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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; ­


Help these fruit trees recover from two bad winters

The winter of 2013-’14 killed the stems of most of the figs in southern Maryland. However the roots were still very much alive and generated an abundance of new stems from the ground. The robust roots produced stems that were able to produce a few figs. But most stems produced no fruit. They would have this year, except for another killing winter this past year.
    At the northernmost range for growing figs, we have to face the fact that extremely cold winters can mean no fruit.
    Don’t expect to harvest any figs this summer. If the winter of 2015-’16 is equally severe, it is unlikely that roots will be able to generate new growth.
    If your fig plants were killed back again overwinter, by now you should see an abundance of new sprouts originating from the roots. Help your fig recover by pruning out dead stems as close to the ground as possible. To encourage the development of strong sturdy stems, break off all weak, thin stems growing from the roots. It’s better to break off the stem than to prune it. If you cut away the stem with pruners, chances are a vegetative bud will develop in the axis of the stump of the stem and the root, resulting in the growth of a new stem. Allow at least ___ feet between the best-growing stems.
    To break a stem from the roots, I use a four-inch-wide board that’s three to four feet long. I place the end of the board near the weak stem and kick it. This causes the weak stem to shear from the roots, making it highly unlikely that another stem will grow in the same area. Do this while the young stems are green. The roots will be pushing up new stems, so you’ll have to repeat at least twice monthly to remove the previous weeks’ spindly stems.
    Once the stems have started to grow, they will benefit from an application of fertilizer at the rate of approximately one pound per 100 square feet. I generally do not recommend fertilizing figs because it makes them grow too tall, producing less harvestable fruit.
    Plant fig trees on a slope facing south or against the south wall of a building to provide maximum winter protection. I have all of my figs growing again the south wall of a brick house. This exposure provides more warmth from reflective heat from the building and early warming of the soil, especially when the ground is not covered with snow. The soil in a slope facing south always warms sooner than the soil on a slope facing any other direction.

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

The boys are back; their clothes are not

Magic Mike (Channing Tatum: Jupiter Ascending) retired his thong with his bump-and-grind act three years ago. Now a furniture builder, the former stripper is dedicated to growing his burgeoning business. Business is good but burdensome. His workers want health care, he wants retail space and he’s tired of hauling showpieces on and off a truck as he sells his work to Tampa stores.
    When former co-workers call him as they pass through town, Mike reminisces about the great old times. While he has been struggling for growth, Big [redacted] Richie (Joe Manganiello: True Blood), Ken (Matt Bomer: The Normal Heart), Tito (Adam Rodriguez: The Night Shift) and Tarzan (Kevin Nash: John Wick) have been partying. They persuade Mike to join them for one final hoorah: the Stripper Convention in Myrtle Beach.
    He throws caution and clothes to the wind, joining his buddies for a week of drugs, bonding and semi-nude dancing.
    How many shirts can one man tear off in a single movie?
    The original Magic Mike, a character study of men in the adult entertainment industry, featured nuanced looks at the problems of the business, including drugs. With the sequel, Magic Mike XXL, filmmaker Gregory Jacobs (Wind Chill) gives the audience what they’re clamoring for: lots of nearly naked men grinding to R&B hits.
    Story and characters take a back seat to oiled chests and teeny strips of fabric. Dance sequences are long and impressive, as Jacobs shows off the special talent of each performer. Tatum and his pals also have camaraderie that translates onto camera. It’s believable that these goofy guys would spend time together perfecting hip rolls, talking about women and drinking.
    The biggest disappointment in Magic Mike XXL is the women. Though marketed to females, the movie is uninterested in them. As Mike’s love interest Zoe, (Amber Heard: 3 Days to Kill) pouts prettily while Tatum dances circles around her. The only woman who displays personality is Rome (Jada Pinkett Smith: Gotham), a sexy MC who has a secret past with Mike. Pinkett Smith commands every scene she’s in, impressively drawing focus from a horde of handsome, gyrating men.
    Go with friends. Half the fun of this silly movie is listening to people hoot and holler as if Magic Mike could twerk right off the screen.

Revealing Dramedy • R • 115 mins.

No need for fireworks here

While you’re waiting for fireworks in the gathering darkness, impress your friends and family with a quick orientation of the celestial lights popping into view.
    First to emerge in twilight’s glare is Venus, low in the west, so bright you might confuse its twinkling with a jet high overhead. With a little more darkness, Jupiter pops into view a little to the right of Venus. To the upper left of the two planets is Regulus, the heart of Leo the lion. The three provide a good contrast in brightness, with Venus blazing at –4.6 magnitude, Jupiter outshining any star at –1.8 magnitude, and Regulus still quite prominent at 1.6 magnitude.
    The month began with Venus and Jupiter less than one degree apart, and on July 4th they are still within two degrees of one another. But they are parting ways, with Venus moving closer to Regulus and Jupiter inching to the northwest and the wake of the setting sun.
    By 9pm, Arcturus, the brightest star of summer is directly overhead. Shining at magnitude –0.1, it is the lead star in the constellation Boötes the herdsman, who tends the bears Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, which contain the Big and Little Dipper respectively.
    To the east of Boötes is the Hercules, most notable for its trapezoid-shaped keystone. Look for the minor constellation Corona Borealis, the Northern Crown, between Boötes and Hercules.
    To the east of Hercules are the three constellations that host the Summer Triangle. The smallest constellation, Lyra, hosts the brightest star, zero-magnitude Vega. From there look for first-magnitude Deneb at the head of the Northern Cross, Cygnus the swan. The final point in the triangle is Altair, the eye of the eagle Aquilla, shining at magnitude 0.8.
    Low in the south-southeast at sunset is golden Saturn at the head of Scorpius. The heart of the scorpion, Antares, shines a dozen degrees to Saturn’s lower left of Saturn twinkles fiery orange Antares, not quite as bright.
    Early risers can spot Mercury above the east-northeast horizon about 40 minutes before sunrise. Binoculars will help pick it out of the growing glow of dawn. Don’t confuse it for Aldebaran, the eye of Taurus the bull, much higher overhead.

If you want to catch fish, you can’t wait for a perfect conditions

Even as we headed out, the day already looked challenging. Wind predicted at eight knots was easily twice that, and my small skiff was rocking and rolling under overcast skies. Donning foul weather coats, we soldiered on, ignoring a chill spray blowing down the port side onto both of us.
    The day before in perfect weather, my short morning scouting run met defeat. In my hour cruise over recently productive areas I had marked nothing, no bait and no rockfish. Running out of time (I had to ferry some house guests to catch their planes that day), gloom settled over me. Where had all the fish gone?
    Now we were trying a more northerly area, heading out just after sunup with a good supply of chum and bait. At our target location, we saw that if the weather got any worse, we would have to pull the plug. Instead, it stayed only miserable.
    I had seen widely distributed marks on my fish finder as we arrived, but the boat was heaving about so that the screen got little detail. Were those marks scattered baitfish, rockfish or both? Were they even fish? I couldn’t even guess.
    The alternatives were simple: Keep looking for better marks or hunker down in the snotty weather (did I mention it was beginning to rain?) in hope the stripers would come to us. We threw in our lot with staying put.
    We finally got the anchor set, the chum bag over the side and our four rods rigged and baited and trailing out nicely in the swift tidal current. As usual of late, the currents seemed to be running at least four to five hours later than the printed schedules indicated.
    It took a long and uneasy half-hour for the first striper to find our baits. My rod tip dipped, then plunged down, and line began pulling off my reel. With the clicker making merry sounds, I dropped the reel into gear. My rod bent nicely as I set the hook. Within a few minutes we had a fat, healthy, 22-inch rockfish in the net. Breathing a sigh of relief, we declared the looming skunk banished.
    It didn’t take long for the next fish, but it was too close to the minimum size, 20 inches, to trust in the cooler (they shrink some once iced, and measuring was difficult in the heaving boat), so it went back over the side. Another throwback, then another came on board. Were we going to be swamped by shorties?
    The next fish answered that question. It was another 22-incher, followed quickly by a 23, then another 23 and we were done, two quick limits.
    Now getting our gear cleared became the problem. We had three rigs still in the water after netting the last fish, and two were bent over from fish running with our baits.
    Struggling to boat the extras, we had to face a disquieting trend. The rockfish now coming over the side were bigger than the ones in the box.
    Exchanging a rockfish already in your possession for a larger one more recently caught is called culling and is outlawed by Maryland Department of Natural Resources. It is also a death sentence for the fish. A significant percentage of fish released in this practise, even if they appear vital, expire from the stress, especially with the warmer water of summer.
    Shrugging off temptation we released the interlopers and headed for the ramp in victory.
    That’s when the sun broke through the overcast, the rain stopped and the wind died to a gentle breeze. As we arrived at the ramp there ­wasn’t a trace of the miserable weather we had endured. It was now a balmy, bluebird day.

Beyond pomp, parade and fireworks to shared heritage

Weather in Philadelphia in early July 1776, was hot and sticky, just as ours is 239 years later. Fifty-six suited, vested and stockinged men, some bewigged, were embroiled in a quarrelsome task: finding the words to declare independence from Mother England. Opinions, drafts and revisions flew. If the tall windows of Constitution Hall were open, as some paintings suggest, papers that made history rustled and declared their own independence.
    History doesn’t happen in the abstract. Winds blow, humidity rises, rain falls. Real people sweat and scratch, even when they’re taking action so audacious that its only repetition in the history of the nation they began nearly severed that nation, at the cost of 620,000 lives.
    Imagining the circumstances of history brings it home to me. None of those 56 men of mostly English and Irish extraction are my ancestors, as far as I know, though I descend, in part, from men and women from those nations. Yet of all us Americans, no matter what nation we derive, share the legacy of these men whose articulate, far-thinking bravery gave us the nation we celebrate this July Fourth.
    Fireworks and parades highlight the celebrations of Chesapeake Country as towns, business associations and ballparks honor president-to-be John Adams’ wish that Independence Day “be solemnized with pomp and parade, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other, from this day forward forevermore.”
    I love fireworks and parades, and assuming you do, too, we bring you a full listing of Chesapeake Country’s indulgence in such gleeful celebrations.
    Still, my favorite independence celebration is the annual Fourth of July naturalization of new citizens at the Annapolis home of William Paca, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. The people about to become Americans share a special connection with Paca and the other fathers of our nations: None was born an American citizen.
    In that spirit, I honor Independence Day in yet another way. It’s become my custom to reimagine the Americanization of my own foremothers and fathers. Imagine I must, for these are stories I’ve never heard, neither directly nor passed down. What a terrible loss, I think, that these stories were baggage jettisoned as my recently American ancestors moved, in the American way, steadfastly and swiftly into the future.
    Why did they make the enormous decision to separate from the lands of their births to become Americans? I doubt if their motives were as articulate or lofty as those expressed by our white, upper-class, Anglo forefathers in still-ringing words that instill responsive harmonies around the world.
    Still, those great men and my lowly, all-but-forgotten ancestors each sought the improvement of their physical circumstances. Certainly, too, audacious hope was a shared motive, born of the in-the-blood-and-bones conviction that each of us small human beings is, in Thomas Jefferson’s winning wording, “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
    Perhaps inchoate, those are the feelings I like to imagine that in 1920 inspired Catherine and Sylvester Olivetti, with their small son Massimo and the gestating daughter who would become Elsa, my mother, to leave behind their family and village of Pessinetto in the Italian Alps above Turin, travel to Le Harve, France, to steam to America, eventually to settle in the impoverished coal culture of Franklin County, Illinois.
    I imagine that what they left and what they hoped was much the same for the Martin and Nairn ancestors for whom I have not even the shred of a story. Nor so different — for all our details of difference — from the hopes and lettings go of any new American, including those who join our family on this Independence Day.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Osprey and falcon chicks thriving, with a little help

True to the saying it takes a village, it has taken the help of many friends to ensure the health and success of the on-cam osprey and peregrine families.
    Two years of broadcasts on Chesapeake Conservancy’s Osprey Cam have shown Audrey the Osprey as a model mother. She has stayed on her eggs in sweltering heat and storms, shielded her chicks from pouring rain and defended the nest from intruders.
    Thus it was even more devastating when this year’s eggs did not hatch. Audrey refused to give up and continued to incubate her clutch of three into the second week of June.
    A new male usurped original Tom early this season (
node/27495). New pairs sometimes do not lay viable eggs, as viewers have witnessed this year.
    Audrey’s determination to be a mother inspired osprey biologist Paul Spitzer, the Conservancy’s expert on the nest, to suggest her as a foster mother.
    Spitzer and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service raptor biologist Craig Koppie helped identify foster candidates.
    An osprey family on Poplar Island was raising four chicks, a lot of mouths to feed. To better ensure the survival of all, the two largest chicks were removed and resettled in Audrey’s nest on June 17.
    After what was surely a surprise, Audrey and Tom accepted the chicks and are proving model parents.
    Watch this new family grow:

Meanwhile, high above Baltimore City, Boh and Barb falcon hatched their first eyas, the name for peregrine chicks, on May 18. Over the next several days, two more eyases came into the world.
    Boh and Barb have been diligently feeding the chicks, which once huddled together but now fearlessly explore their balcony. On June 28, at just over a month old, one took the big leap, flying into the larger world. Airborn, the eyasses will learn to hunt before leaving the nest.
    When the eyases were a few weeks old, Craig Koppie paid them a visit. An expert on peregrine falcons, Koppie has worked on recovery since 1979 and bands the chicks at 100 Light Street each year.
    While placing identification bands on the three eyases, he saw that the youngest, a male, appeared to have a cold and be dehydrated. Koppie took the chick to Tri-State Bird Rescue & Research where he received some fluids and a bill of good health. After a few days away, the little guy was reunited with Boh, Barb, and his two sisters.
    The eyases have been named Cade, Burnsie and Koppie after Tom Cade, William Burnham and Craig Koppie, three great leaders in the falcon recovery efforts, by vote of 1,500 cam viewers.
    Tune into the Peregrine Falcon Cam:

The Chesapeake Conservancy, an Annapolis-based non-profit, hosts the Osprey and Peregrine cams. Both average 8,000 views a day, from all 50 states and more than 100 countries.

The best actor in the film is a dog, who is saved the trial of lines.

Max is the perfect Marine. The Belgian Malinois is a search dog whose job in Afghanistan is sniffing out weapons, explosives and possible trouble for his platoon. His partner Kyle (Robbie Amell: The DUFF), is more than a trainer; he’s Max’s whole world. So when an ambush leads to Kyle’s death, Max is a broken dog. Afraid of gunfire, aggressive and unwilling to be touched, Max has PTSD and is useless to the Marine Corps.
    Kyle’s family is having a similar reaction. Father Ray (Thomas Haden Church: Heaven is for Real) is stoic. Mother Pam (Lauren Graham: Parenthood) cries as she cooks. The only person who seems unaffected is Justin (Josh Wiggins: Hellion), Kyle’s little brother. A videogame-obsessed teenage terror, Justin is too busy committing petty crimes, BMX biking and sassing his parents to care. After Kyle’s death, Justin’s surliness worsens.
    Brought by Marines to Kyle’s funeral, Max refuses to leave the casket. The dog’s fidelity convinces Pam and Ray to take him home. But the traumatized dog refuses any attentions except Justin’s. Deciding responsibility could help the surviving son, his parents put him in charge of Max’s rehabilitation.
    Max has the best intentions and the worst execution. The movie eschews character development and reasonable plot for plodding moral messages. At fault is the script by Boaz Yakin (who also directed) and Sheldon Lettich. Neither writer trusts the audience to understand the themes, instead belaboring their points with cringe-worthy dialog. The duo also has a limited view of Mexican families, trotting out every possible stereotype from gang association to Chihuahuas.
    The best actor in the film is Max, who is saved the trial of lines. Even veteran actors like Church and Graham can’t make much of this script. Portrayed as the dog’s saviors, the family chains him outside, without shelter or water, in Texas. That’s animal abuse. Ray lectures Justin on the importance of the dog one moment, and the next is willing to shoot him. Graham has the thankless job of being the subservient mother unyieldingly supportive of her men.
    The dog is this movie’s saving grace. Malinois are expressive by nature, and Yakin capitalizes on every ear twitch and head tilt. Max’s antics are amusing, his ability to search grids and leap over obstacles is inspiring and the story of the dogs who have served alongside U.S. troops since World War I is fascinating. Young viewers will be captivated by the pretty dog, but a few violent scenes of war and shootouts may scare them.

Fair Family Film • PG • 111 mins.

It’s harvest time

If you planted garlic last fall, the tails should be at least 24 inches tall, and you should be seeing the tops of the bulbs by now.
    If you, like me, planted elephant garlic, flower heads will now be developing at the end of its tall cylindrical stem.
    Most German, Italian and other soft-neck garlics do not flower. 
    On hard-neck garlic, look for swelling and a pale ring forming near the tip. As soon as the swelling appears, remove the flower head using a sharp knife. A friend removed the flower buds by giving the tail a quick snap. In so doing, he pulled the bulbs partially out of the ground, causing his elephant garlic to produce only small cloves. The cloves and entire bulbs were no larger than those of the Italian white garlic growing next to the elephant garlic.
    As soon as the foliage starts turning yellow-green, push it to the ground using the back of a rake or by dragging a log or timber over the plants. This will help prevent neck rot, which can result in substantial loss in storage.
    Whether hard-neck elephant or German, Italian and other soft-neck varieties, garlic can be harvested for cooking at any time after the stems have fully developed. Cloves will be smaller when harvested early.
    Garlic will be fully developed as soon as the foliage starts turning from yellow to brown. If you intend to store some, delay harvesting until most of the foliage has turned brown.
    Braid soft-necked garlic and hang for drying. It is impossible to braid hard-neck garlic, so it is best to tie the stalks in bundles of three and create a chain of them to hang for drying. I hang my garlic in a shady area in an open garage so air can circulate freely. Allow three or four weeks for drying before placing them in storage.
    All garlics are short-day plants, which is why they have to be planted in the fall when they can be exposed to short-light days after initiating growth. If you wait to plant garlic in the spring, you won’t harvest much of a crop.
    Poor crops are why this will be the last year I try growing short-day onions. Over three years, I’ve found the harvest unworthy of the expense, time and effort. Last fall, I planted some in an outdoor bed, some in a cold frame and some in my greenhouse. Only the plants in the cold frame produced decent-sized bulbs.
    Our winters are much too cold for growing short-day onions outdoors without some protection. A deep cold frame or tunnel is required. Nor do short-day onions perform well in a heated greenhouse. My recommendation is to grow long-day or intermediate onions, planting in the spring and harvesting in August.
    If you planted either this spring, the tails should be at least 12 inches long and growing.
    Of the long-day onions, I find Copra to be the best keeper. Our crop of Copra harvested last August lasted through March. Candy and Superstar are sweet and mild but not good keepers. Big Daddy is the best variety for onion rings.
    As with garlic, push the foliage to the ground to prevent neck-rot and help your crop store better. After harvest, braid the onions and hang — mine are in the garage with the garlic — until the weather turns cold in the fall.

Neck Rot Strikes

Help please! The stems of my garlic and of a friend’s have fallen this year and are lying limp on the ground.

–Bill Lambrecht, Fairhaven


The garlic should have been harvested as soon as the stems started turning yellow green. It has a bad case of neck rot. Harvest the garlic ASAP and separate the cloves from each bulb, dry them at room temperature and store them in the top shelf of the fridge.

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