view counter

All (All)

The capacity of herons

The discovery that a heron was plundering my catch solved the mystery but did not end my ­curiosity. There was more to be learned.
    Apparently, herons are quite intelligent and know an easy meal when they see it. Almost immediately, a pattern became evident. If I was on the dock to use the boat or to check the crab traps, heron was nowhere in sight. As soon as I picked up my fishing rod, the bird would appear from nowhere and wait about 10 feet down the dock for my catch. At first I fiercely protected my perch. But heron was persistent and cute, and I gave into temptation, tossing an occasional fish. Eventually the bird was getting my first fish. Neighbors kidded me about having a pet heron, and when I gave him a name — Harry the Heron — I knew they were right.
    Having heard stories about adopting wild animals, I checked on potential dangers.
    My wife agreed. She thought I should see a shrink.
    But it was the bird I worried about. Dave Brinker, the Maryland Department of Natural Resources bird expert, told me blue herons cause the biggest trouble for the state’s goldfish and koi farmers, who must protect their fish from these predators. The stately birds are not picky eaters.  “If they can catch it and subdue it, they will eat it,” Brinker said. “While we usually think of them eating fish, they will eat frogs and voles and even small muskrat.”
    I was amazed they could eat perch up to eight inches, but their bodies are designed to stretch. Perch are a favorite food because the fish’s shape is conducive to swallowing. Herons are smart enough to know what they can handle, and a bird choking on a meal is very rare.
    Brinker confirmed it was not a good idea to keep feeding Harry, but not for the reason I thought. Once a bird learns to fend for itself, it never forgets and can always go back to self-sufficiency. There are, however, other good reasons to avoid the practice. First, these are smart birds. Once they find an easy meal, they will stick around. This can be problematic at migration time. If Harry decided to stay for the winter, and it was a bad one, it could be hard for either of us to find him food, even if I’m willing to brave sub-zero temperatures to fish for a bird. The second is one’s neighbors. While mine think it’s cool to have a resident heron, not all would agree. Especially fish pond owners.
    I have to sever relations with Harry, and I will in a few weeks. We’ll both go cold turkey. I will stop fishing from my dock; he will have to catch his own dinner. I’m not sure which of us will suffer more.

To see the video of the solved the mystery, go to YouTube and enter Bay Weekly Newspaper Missing Fish Mystery Solved in the search box.

The eating is good and local

Plant a seed and it will grow. That’s the truth of midsummer, especially this wet midsummer when Earth up here in our northern hemisphere is cloaked in vegetation. You’ll remember it wasn’t like this six months ago; sticks and Earth were bare. Now it’s gangbusters.
    Corn grows rampant. Cucumbers and squash hang pendulous and beans in curtains on their vines. Canes break out with raspberries. Tomatoes swell and burst in the sun. Earth reverts to the Garden of Eden, where it’s all yours for the picking.
    If ever you’re going to eat local, now is the time.
    Corn grew so tall and thick it shaded the narrow lane I traveled on the way to the Bay Gardener’s Upakrik Farm in Deale, where Dr. Gouin is calling in friends and carrying baskets to the SCAN Food pantry to help eat his way out of abundance. His is a mighty garden.
    Even a little patch on the edge of shade like ours feeds the family generously if a bit monotonously. First came our salad days. Then the feast of radishes. Now cucumber salad is a nightly dish as we wait and hope for the tomatoes to go riot. No vampires will visit my home, where a year’s worth of garlic dries in braids I learned to tie from the Bay Gardener. I had parsley (until it went to seed, in its second year) and have basil and oregano enough to feed Fairhaven. My lemon balm would make tea for all Annapolis.
    If you planted a seed this spring, it grew.
    Multiply that bounty by all the gardens and farms in Chesapeake Country, gather it in dozens of farmers markets and roadside stands, and we’ve all got some eating to do. Because, as Dr. Gouin says, “over production of vegetables often occurs, and it is shameful to allow it to spoil.”
    In case you’re not doing your part, Maryland designates the coming week of high summer, July 18 through 26, as Buy Local Challenge Week. Your assignment, if you accept it, is to make a personal commitment, pledging (at to eat at least one thing from a local farm every day of the Challenge Week.
    Where will you start?
    Simple and unsurpassed for the tomato eaters of Maryland is a perfect tomato sandwich: Thick slices of tomato on your choice of bread moistened by butter, mayo or olive oil, topped with salt, pepper and, if you go the olive oil route, basil. Make it meaty with crisp strips of bacon. Yes, locally raised meat is becoming standard at local farmers markets, if not farm stands.
    If you’re ready to step out, try the recipes in this week’s paper. Maryland First Lady Yumi Hogan’s instructs us how to make two Korean dishes — pork bulgogyi and cucumber salad, both favorites among her family. Step out a bit further with avid home cook, artist and fermentation enthusiast Caiti Sullivan, who simplifies canning, pickling and fermentation with in-season recipes for Spiced Cherry Preserves, Bread and Butter Pickles, Canned Tomatoes with Italian Herbs and Sauerkraut.
    If you’re really into challenge, try the complex and delicious recipes created by local chefs from local ingredients from local farms for the Governor’s Annual Buy-Local Cookout. This year’s recipes include not only Hogan’s bulgogyi but also, to sweeten the menu, Firefly Farms Goat Cheese Cheesecake with Caramel Sauce and Grilled Black Rock Orchard Peach Compote, by Doug Wetzel of Gertrude’s in Baltimore.
    Find Governor’s Buy Local Cookout cookbooks and recipes from 2009 to 2015 at
    It’s midsummer, and the eating is good and fresh. But the season is short. Stock your kitchen, fridge and pantry with local bounty. Make a habit of shopping farmers markets and roadside stands for the best local produce, brought to you freshly harvested by the farmers who grew the good things we love to eat.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

The best of times and worst of times brought to vivid, emotional life

The most famous first lines in literature — “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” — may make you fear you’re in for a dry history lesson.
    Not so with Annapolis Shakespeare Company’s A Tale of Two Cities. As soon as actor Brian Keith MacDonald follows that opening, you realize this production is going to be about the fire of feelings, not the dust of historic facts. Thereupon, it becomes impossible not to go with this revolutionary ride.
    Lara Eason’s adaptation of Dickens’ 1859 novel is concise, filtering out a few characters and situations to put on stage the very basics of the book that so many read in high school. (Most lists have A Tale of Two Cities as the top-selling book of all time, excluding the Bible and other religious books often given away.)
    We’re in England and France before and during the French Revolution, with the aristocracy’s long years of entitlement and cruelty punished by the revolutionaries, whose self-justified actions are just as cruel.
    This production runs only one hour and 45 minutes including intermission, but if anything, the power of Dickens’ story and the clarity of his characters’ feelings are enhanced by that brevity. That’s due in very large part to a cast of seven actors, including MacDonald, who plumbs the depths of each main character even as they quickly switch to playing multiple others.
    MacDonald plays the cynical drunk Sydney Carton, who turns out to be the hero. Patrick Truhler gives us Charles Darnay, the French noble who changes his name out of disgust at his family’s treatment of the peasants. Richard Pilcher is Doctor Manette, imprisoned in the Bastille for 18 years. James Carpenter is Jarvis Lorry, Manette’s friend. Laura Rocklyn is Doctor Manette’s daughter Lucie, loved by both Carton and Darnay, and the central character tying everything together. Joel Ottenheimer plays Monsieur Defarge, the wine shop owner who becomes a revolutionary leader. Amy Pastoor plays his wife Madame Defarge, whose cruel back story is hinted at in such speeches as “Tell the wind and fire where to stop; not me!” Each of these actors does a remarkable job switching from role to role in a way that clearly delineates the character of the moment so that the audience keeps up easily with the action.
    Director Sally Boyett, the company’s founder and producing artistic director, keeps the pace moving with nary a scene change in the small, 70-seat, black-box space. The play is beautifully choreographed so that the action is constant, yet the emotions remain the focus. Lighting designer Adam Mendelson’s illumination is so focused and appropriate that it acts as another character.
    It’s very likely, of course, that you’ve read the book. It’s not very likely that when you did you were kicked in the gut by the emotions and raw power of the characters that are brought to life so vividly in this sincere and succinct production.

Stage manager: Sara K. Smith; Sound designer: Gregory Thomas Martin; Fight choreographer: Amy Pastoor; Dialect coach: Nancy Krebs.

FSa 8pm, Su 2pm & 7pm thru Aug. 2. 111 Chinquapin Round Rd., Annapolis. $35 w/discounts; rsvp: 410-415-3513;

Okra, for beauty and taste

Okra likes it hot.  Soon the cool-loving cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower and kohlrabi will have been harvested, leaving a large empty space in the garden. Lots of nutrients still in the garden can be used for growing a crop of okra.
    To get a jump, start young okra plants in three-inch pots.  After filling the pots with potting soil, place two okra seeds in each. I prefer Clemson Spineless, but there are many varieties available. The seeds will germinate in five to eight days, especially if the pots are outdoors in full sun. Keep them well watered. After the seedlings are about three inches tall, take a sharp knife or nail clippers and cut out the smallest.
    As soon as the area in the garden is cleared, transplant the young okra two feet apart in rows at least three feet apart. Or plant them in your flower bed. Purple varieties produce very attractive foliage. As they can grow to a height of four feet, they are best used as a background plant. But make certain they are accessible for harvesting the pods.
    Okra is a member of the hibiscus family. The plants will start producing beautiful pale yellow hibiscus flowers with purple or red centers within three to four weeks after transplant­ing. Within two to three days after the flowers have wilted, some of the pods will be ready to harvest.
    To assure quality and tenderness, okra pods should be harvested three to four times weekly, especially during hot muggy days when the plants are flowering daily and growing rapidly. Pods longer than five inches will be woody and not palatable. But with some imagination, they can be dried and used in floral arrangements or Christmas tree decorations. Pods can grow to eight to 10 inches long.
    Okra plants will continue to produce pods into mid to late September. However, the later pods tend to become warty looking and are generally not tender.
    Okra can be breaded and fried, brushed with olive oil and baked for about 15 to 20 minutes in a 400-degree oven and sprinkled with salt, used in making gumbo, pickled or added to a tomato, hamburger and onion sauce. When using okra in sauces, always add the cut okra just before serving to avoid the slimy texture that results from over-cooking.
    I have grown okra in my garden in Deale for the past 24 years without failure. I could never grow it when I gardened in New Hampshire because the summers were too short and cool.

Ask Dr. Gouin your questions at Please include your name and address.

Nine-year, three-billion-mile mission to study solar system’s outer limits

As the sky darkens, Venus and Jupiter appear low in the west. While the gap between the two planets is growing, they are both inching toward Regulus, with Venus two degrees below the star Monday and Tuesday.
    Dusk reveals Saturn above the southern horizon with the three stars marking the head of Scorpius beneath it and Antares, the heart of the scorpion, a dozen degrees below.
    Mercury makes an early morning appearance low in the east-northeast a half-hour before sunrise. Don’t confuse Mercury with the much-dimmer star Aldebaran, the red eye of Taurus the bull, high above to the planet’s right. Aldebaran is visited by the thin waning crescent moon before dawn Sunday.
    While you’d need a massive telescope to see it from your back yard, eyes will be on Pluto this week, as NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft, launched in 2006, comes its closest to the distant planetoid Tuesday after a three-billion-mile journey. Back then, Pluto was still the ninth planet. As I wrote at the time:
    Thursday, January 19, NASA launched the space-probe New Horizons on a nine-year mission to our solar system’s outermost planet, Pluto. Discovered by Clyde Tombaugh in 1930, Pluto is also the last planet not viewed by a passing earthen spacecraft.
    Two weather delays were not the only pressures weighing on the launch. The project sparked debate over the craft’s plutonium-powered engines and a possible lift-off explosion. But as New Horizons safely cleared earth orbit, it carried another payload, one closing the cosmic loop: a tiny canister bearing cremated remains of Clyde Tombaugh.
    Over the next five months, New Horizons will study Pluto and its moons, of which there are at least four detected by the Hubble Space Telescope. According to NASA, astronomers hope to determine “where Pluto and its moons fit in with the other objects in the solar system, such as the inner rocky planets (Earth, Mars, Venus and Mercury) and the outer gas giants (Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune).
    On the 14th, New Horizons will be within 7,800 miles of Pluto’s surface. But at almost three billion miles from earth, data sent from the probe, travelling at the speed of light, will take more than four hours to reach us.
    Thanks to the near-endless power of its plutonium engine, New Horizons will leave Pluto and delve farther still, into the heart of the Kuiper Belt, a region at the solar system’s outer limits made up of countless icy mini-worlds akin to Pluto.

Who dunnit?

It wasn’t quite the mystery of whether aliens landed in Area 51, but around Casa Melamud everyone was perplexed and spending considerable brainpower trying to solve the case of the missing fish.
    It is my habit to go out every evening after dinner and cast my pole from my dock, trying to catch fish for our lunch or to bait my crab traps. I have been consistently getting a handful of medium-sized white perch. Unhooking the fish, I’d tossed them on the dock. But when I went to pick my catch, there were fewer fish than I remembered. This was happening evening after evening. I heard nothing and saw nothing. The fish were just disappearing.
    My wife was sure I was miscounting; she called the missing fish a “senior moment.” Maybe the first time, but not night after night. It’s easy to remember whether you caught two or three fish.
    My daughter thought a feral cat was stealing the fish. This sounded reasonable, except that in the almost four years we have lived in this house, I had never seen a cat outside, feral or otherwise.
    For a better explanation I went to the mother of all knowledge: Google. Search results made the answer clear.
    Aliens are no longer slaughtering and abducting cows. They are eating healthier as they are now abducting fish. I found some compelling arguments, but I reasoned that if I were an alien looking for fish, I would be after sushi-grade tuna, not white perch.
    Finally, I posed the question on the fishing bulletin board I participate in. About 15 other members chimed in with their thoughts on our mystery. Seven said all fishermen are liars, so none of this was happening. Seven told me I was using the wrong lure. If I used the one they recommended, I would catch enough fish to not care about a missing few. One supported the alien abduction theory.
    I was resigned to living with my mystery. But one of the keys to success is luck and timing. About a week after the mystery first posed itself, I happened to turn my head at the precisely right moment, and I saw my answer.
    Who’s got my missing fish?
    See for yourself.

If this is the best humanity has, it’s time to welcome our machine overlords

Skynet, an artificial intelligence software system, was created to make life easier. Instead of improving streaming speed, Skynet became self-aware and a powerful enemy of the human race. Hacking into every computer system in the world, Skynet built an army of infiltration androids (called Terminators), launched missiles and wiped out three billion people.
    By 2029, humanity has a savior. John Connor (Jason Clarke: Child 44) is a fierce warrior who seems to know exactly what Skynet will do before the machine does it. On the eve of losing the war to the humans, Skynet takes desperate action: It sends one of its Terminators (Arnold Schwarzenegger: Maggie) back in time to 1984, the year John’s mother, Sarah Connor (Emilia Clarke: Game of Thrones), gives birth to him.
    To stop the prenatal assassination, John sends back his most trusted soldier, Kyle Reese (Jai Courtney: The Water Diviner). Kyle imagines Sarah to be a helpless woman terrorized by a killer machine. What he finds is a warrior who takes out Terminators in the blink of an eye and has more weapons training than a Navy SEAL.
    It turns out Kyle and the Terminator aren’t the only time travelers. After the 1984 attempt fails, Skynet sends a Terminator back to the 1970s to kill Sarah as a child. The attempt, which kills Sarah’s parents, is thwarted by a friendly Terminator (also Schwarzenegger) who then raises Sarah in preparation for her 1984 meeting with Kyle. Those two crazy kids share a night that creates John Connor.
    Now, the timeline has splintered. Kyle and Sarah must attempt to change the future using time travel, explosives and their rapidly aging Terminator.
    Sound confusing and convoluted? It is.
    Try not to think too hard about the multiple timelines; the writers clearly haven’t. From its misspelled title to its horrible plot, Terminator Genisys is an exercise in audience patience.
    Director Alan Taylor (Thor: The Dark World) hammers what should be the final nail into the coffin of the Terminator franchise with this stupid, messy film. He apes the style of James Cameron’s first film, but the callbacks to the original underscore just how awful this movie is. Action sequences are bloodless, loud and confusing cacophonies of sound and CGI animation. Explosions are big, but without any connection to plot they’re little more than an expensive distraction.
    Writers Late Kalogridis and Patrick Lussier do the bare minimum, relying on the audience’s memory of the previous films and lazy exposition on the nature of time travel to move the plot along. With never a reason for what happens, characters look as confused as the audience is.
    With a terrible script and a director with no vision, it’s easy to understand why the performances are so uniformly bad. Clarke and Courtney are set up to for an antagonistic romance, but they fail to find the right chemistry. Instead of sexual tension, we have two people who don’t seem to like each other very much. Clarke also has trouble being tough. She flinches when she fires guns, screams in a baby voice and pouts at both man and machine when things don’t go her way. Only Arnold, who was born to play the robotic character that made him famous, is having any fun. He still delivers one-liners with aplomb and manages to look deadly at an age that qualifies him for Social Security.
    Poorly written, badly acted and ­utterly confusing, Terminator Genisys is the reason sequels get such a bad rap.

Dismal Action • PG-13 • 126 mins.

We found success in a pair of fat stripers at the Bay Bridge

Drifting next to the towering structure, I eased my bait over the side. With only a quarter-ounce weight, it took the chunk of soft crab a while to near the bottom. Thankful that the slow tidal current allowed us to work close on the massive piling, I lifted my rod to be sure that my rig wouldn’t get fouled on the old construction debris below. It was irritating to find that my bait was already solidly snagged.
    I pulled harder in hopes that the rig would break loose but with no effect. Easing my skiff up-current to try for a better angle, I realized that my line’s position in the water was changing faster than the boat was moving. I lifted the rod firmly to test my suspicion. That was when it really bent down. My reel’s drag sizzled as line poured out following something big and deep and now headed in the direction of Baltimore.

Our Last Choice
    The morning for once had started exactly as the weatherman predicted. Overcast skies, light winds and moderate temperatures made a perfect day for fishing the Bay. Armed with a fresh supply of menhaden direct from the netter and a frozen bucket of chum, we were as prepared as possible for a good day. But just for insurance, at the last minute I had also packed a half-dozen soft crabs.
    Arriving on-site with my partner Moe, we noted a friend had beaten us to the fishing. The location, at the mouth of a nearby river, had had a hot bite for the last few days, and we expected nothing less than that this morning. However, our friend did not, have good news. Though the conditions were still superb and he had been grinding chum over the side and set up with bait as fresh as ours, he had not had so much as a nibble.
    Cruising the surrounding waters with my eyes glued to the electronic finder, I confirmed his results. Baitfish galore lit up the screen, but we could mark no rockfish or anything that might have been a gamefish. We headed farther south with the assurance that our friend would call us if the fish showed.
    But there were no stripers at our next spot either, despite the presence of a scattered fleet of boats already anchored and fishing. Venturing even farther south and with similar results, we hadn’t so much as wet a line as the morning wore on.
    Off in the distance I saw the Bay Bridge was not yet clustered with boats, a surprise with the holiday weekend so near. The lack of boats meant that either the structure was still empty of fish or that an opportunity was finally upon us.

One Big Pair
    Our first two tries at drifting soft crab among the pilings were blanks, but our next was golden. After finally spotting some good marks on our screen and dropping our baits, Moe was soon fast to a 25-inch striper. Five minutes later at the same spot, my rod was bent to the corks as my own powerful fish headed away deep.
    It took quite a while to get the fish under control and to the boat. At the last minute, it even looked like our net was too small. But Moe managed the hefty striper in and over the side. After that we boated two or three more rockfish that, while over the minimum legal size of 20 inches, looked meager compared to the beauties we already had in the box. We foolishly released them, hoping for more of the big guys.
    That was when a school of white perch arrived and began gobbling up our supply of softies. With our 6/0 hooks intended for stripers we caught few perch, but within 15 short minutes we were out of crab.
    Though we subsequently attempted to fill out our rockfish limits using our fresh menhaden, it was not to be. The bite proved dead wherever we tried. But with a really nice pair of stripers in the cooler it was hard to be disappointed.

Who gets to march in our parade?

Did you see America as your neighborhood’s Fourth of July parade marched, rolled and roared by?
    That’s what we’re looking for, don’t you think, as we watch and wave from sidewalk and roadside.
    The parades of Chesapeake Country were fresh in my mind the afternoon of this July Fourth when my son Nathaniel called from St. Louis to report on the parade in his community, Webster Groves.
    So I thought I was reading Nathaniel’s words when my husband passed this report to me on his iPhone the next morning.
    No, I realized, as the time frame sank in.
    These were the words and thoughts of my husband’s old colleague and later editor at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, William F. Woo. This parade passed  24 years ago, in 1991. Bill Woo died in 2006. Yet his words — shared on Facebook by his wife Martha Shirk — were timeless.
    As I’ve never read a better story about a Fourth of July parade, I share a slightly reduced version of Bill Woo’s with you.
    My family waited for the Webster Groves’ parade on  the shady southeast corner of Gore and Swon. We had
set the lawn chairs out early, and we bought small American flags for 50
cents apiece from a Boy Scout on roller blades.
    A few minutes after 10, the motorcycle police drove by with sirens
blasting, and shortly thereafter came the fire department aerial truck.
Now the parade began in earnest: The VFW and American Legion color
guards, the mayor and council members, the noisy string of old fire
engines, the finalists for Miss Webster, the children of the Webster
Groves Day Care Center.
    Then, in white, came a delegation from Right to Life, and after it the
Indian Guides, Miss Safe Boating of 1987, Camp Webegee, the high school
marching band, the neighborhood drill teams with umbrellas and lawn
chairs and the rest: all familiar, everything good natured, the whole
parade as exciting and satisfying as fried chicken, potato salad and
    Afterward, we went across the street for an after-parade buffet. The
comfortable old frame house was cool and the porch was crowded with
neighbors and the hosts’ friends. I stood on the lawn with a man I know
from the neighborhood, the two of us drinking cold beer and watching our
children splash down a water slide.
    Too bad about the Pro-Life group in the parade, he said. It was out of
    No, I protested. I was glad they were there, and I was sorry the
pro-choice people were not. The Fourth of July belongs to all of us, and
it is good to see people in the parade who believe strongly in something.
    Pro-choice would have made it even worse, the man said. Controversial
issues create tension. They would ruin the parade.
    I persisted. America was raised on political controversy and exists
because of it. What better day to acknowledge this than the Fourth?
    He said: How would you like the Ku Klux Klan marching in the Webster parade?
    I had to think about that. Logically, my argument
required me to accept the representation of every political, social and
economic cause, no matter how unpopular; for all of them have an
inalienable right to publicly celebrate liberty. If one cannot march on
the Fourth of July, the parade is meaningless for the rest. Yet, did I
wish to sit with my family and listen to the jeers, feel the sullen
silences and watch angry, demanding people go by?
    The parade that we watched depicted an idealized America, showing only a
partial reality. Perhaps it was quite enough for the community to have
briefly taken innocent, untroubled pleasure in itself. Nonetheless, my
friend had disquieted me.
    A few years ago, when our son Bennett was at the day care center, I
marched in the parade myself, pulling him on a red plastic fire engine. The kids were an adorable lot — wonderful little faces of the future.
But what if instead of pulling a beautiful three-year-old on a riding
toy, I had been pushing my mother in a wheel chair? What if I and other
family members of old men and women with advanced Alzheimer’s disease
had marched with our relatives, all silent and crumpled, looking dimly
out from withered faces that may be yours and mine someday?
    What if the unemployed people of Webster had marched, white collars and
blue, reminding those of us with jobs that our brothers and sisters in
community lack economic opportunity? What if the gays and lesbians who
are our neighbors were there? What if the drop-outs and the illiterates
from the schools walked the parade route alongside the cheerleaders and
the marching band?
    We would still be Webster Groves; we would still be America. But it
would be a very different Fourth of July. It would be more honest, but
it would be disturbing, and I cannot honestly say that I would look
forward to it, year after year, as I do this celebration …
    As the fireworks blazed in the distance [that evening], I remembered a far grander
display I once witnessed as a reporter from the banks of the Neva River
in Leningrad, on the occasion of the 50th Anniversary of Communism.
The huge crowd then was perfectly controlled, immaculately behaved. No
one was out of line or loud.
    Now the people of Leningrad have voted to restore the name of St.
Petersburg. Communism is dying and the Soviet Union is falling apart
with rot. I reflected on that as I watched the people around me, some of
them attentive and quiet, others rude and boisterous, all of them having
a good time. There was nothing artificial here.
    When we got home, the six-year-old was asleep and had to be carried to
bed. I put the three-year-old in pajamas and read him a book about a cow
and an elephant. Stay with me a little while, he said when it was
finished and I turned off the light.
    Some neighbors were setting off firecrackers. I thought again about the
parade and the question the man had raised. No good answer had come. I
thought about that well-mannered display in Leningrad and how much
better the Jeeps with noisy teen-agers were;  and
before I could think of anything more the boy and I were both asleep.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Area premier gives the popular film a song-and-dance twist

Catch Me If You Can: The Musical, an area debut, is a song-and-dance celebration of the lovable conman, Frank Abagnale Jr. (Ron Giddings), and the FBI agent who caught him, Carl Hanratty (Joshua Mooney). The fugitive traveled five million miles impersonating an airline pilot, a doctor and a lawyer and cashed $1.8 million in fraudulent checks — all before turning 21.
    The story is many things. It’s the sad tale of a broken marriage between big talker Frank Sr. (Tom Newbrough) and his opportunist war bride Paula (Alicia Sweeney). It’s a funny escapade about a jet-setting playboy who masters persuasion as a survival skill. It’s a mind-boggling lesson in counterfeiting and police procedures from the bumbling team of Hanratty and his cohorts: Branton (Fred Fletcher-Jackson), Cod (Jamie Austin Jacobs) and Dollar (Nick Carter). It’s the heartbreak of true love in the rearview mirror when the Feds track Frank to the home of his fiancée Brenda (Hayley Briner) and her conservative Southern parents, Carol (Sweeney) and Roger (Steve Ariesti). And it’s a glitzy chorus of hoofers in uniforms and hot-pants evoking the glamour of the early 1960s.
    The nonmusical Dreamworks film — starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Hanks, Amy Adams and Christopher Walken — was so successful that the theater world couldn’t let it be, which is unfortunate. For even Marc Shaiman’s musical talent (Hairspray) couldn’t enrich such a rich story. It’s not that the musical’s bad; it received four Tony nominations. It’s just that the songs aren’t memorable, and the story is better told in prose. Still, to give credit where credit is due, this cast rocks the jazzy, campy, film noir score seasoned with riffs borrowed from Duke Ellington and Cat Stevens.
    Annapolis Summer Garden Theatre has assembled a powerhouse cast.
DiCaprio is a tough act to follow, but Giddings — a longtime veteran of local stages best remembered for his award-winning portrayal of Bat Boy — fills those shoes without a misstep. Charming and versatile, he is a song-and-dance tour-de-force, by turns brash and boyish, self-assured and scared, culminating in a poignant “Goodbye.”
    Mooney is equally impressive as Hanratty, looking every inch the hardened middle-aged cynic despite his youth. A theater student at Frostburg State, he played Lancelot in last summer’s Garden Theatre hit Spamalot. Together, the duo is perfect in their finale duet, “Stuck Together.”
    Briner, in her Summer Garden Theatre debut, brings both personal and vocal strength to the role of Brenda. Her tender “Fly, Fly Away” benediction is a highlight.
    Newbrough, a longtime trouper, conveys a multi-layered portrayal of the washed-up wannabe Frank Sr., creating a tortured role model who is equal parts inspiration (“Butter Out of Cream”) and desperation (“Little Boy Be a Man”).
    Sweeney, a veteran of six Summer Garden Theatre productions, charms in the elegant mother roles of the cosmopolitan danseuse Mrs. Abagnale and the conservative Southerner Mrs. Strong.
    With the exception of some amplification hiccups, this show is technically tight with smart staging and choreography. I recommend it for its astute depiction of the real people who lived this true story. Just don’t expect to leave this musical humming.

    Two and a half hours, including intermission. Mild profanity and adult situations. With Hannah Thornhille as Cheryl Ann, Colin Hood as Dr. Wannamaker and Gabrielle Amaro, Madeleine Bohrer, Lucy Bobbin, ­Amanda S. Cimaglia, Debra Kidwell, Caitlyn Ruth McClellan, Rebecca Gift Walter, Brandon Deitrick and David Ossman.
    Director and costumer: Mark Briner. Musical director: Julie Ann Hawk. Choreographer: Becca Vourvoulas. Set: Matt Mitchell. Lights: Matt Tillett. Sound: Lindsea Sharple and Dan Snyder. Stage manager: John Nunemaker. Musicians: Ken Kimble, Rich Estrin, Randy Martell, Randy Neilson, Tony Settineri, Kevin Hawk, Tod Wildason, Jeff Eckert, Reid Bowman, Zach Konick and Bill Georg.
    Th-Su 8pm thru July 25 plus W July 22: 143 Compromise St., Annapolis. $22; rsvp: 410-268-9212; ­