewer horses. But I wonder, what’s the possible significance of being 49^th among the states in horses per square mile? Suppose they meant to say more horses than “any other” state? Hard to be sure, since they don’t bother to say how many horses or how many square miles that would be.

Never mind, there’s much more to contemplate. Such as, “There are more than 60 species of mosquitoes in Maryland,” and “It takes a combine 9 seconds to harvest enough wheat to make 70 loaves of bread,” and  “Farmers receive approximately 5 cents (or less) from each loaf of bread sold.” This is all troubling stuff, and I don’t doubt any of it. But how about this: “Pumpkins are 90 percent water.” And: “A pig can run a 7-minute mile.”

Ever see anybody wring out a pumpkin? And who ever saw a pig run run for a mile? You think, maybe, somewhere, there’s a pig racetrack? Or, just as likely, probably over in Annapolis, there’s a state-employed pig timer, with a stopwatch? What I’m thinking is, the lesson here has got to be, the more you know, the more you know you don’t. Like, how many mosquitoes per square mile does Maryland have, and aren’t we in this, at least, No. 1?

Tallulah: Earth Is Hot, Is Not, Is Too

Ever wonder how it came about – that die-hard Democrats know there’s global warming and die-harder Republicans know there isn’t? What is it about temperature that creates such heated argument? How’d that get to be political? As for me, being non-partisan and naturally insulated, I come down firmly on both sides.

To understand how Republicans think as they do on the issue, and maybe change your mind if you lean the other way, come to Washington College campus this Sunday at 8 p.m. There, in Litrenta Lecture Hall, you’ll hear counter arguments to a climate change doomsday scenario. The Washington College Republican Club is presenting the new documentary “Not Evil Just Wrong: The True Cost of Global Warming Hysteria.” It was produced to rebut the 2006 film “An Inconvenient Truth” by former Vice President Al Gore (Democrat). This presentation at the college is billed as part of “the world’s largest simultaneous film premiere in history.”

A key premise is that global warming is “ecology-spurred policy overreach.” One of the film’s examples is how the World Health Organization decided to ban the pesticide DDT in 2006. Says the press release on the film, “Since then, some 40 million malaria deaths in the developing world might have been prevented if DDT had not been banned, according to experts cited in “Not Evil Just Wrong.”

Hmmmm. So, bring back DDT? Is there a Republican/Democrat divide on that, too? So much to know, so hard to know it. Like, there’s this hunting guide I’ve gone with outside Chestertown who observes that Canada geese don’t get here in the numbers they did in the 70s or 80s, because many are shortstopping in Pennsylvania these days. And what he concludes is, “I don’t like to say, global warming. It’s just, winters aren’t as cold as they used to be.”  All I can say is, Hmmmm.

What’s in a Name?

Paris has the Champs Elysees, Rome the Via Veneto. London’s got Pall Mall. New York has Broadway. So why doesn’t Chestertown have a Fish Street? Like it used to, as shown on the old maps.

Why does the grand entrance to one of the world’s great villages – once named with Early American redolence, ah, Fish Street — now go by ubiquitous Maple Avenue, changing to commonplace Washington Avenue, or sometimes just plain Rt. 213? Every burg in America is boasting the first two monikers and even Elkton shares the last. I look at street names around town and I can’t help but think, somebody’s got imagination deficit disorder. Elm? Cedar? Holly?

Now Philosophers Terrace, that’s panache. Water Street has the virtue of evoking what happens there when Isabel comes. But College? And Campus? I’ve heard Old John say, “My dog can do better than that.” I don’t know about that “my,” quite the reverse I’d say, but in fact I can. Why couldn’t one of those be named for the man who founded Washington College: Reverend William Smith Avenue? How come there’s so little attention paid to our not-so-favorite native sons? What about a Capt. James Vickers Way for the hero of the Battle of Caulks Field? What about a General George Vickers Boulevard, for the U.S. senator who voted to acquit in the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson? Oops. Turns out there’s a short drive named Vickers (for which one, if either, is not specified) off Flatland Road — it leads to jail. But how about something for three other Chestertownians who sat in the U.S. Senate: Ezekiel Chambers Avenue, James A. Pearce Place, Philip Reed Road? Or something for the silent film actress, say a Miriam Cooper’s Loop, who starred in Birth of a Nation? Or what about a roundabout for our very own Perry Hall — and this comes from Wikipedia, so must be so — “a notorious skateboarder.”

Well, renaming probably isn’t going to happen. But Councilman Gibson Anthony is researching the possibility of street signs that would also take note of some old names and the earliest dates we’re aware they were in use. It’s a subscripting, so old names would go under some current ones. “It’s so you can see the current postal address but also see the original street name,” he says. The Town Council hasn’t formally decided to do this, it’s just exploring it. Why subscript, why not go back to some of the old names? Anthony notes there’s a cost to getting that done and there’s a matter of inconvenience to residents, who’d need all their documentation changed, like notices to credit card companies.

Me, I’d just change it, then tell Visa, go Fish for it.

.

Your Congressman Is Calling

There I was chewing on the telephone (robo-calls make me do that) and thinking how much more fun it would be to chew on the robo caller. That would be my congressman, Frank Kratovil. It was his robo call and his robo voice I heard, saying, “Hello, this is Representative Frank Kratovil and . . .” Buzzzzzz. Guess a tooth hit the disconnect, so I didn’t get to hear the interesting message that he interrupted my dinner to give me.

What puzzles me is, I’ve heard the Federal Trade Commission is banning most types of robo-calls. And from now on telemarketers will need written permission from customers to make these calls, or be fined up to $16,000 for each one. However, and here’s where it gets confusing, the FTC exempted some robo-callers, like charities, banks, insurers, phone companies and, yes indeed, politicians. That’s why you, too, will probably get the chance to quit your dinner table so you can listen to an automated message from your robo-Rep.

Reminds me of a game played locally that involves inventing sentences that you will never, ever, under any circumstances, hear anybody seriously say. My all time favorite used to be, “Sing it again, Dan. . .” (I forget the last name). Now though, I think the winner is, “Gee, I sure wish my congressman would robo-call.”

A Round for the House

I never set foot in there, my kind never did, but I know there’s been big stew about Andy’s closing down and becoming something called LuLu’s Lounge. People talk about boycotting the place when it reopens. I hear Ford Schumann is moving his open mic music show to the Prince (which is probably a better venue for it anyway).  The chatter is fierce. There are no less than 124 impassioned posts on a Facebook page named Remembering Andy’s – and most of them are very critical of the change of ownership.

Just to be contrarian (my kind frequently are), what about the locals who will be out of work if townfolk won’t cross that threshold? Here’s a comment posted by Megan (Spry) in response to one from Colleen writing, “What or who is LuLu?” Megan answers, “Lulu is the nickname of Andy’s longest serving employee, Cindy Williams. Not only was Cindy the backbone of  Andy’s, she is much of what made Andy’s so beloved by all. As the new owner, Dave is giving Cindy and some other dedicated Andy’s employees the opportunity to bring back what we feel the establishment had lost over time. . .an open and fun local bar where the community . . . can gather to share old memories and make new ones.”

Hmmm. Agree with that or not, is Chestertown so lively it can spurn the one pub that catered to everybody? How many can crowd the bar at the Imperial? I guess we could always gather at Newt’s parking lot.  (Bet they’ll let me in there).

Mulching for Memories

Strange things appear on my desk. One’s from the Chestertown Police Department that reads: “Officer Eveland investigating theft – bags of mulch from roses.” And I can’t help but wonder, what kind of person would stoop, literally, to that? This thought nags at me all the way out to Pomona Store, where I’m partial to the tuna salad sandwiches and everything that falls to the floor, and I tumble to another small mystery. Lesley Murray, proprietress, tells about the time she and her husband Bill went away for a couple of days, and when they got back a neighbor came in with a $10 bill. “Here,” he said, “I filled up my car at your gas pump and didn’t notice you were closed until I came to the door to pay.” They’d forgotten to turn off the pumps. So Bill went to check his storage tank, and sure enough, it looked like about $150 worth of gasoline was gone. What sort of people do that?

Here’s what sort: over the next few days, customers kept coming in with cash for gas they said they’d taken, and pretty soon it totaled $168. Lesley smiles and shrugs, “Small town life.” Then she remembers another story from a while back. Her father was visiting from England and began having heart problems. He had no insurance for traveling and the bills began piling up. Soon enough he owed $5,500. As Lesley says, “Tell one person and you’ve told everyone on Quaker Neck.” In short order a collection taken up by their customers had come to $6,000. “That’s been 15 years,” Lesley says, “and look at me, I’m getting goosebumps.”

I do, and she does. Forget about the mulch. I’ll think awhile of this.

High on Roses, Park in Shade

I wake up every morning fully dressed, and that’s as good as it gets, which ain’t bad for a shaggy lady of eight. However, folks past a certain point look better with some clothes on, I’ve noticed. That’s particularly true of  old John, my bathroom attendant. And so it was with that little park at the foot of High Street – worn by wind, scorched by sun, showing the years and embarrassed when bare.

You’ve probably seen the makeover now, and everybody seems to approve, except for Mable Mumford-Pautz, who’s unsure about those new trees. Landscaper Dorien Lewis planted seven multi-stemmed river birches “to provide nice dappled shade.” And she put in 900 loriope, something that looks like a low grass that “will keep mulch from washing away.” There’s black-eyed Susans, the state flower, and rosa rugosa, a native cultivar of a rose that’s “very fragrant.”

How this came about is a nice story. Mayor Margo Bailey says that the late Jack Barnes, whose grandfather was the first official mayor of Chestertown, had donated money to “do up” the foot of High Street when the town first considered a park there. Well, Barnes passed on, and then the  park got raggedy after a number of tea parties and Hurricane Isabel. And so, says Bailey, Mrs. Barnes told her, ‘If you need something more for the park let me know.” The mayor did. She won’t be tacky and say how much it was, though that would be fine with me. But here it is, as Dorien Lewis puts it, “a simple rescue for a garden that needed a little umph” — and a bouquet from the Barnes’ for everyone.

Adding Up Subtractions

Looks like somebody said “basta” to the pasta that was supposed to be coming to Chestertown. The buzz on that new Italian restaurant that was to be opening in a certain building on Rt. 213 – you know, the nifty new one with the unfinished roof, no interior walls, and foot-and-a-half-tall weeds and junk in front?

That’s one brick oven that won’t get lit. The owners of the building don’t seem to have the resources to finish construction. Anyway, everything’s come to full stop.

It’s another sign of the economic uglies that are taking big bites out of everybody’s Alpo. Anytime you look around downtown, seems like, another good place is gone. Andy’s won’t be Andy’s. Massoni’s won’t be Carla’s. Vicky gave up on the Crossfire. The antique mall on Cannon is emptied. The offices of Blue Heron Construction are dark. Times really are, and not just for me, the dog day afternoons.

Off With Their Harleys

This comes from John, my Server. Now and then I give him a night out, and he stormed back from one Friday in a terrible rant. I call it How You Know High Street Ain’t The Via Veneto. Seems he was having dinner at Brix and the guy across the table says, “Did you hear about that surgeon who” ROARRRRRRR.  All conversation is blotted out by a guy on a Harley rolling toward the river. After a while the woman to his left is saying, “The BBC is reporting that Sarah Palin just re-” ROARRRRRRR. It’s the Harley guy and now he’s driving up High Street. A little later the woman to the right winds up a story,  “So now she’s dated every single man in town except for” ROARRRRRRR. The look-at-me biker comes thundering down High yet again.

And finally it occurs to everybody at once, that guy must be stuck on High Street! Yeah, there’s the river down that way, and up at the other end is the diabolical THREE-WAY STOP.  Motorhead can’t figure out how to get out of town! And the same thing happens every Friday night to outside diners in Chestertown. Somehow this guy wanders onto High and, well, you know he’s dim if he thinks 50-year-old tattooed arms look good in sleeveless Tees. Obviously, he needs some help, with directions probably, with manners certainly. So why not station a patrol car nearby on Friday nights? And when the hog on a hog rolls by for the third painful time, the officer could wave him over and politely inquire, “Where do you think you are, Cecilton? You do? No, it’s up yonder.”

I mean, some do wonder, why can’t a noise ordinance be used for more than stopping good musicians from playing free concerts down by the river?

Ahoy, Tourists

I hear it’s the biggest parade of tall ships ever to come to Chestertown – or at least since the 1700s. Or maybe about 1812. Without photographs, which didn’t exist back then, it’s kind of hard to be sure. What’s certain, however, is this is going to be one of the largest parades of photographers here in a real long time, for me. They’ll be lining the bridge, tripping over dogs, bumping into each other, dropping things, stepping in stuff, their attention focused on all the sails, clicking away.

Downrigging weekend here, Oct. 28-Nov. 1, will feature eight major tall ships and lots more traditional schooners and workboats. Vessels in port, in addition to the Sultana, will include Kalmar Nyckel, Pride of Baltimore II, Virginia, Amistad, A.J. Meerwald, Lady Maryland, Elsworth and the Elf. Begun in 2001 as a two-schooner festival, the weekend has grown into one of the premier waterfront events around the Chesapeake, drawing more than 10,000 visitors to Chestertown each year. And another century from now there’ll be plenty of photographs to prove it.

Welcome to My World

So, I’m in Wilmer Park and I fall into conversation with that big male, kind of a mutt but fun, who’s over on Cannon Street. I bark. He barks. I bark. He barks. I bark. He barks. Then one of those Water Street bitches has to butt in, like they do. She barks. He barks. I bark. He barks. She barks. I bark. She barks. I—

“@&#-#$%@ it, TALLULAH, shut the %^&$#K+,” The Voice From On High. I hate it when that happens. Can’t we all just get along?

Apparently not, when Chestertown’s got all these ordinances.  Here’s one: “A dog which disturbs the peace and quiet of any neighborhood in an inhabited area by excessive barking. . .or depositing excretory matter on property other than that of the owner shall be deemed a nuisance.” Well excuuuse me.

Now, though, things are getting balanced, dog-human. The Town Council last week passed a noise ordinance setting a fines of $500 for people’s noise above 65 decibels in daytime and 55 decibels at night, that can be heard more than 50 feet, which is “generated by altercations, parties, social events, rallies, meetings or other celebrations. . .”

Fair’s fair, says I.

Tallulah Sniffing…