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We have the knowledge but not the will to fix the problem

In a recent fishing trip with residents of the Charlotte Hall Veterans Home, we could not help but notice how brown the water appeared even after several miles of boating into Herring Bay. One of the veterans asked why. I explained to him that what he was seeing was mostly clay in suspension.
    Where is it coming from?
    Clay comes from agricultural fields and home gardeners with exposed soils as well as from construction sites.
    “How can it come from construction sites,” he wanted to know, “as they are required to surround such sites with silt fences?”
    Silt fences remove only floating organic waste, sand and silt. They do not remove clay from water flowing through them or nutrients soluble in the water.
    Only two methods effectively remove nutrients and clay from waters penetrating silt fences. The water must be treated in a waste water treatment facility with tertiary water treatment or be passed through compost.
    Research has clearly demonstrated that water filtered through silt fences can be purified by passing the water through a berm of active compost. Because of the negative and positive charges in compost, clay particles are trapped along with nutrients. Growing winter rye in those berms of compost also helps in absorbing nutrients trapped in the compost.
    This information — common knowledge to us researchers — has been presented at many public meetings and published in trade magazines. One company manufactures Filtrex Sox, a mesh tube 12 to 18 inches in diameter and filled with compost. The tube has an apron that forces water to flow through it.
    This information has been presented to highway departments and at contractor meetings without much success. Rebuttals have been “we use bales of straw or mounds of wood-chips” to filter surface water. These methods do not solve the problem of trapping muddy water because neither has positive and negative changes attracting particles and nutrients.
    It’s an old familiar story: Research tells us what must be done, but great resistance rises against new and improved methods. Change comes slowly unless it is made mandatory.
    Enough said.

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

Sesame Peanut Butter Noodle Salad

Use kid-favorite peanut butter to upgrade packaged ramen to a cold noodle salad packed full of flavor and great grains, nuts and vegetables.

For the Sesame Peanut Butter Sauce

1 large clove garlic
2 tablespoons tasted sesame oil
3 tablespoons natural smooth peanut butter or almond butter
2 teaspoons grated fresh ginger (optional)
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice (from about 3 limes)
2 tablespoons tamari
1½ teaspoons granulated sugar


For the Noodle Salad

4 ounces gluten-free soba noodles
½ teaspoon olive oil
1 red bell pepper
1 cucumber
1 carrot
4 green onions
¼ cup fresh cilantro leaves, optional
¼ cup shelled, unsalted peanuts
1 tablespoon sesame seeds


    In a food processor, combine garlic, sesame oil, peanut butter, ginger, lime juice, tamari, sugar and 2 tablespoons water. Process until well combined.
    Cook the soba noodles according to package instructions. Drain and rinse under cold water. In a large bowl, toss with olive oil to prevent sticking.
    Thinly slice or julienne bell pepper, carrot, cucumber, and green onion. Roughly chop the cilantro, if used, including its soft stems.
    Add bell pepper, cucumber, carrot, green onions, peanuts, cilantro, then peanut sauce to noodles and toss to combine.
    Divide into 4 servings. Individual portions can be frozen; defrost overnight.

Love them or hate them, school buses weave through the fabric of our experience

One way or another, school buses take us all back to school.
    As well as ever-safer and more standardized transport, they’re vehicles of cultural passage. Via the school bus, the freedom of childhood passes to the regimented life of schedules and hurry, bells and detentions. Mother lets go your hand and the motorized door opens to the wide world.
    Little wonder school buses also travel our cultural byways as icons of rebellion.
    In the fermenting 1960s, counter-cultural pioneer and novelist Ken Kesey (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Sometimes a Great Notion) gave a Day-Glo paint job to a 1939 International Harvester school bus. Christened Further, it transported Kesey’s Merry Band of Pranksters cross-country and into the psychedelic age.
    In the adaptive 1970s, the wholesome Partridge Family joined the revolution, driving a 1957 Chevrolet school bus purchased by the Orange County (Calif.) School District to television stardom. For their staged rebellion, ABC painted the bus in color blocks in the style of the abstract Dutch painter Piet Mondrian.
    In the irreverent 1990s, The Simpsons featured school bus driver Otto Mann, an aging delinquent who aided and abetted kids’ efforts to tip the bus as it rounded corners.
    That, of course, is against the rules. Real-life school bus drivers are careful citizens who go through double licensing before they can get behind the wheel of a bus full of Maryland kids. As well as commercial driving licenses, school bus drivers have commercial drivers have two endorsements: P for any vehicle carrying over 15 passengers plus S for school buses.
    Kids are supposed to sit tight in their compartmentalized seats and not torment the driver, the bus or each other.
    We who share the road with school buses have responsibilities, too.
    According to Maryland Transportation Article, Section 21-706, If a school vehicle is stopping or has stopped, and is operating the alternately flashing warning lights, the driver of any other vehicle meeting or overtaking the school vehicle shall stop at least 20 feet from the rear of the school vehicle (if approaching the school vehicle from the rear), or 20 feet from the front of the school vehicle (if approaching the school vehicle from the front), and may not proceed until the school vehicle resumes motion or deactivates the alternately flashing warning lights.
    “More children are injured outside a school bus than inside,” says Annapolis school bus dealer Steve Leonard. “Motorists think they can zoom through before the bus lights change from yellow to red. But they’re not thinking of the darting child, who isn’t thinking of them.”
    Read this week’s feature story, The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round, and you’ll you’ll never look at a school bus the same way.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

This silly send-up of 1960s’ spy films is F.U.N.

Napoleon Solo (Henry Cavill: Man of Steel) is a CIA spy with style. Dressed to the nines and armed with charm, he can seduce women with a wink and talk his way into or out of any situation. His unflappable confidence is second only to his intelligence.
    So when he’s assigned to extract Gaby (Alicia Vikander: Ex Machina) from East Germany, Solo assumes the mission will be simple. But only after a harrowing chase from a hulking tail do Gaby and Solo make it safely across The Wall. Then they find their mission has just begun.
    Gaby’s father, a former Nazi scientist who has discovered an easy way to enrich uranium, is kidnapped by terrorists planning to make and sell atomic bombs. Neither the U.S.S.R. nor the U.S. wants atomic bombs on the open market, so they team up (temporarily) to foil the bomb makers. Thus, Solo and Gaby are partnered with a Russian agent who turns out to be Illya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer: Entourage), the brute who chased them through East Berlin.
    Based on the popular TV show, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is a swinging tribute to the 1960s spy genre, with plenty of suave guys, stunning women and sexual innuendos. Director Guy Ritchie creates a light romp with plenty of style plus frenetic editing and framing.
    Ritchie also has a wicked sense of humor, with many violent acts played for laughs in the background of scenes. Solo watches as Illya engages in an aquatic gun battle. He could help, but he’s not quite finished with his drink. This mix of brutality and jocularity works well in the spy spoof tone.
    As the duo who must learn to work together, Cavill and Hammer have excellent chemistry. Cavill, an almost surreally handsome leading man, is perfect as the slightly empty seducer. His Solo is all style and detachment, ala vintage James Bond. Hammer uses his considerable height and a comically ridiculous accent to make Illya a brute with a soul and surprising humor. As the glue holding the men together, Vikander isn’t required to do much. Her beauty and natural charm carry her through a slightly underwritten role.
    Ritchie crafts a breezy film, but he isn’t quite as slick as the spies he puts on screen. By rehashing scenes we’ve just watched, he over-explains his fairly straightforward plot and makes the film seem overlong. Fifteen minutes could be razed without damage to plot or pace.

Good Action • PG-13 • 116 mins.

It’s rewarding all around

There is nothing in the world like the feeling you get when you adopt a homeless animal.
    They say the animal you rescue will know that you saved them, and I have experienced that first hand.
    Our current pack is as diverse as they come, with all of these amazing animals rescued from the SPCA of Anne Arundel County. Fred, a Lab-great Dane mix who loves everyone and everything, was rescued in 2007, Tank, the St. Bernard, joined the family in 2010; yes, shelters have purebred animals. Mabel was 12 when we adopted her, yet she has more energy than all of us combined; senior animals need homes too. To round out the pack, we are fostering Casper, who is a dog in a cat suit. With some special medical needs, Casper is thriving in our home. I am now a cat person. My husband and I feel like we are the lucky ones. Please consider the benefits of adopting or fostering with a local shelter.

–Lisa Gyory is with SPCA of Anne Arundel County

Your inner child will want to see it again and again — even without Cousin Itt

“America has loved the Addams Family for 80 years, and now we have a rerun marathon of your favorite creepy and kooky characters in the flesh and blood. They’re all back (minus Cousin Itt) in a surprisingly sanguine musical that celebrates family values through the generations. Annapolis Summer Garden Theatre’s production will keep you smiling from the moment Thing cues the overture until the inspirational finale, Move Toward the Darkness.
    Gomez (Vince Musgrave) and Morticia (Alicia Sweeney) are a matched couple. He a devoted family man and she a macabre lovely, they share a passion for life and death. Gomez revels in his whacky Spanish ancestry in the opening tango, When You’re an Addams, while Morticia celebrates their complete candor in her cha-cha, Secrets. But when daughter Wednesday (Lucy Bobbin) confides a secret love affair to her father, Gomez has two problems: Morticia’s possible reaction and his sorrow that, as he sings, Wednesday’s Growing Up. Love is also a problem for little brother Pugsley (Drew Sharpe/Matthew Beagan) with whom Wednesday shares a sadomasochistic sibling rivalry. Cue the waltz What If She Never Tortures Me Anymore?
    Wednesday’s boyfriend, Lukas Beineke (Daniel Starnes), is a conservative Midwestern tourist she met while crossbow hunting on the Addams property in Central Park. A disastrous dinner with his parents, Mal (Jim Reiter) and Alice (Andrea Ostrowski Wildason), ensues, despite Wednesday’s pleas for One Normal Night. When Mrs. Beineke accidentally imbibes one of Grandma’s (Ginny White) herbal truth serums while playing Full Disclosure, a game “loosely based on the Inquisition,” she lambastes her control-freak husband in the grave Lament. Uncle Fester (Eric Meadows) comes to the rescue by summoning the dead Addams ancestors to keep the Beinekes hostage until all can resolve happily ever after. For despite his upbringing, the suitor who aspires to be a coroner is an Addams at heart.
    This cast shines brighter than a blue moon. Musgrave draws on his Cuban heritage to create the quintessential Spaniard with a versatile voice of gold: tortured in the tango, Not Today, urgent in the habanera, Trapped, introspective in Happy Sad and haunting in Morticia (“the screams she saves for you, the hell she puts you through!”).
    Sweeny, every curvaceous inch Morticia with the mincing step and withering deadpan, is most compelling in her cheery softshoe, Death Is Just Around the Corner. As Wednesday, Bobbin is as cold as ice and hot as flames with a voice and moves to wake the dead in her pulsing solo, Pulled. As her suitor,  Starnes is charming and lovable in his salsa-infused rock anthem, Crazier Than You. Sharpe is a vulnerable, hollow-eyed Pugsley. As Uncle Fester, Meadows is sweet strumming a ukulele and crooning love songs to the moon. Reiter is too convincing as the unfeeling square, while Wildason is maddening with her Pollyanna-style rhyming couplets. And Steve Streetman is uncanny as the Frankensteinean butler Lurch. As for the chorus, they are the most spirited the company has ever gathered.
    With a dilapidated Victorian set complete with spider-patterned wallpaper, a torture chamber and sound effects featuring ghostly moans and the thumping of Poe’s Tell Tale Heart, you’ll feel right at home. Spotlights broadcast the silhouette of the creepy tree in the yard with a full moon projected onto the roof of a neighboring building, where Fester serenades from the parapet. The music features clever lyrics reminiscent of Weird Al and dance moves from the zombie to rigor mortis. Costumes are scary good with ghostly details like tire tracks across the back and nooses. There are a few awkward scene changes and special effects, but nothing to detract from an otherwise spooktacular show.
    As Director Debbie Barber-Eaton writes in her program notes, this is a show about the “family to which we all secretly wish to belong.” Your inner child will want to see it again and again — even without Cousin Itt. Buy your tickets now, before they all vanish.

Two hours and 45 minutes with intermission. By Marshall Brickman, Rick Elice and Andrew Lippa. Director: Debbie Barber-Eaton. Musical director: David Merrill. Choreographer: Jamie Miller. Costumer: Nikki Gerbasi. Set: Matt Mitchell. Lights: Matt Tillett. Sound: Dan Caughran. Musicians: Ken Kimble, Rich Estrin, Randy Martell, Trent Goldsmith, Reid Bowman, Zach Konick, Randy Neilson and Paul Pesnell.

With the chorus of Addams ancestors: Katie Gardner (bride), Kevin Cleaver (caveman), Michael Ruttum (conquistador), Ashley Gladden (courtesan), Karah Parks (flapper), Mariel White (flight attendant), Christian Gonzalez (gambler), Kristi Dixon (Native American), Nathan Bowen (Puritan) and Brian Mellen (sailor).

Th-Su thru July 25, W July 22, 8:30pm, Annapolis Summer Garden Theatre, 143 Compromise St.. $22; rsvp: 410-268-9212.

Husband Bill has his say on our shared dogs

I’ve given away most of my space in this week’s Letter.    
     “I’ve had my say on the dogs you and I have shared,” I said to my husband, Bay Weekly co-founder Bill Lambrecht. “Now it’s your turn.”
    Bill took the assignment, but his storytelling reflects his day job: 30 years of reporting on D.C. capitol doings.
    Read on and you’ll see why he titled his story Capitol Leaks.

    I suspected growing up that your dog reads your mind. Now that more dogs have entered (and, alas, exited) my life, I know it’s true.
    Back in Illinois, there was Slip Mahoney, the roving German beagle, apprehended and jailed seven times (once at a Kroger meat ­counter.) Mornings, Sandra, editor of this paper, would head off in her silver Gremlin to her newspaper job in downtown Springfield.
    My consuming thought: How to secure the house to prevent canine escape.
    Slip, of course, would have caught that brain wave, exited through an unlatched door (or right through the screen), and begun weaving his way through traffic on a Gremlin-sniffing mission.
    In Maryland, there was Max the yellow Lab, formerly employed as Bay Weekly Office Greeter. On his days off, we’d go fishing in the old Sundancer, in Borg-perfect sync. He’d get excited as me spotting a bluefish feeding frenzy. One day, after a tip about “acres and acres of huge breaking rockfish,” he shared my nagging sense I’d forgotten something.
    He whined nervously as we raced to the slip. Then he stayed in the car, forlornly, while I discovered on the boat I’d left the rods on the patio. (I’m hangdog myself at this moment recalling that today is the anniversary of Max’s death.)
    Then came Moe the yellow Lab, who held down at least three jobs. At Bay Weekly, he was sidekick to Nipper the Notorious (a Jack Russell who owns the Maryland state record for biting humans).
    On Capitol Hill, Moe was my security detail. (I’m speaking here about protection from members of Congress.)
    There too, Moe was ambassador-at-large. Around our condo, he’d buddy up to senators’ poodles and wrestle in Stanton Park with young female aides who’d kick off their heels. All the while, he’d stay plugged into my thinking, like that morning during the October 2013 government shutdown when we walked along the south side of the Capitol building.
    I can’t believe those zealots in there would shut down the United States government, I’m thinking.
    Moe, leash-less but usually well behaved, big-nosed his way through azaleas and lifted his leg on the limestone of the U.S. Capitol.
    He plowed back through the bushes, looked up at me smiling and communicated a question: Whaddaya think of that?
    I petted him, wrote Bill.

    Empathy. That’s the emotional partnership shared by the man who, whenever he needed a friend, got a dog.
    Turn the page for more stories and news of the four-legged friends who love us unconditionally — in their own complex ways.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Our four have assisted all in their own ways

Four dogs have helped us run Upakrik Farm.
    Our first farm dog was a black cocker spaniel. Dixie moved with us from College Park but adapted to farm life. She quickly learned the perimeter of the fields and the joy of riding on the tractor. The sound of its diesel engine made her stop what she was doing and make a beeline for the tractor. Despite her short legs, she would jump onto the platform and sit behind my legs, watching as we drove. She was a great companion during the many hours I spent on the tractor preparing the fields for planting.
    For some unknown reason, she needed help getting down from the platform to the ground. I often suspected that she would have preferred staying on the tractor. Dixie was good at chasing squirrels and rabbits but to my knowledge never caught any. One night when she was 14 years old, Dixie walked away from the farm never to be found.
    Several months after Dixie left us, we adopted an eight-month-old golden retriever. Dandy was not much of a farm dog and did not like riding in the tractor or even a car. But he was a great companion who loved to play fetch and follow me around the farm. He always stayed within eyesight of me, and whenever I stopped to rest, he would come to me wanting to be petted. I never saw him chase squirrels or rabbits, but one day I found him licking baby rabbits in a litter under a tree. I watched him nudge the baby rabbits with his long nose and wash a few with his tongue while holding them between his front paws. I had to pull Dandy away so mother rabbit could approach and feed the babies. He paid daily visits to those baby rabbits until they left the lay.
    For a short time after we adopted Dandy, T.J. joined the family. He appeared to be a cross between a cocker spaniel and a basset hound. We adopted him from our oldest daughter, who was having difficulty training him. Within days, T.J. and I became inseparable. He followed me wherever I went on the farm and would lie patiently by my desk when I had office duties to perform.
    Since T.J. was a rescue dog, we knew nothing of his background except that he had a stiff rear right leg, evident when he walked or ran. One day while following me in the field, he tripped and fell while chasing a rabbit. He was in pain and unable to stand. Since the accident occurred in the evening, I carried him to the house and laid him on the foot of the bed. The next morning I brought him to the veterinarian where X-rays reveled breaks in the shoulder joints of both front legs. The X-ray also reveled he had a metal pin in his right rear leg, which caused him to limp. Because damage was extensive and with an apparent history of broken bones, I decided to have him put down. Clara and I both missed T.J. because he was the only dog we could take for a canoe ride, as he sat motionless and seemed to enjoy the changing scenery.
    Our current dog, Lusby, is a Carolina dog, a breed related to dingoes. She is a rescue dog from Georgia, where she was on death row. Lusby is a real farm dog and knows the territory. She has reduced the squirrel, rabbit and groundhog population and even catches mice. She prefers being outdoors and running beside my golf cart instead of riding in it. Lusby follows me all over the farm and stays within eyesight. When I stop to rest, she comes to check on me but is not a dog that likes to be petted much. She is my back-seat companion when I drive the truck.
    Lusby is great with children whose parents come to cut Christmas trees. She shows off by running at great speed in circles and follows the children through the trees. She will even fetch sticks and balls for children, though she will not fetch for me.

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

Gone all too soon

Dogs’ lives are too short.
Their only fault, really.

–Agnes Turnbull

As I watched her clumsy frolic across the yard, attempting to catch the stuffed bear she had just tossed into the air, it was hard to believe that we had met almost 14 years ago. My dog, Sophie, a particularly comely German shorthair pointer, was just seven weeks old then.
    Our family had been without a dog for some time. Noticing an ad for a litter of German shorthairs in the pet section of the daily paper, my wife and I impulsively took a ride to the Eastern Shore just to look. Of course we did far more than look.
    The breeder, a woman of great knowledge and affection for GSPs, ushered us to her back yard. There, the whole litter of pups, some 10 or so, were engrossed in a wild melee.
    We noticed a small female in the middle of the scrum using her stature to unusual advantage. As her littermates attempted to dominate her, she dodged under and around the outdoor furniture scattered throughout the yard.
    Then, as she threaded through the forest of rough wooden legs and low seats, twisting and turning, she would double back upon an unprotected rear, sending that pup sprawling and rolling across the lawn.
    The breeder and her husband, a fellow bird hunter, tried to interest me in one of Sophie’s stouter littermates. But after meeting and holding the affectionate pup, we were not dissuaded.
    On the ride back to Annapolis, Deb drove while I held the pup. Alert at first, she peered out the car window as we departed her birthplace. Then she looked around us, curled up in my lap, pushed her head against my chest and slept all the way home.
    Our first few months together were an exquisite adventure. On our first trips to the Eastern Shore to exercise in a large, overgrown field, I would purchase a half-dozen or so pen-raised quail to release for her to seek out. She loved the game and became adept at locating the birds, pointing, then chasing after them for a few yards when I flushed them into the air.
    I marveled at how she mastered the sport.
    We were approaching the edge of a grassy field near where I had earlier released a quail when she went on an intense point. Sometimes if a gamebird sits for a time in one location, then moves on, the scent that concentrates in that spot will cause a dog to false point.
    That seemed to be happening because, as I kicked just about every bit of nearby cover, no bird flushed. The edge of that field was bordered by another field of freshly plowed vacant ground.
    I tried to call her off, but Sophie would not move. For every bit of five minutes, she continued to hold her muscle-quivering point.
    It was only when I looked over the abutting expanse of turned and barren earth that a tiny movement caught my eye. The quail was sitting 50 feet away, virtually invisible among the clods of dark brown dirt but in a direct though distant line with Sophie’s quivering nose. I never again doubted her.
    Those memories crossed my mind as I watched her returning across our yard with the stuffed bear held proudly. Then she stumbled and, unable to catch herself, fell. Slowly and with some confusion she regained her footing and resumed her way back to me.
    Sophie was failing and had been for some time. I doubted she would see Christmas this year.
    A dog’s only fault, I’ve read, is their short lifespan and Sophie’s was reaching its end. With a catch in my throat I welcomed her back to me, holding her and telling her what a great girl she was. It was all I could do.

How else to explain such a catch?

Pulling on the trotline one final time to straighten it and ensure proper tension, we dropped the red trailing float and released its anchor into the water, completing the setup. It was just after sunrise, an early start being a necessity when hoping for a good catch of blue crabs. Still, we also knew our job was not going to be easy.
    There had been nothing but bad news this season on the local population of jimmies. My friend Frank had invited me on this trip with the understanding that he needed a basket of crabs for a gathering later that very afternoon. But, perhaps, if we caught enough, a few fat males might come my way.
    That possibility, I knew, was slim to none. But hope springs eternal on the Chesapeake. We also had two lucky charms with us: two of Frank’s granddaughters, Emma and Sydney, ages nine and 10.
    If anything tugs at the heartstrings of crabbing’s Lady Luck, it’s a youngster on board, and two female youngsters pull on them that much more. Frank and I, of course, had no idea how much good fortune the girls would bring.

Fishing a Trotline
    A simple crabbing trotline has the chicken neck baits tied directly onto the line, generally one every five to seven feet. There is a drawback to that simplicity. When the line begins to be pulled up off the bottom, the weight of the crab grasping the neck flips it over. Often that startles the critter enough to cause it to drop off.
    Our trotline, however, was rigged with snoods. A snood is a dropper line about six inches long knotted onto the main line and rigged with a slip loop to hold the chicken neck. This tends to keep crabs holding on all the way to the surface as the line is pulled up.
    Our first run was startling. In recent seasons, the number of crabs in the Bay has dropped significantly, to about half that of years past and worse in some areas. If a sport crabber nets just a few legal (51⁄4 inches) males off a trot line with some 200 baits, lately that’s considered a good catch.
    When we reached the end of the line and lifted it off the roller, we rushed back to the culling basket and counted. Fourteen keeper-sized jimmies crowded the bottom, fiercely brandishing big, bright blue claws and daring us to come closer. It was an awesome beginning, but, we feared, unlikely to continue.
    Then it did. Taking turns, the girls netted crab after crab. Occasionally, the girls relinquished their nets to do a share of the culling, allowing us adults to make the catch.
    Within an hour, keeper jimmies were filling the big orange basket, climbing up and over the top to scuttle into the confines of the boat. That wouldn’t do. So we put a lid on the first basket and pulled out a second.
    Well before the end of the morning, the impossible was accomplished: Two bushels of big, beautiful blue crabs, one for Frank, and the other, quite miraculously, for me. Motoring back to the dock we all congratulated ourselves and, especially, our lucky charms.