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Letter from the Editor (All)

A little cause for hope and a lot of good eating

Oysters have been around a long time, in the vicinity of 500 million years.
    Arriving somehow in the Chesapeake, which came into being only 35 million years ago, oysters made themselves at home. In the prehistoric broth, temperatures were moderate, oxygen abundant and food plentiful for the filter-feeders. In synergism over the eons, thriving oysters both kept the Bay clean and made welcoming reef homes for many species seeking shelter and prey. For immobile creatures, oysters got a lot done.
    Longtime Baltimore Sun food writer Rob Kasper paints a vivid picture. “Up it came from the bottom of the Bay dripping mud and with all of these creatures on it, and when the captain popped it open, I was a little ascared,” the native Midwesterner says of his first encounter — aboard a skipjack — with a raw oyster.
    Reefs grew so enormous that Captain John Smith and the Europeans who followed him in big ships had to navigate around them.
    Oysters put Chesapeake Bay on America’s map.
    “They’re historic, they’re part of our tradition, wars have been fought over them,” says John Shields, whose family ran a seafood packing plant on Tilghman Island.
    In the bivalve’s heyday when as many as 17 million bushels were dredged from the Bay from October to April, refrigerated railway cars chugged them across the country to delight inlanders at least as far west as the Mississippi.
    Even in 2016 — with harvests of wild Bay oysters collapsed to a high of 400,000 bushels — Crassostrea virginica remains a talisman of bounty — and good eating.
    Shields, Kasper and I saw the vitality of that tradition last weekend at the U.S. Oyster Festival in St. Mary’s County, conceived by Rotary Club of Lexington Park a half-century ago and still going strong. (Read more in this week’s feature, How to Cook a Prize-Winning Oyster.) You might have shared the spirit last Sunday at Captain Avery Museum’s Oyster Festival.    
    Oyster festivals, roasts and dinners are favorite autumnal events in Chesapeake Country. On Sunday October 29, you can get into oysters at Calvert Marine Museum’s Aww … Shucks Oyster Social or St. Michael’s Oysterfest at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. On Saturday November 5, Deale Volunteer Fire Department takes its turn, serving all the oysters you can eat — on the half shell, steamed, fried, frittered and stewed.
    Despite all the celebration, oysters have been near to becoming just a memory in our Chesapeake, down to one percent of their historic range. Not so many years ago, in this very century, both Maryland and Virginia came close to giving up on Crassostrea virginica and repopulating its home waters with an Asian import. Surely that was the low point. In the last decade, both Chesapeake states have invested heavily and seriously in wild oyster recovery.
    Will it work?
    Oysters are adaptable survivors. They have “developed a wide variety of genes and proteins to help them deal not only with changes of temperature and differences in the salinity of the water, but also with their exposure to heavy metals … and the various harmful bacteria” to which filter-feeders are constantly exposed, Kristian Sjøgren explained in a 2012 article reporting that their complex genome had been mapped.
    Yet they can’t get up and go, so they are tremendously vulnerable to environmental influences, from low oxygen to imported diseases to the heat of such summers as this one.
    Thus the rise of aquaculture means an alternate future — for oyster culture, oyster eaters, the oyster economy … even the Bay, as aquacultured oysters are busy filterers even though they do not form reefs.
    “With oyster farming, I’m enjoying seeing a resurgence in how we enjoy Chesapeake oysters and how they’re sold, here and across the U.S.,” says Shields, cookbook author, PBS cooking show host and proprietor of Gertrude’s Restaurant at the Baltimore Museum of Art.
    A little good oyster news is worth savoring. That’s what you’ll find, along with savory oyster recipes, in this issue.

Speaking of Food …
    Send us your holiday cookie recipes and stories now for Bay Weekly’s Cookie Exchange, out on December 15:

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;
Plus a life in stories:

It’s all connected

Toe bone connected to the foot bone    
Foot bone connected to the heel bone
Heel bone connected to the ankle bone
Ankle bone connected to the ­shin bone
Shin bone connected to the knee bone
Knee bone connected to the thigh bone
Thigh bone connected to the hip bone
Hip bone connected to the backbone
Back bone connected to the shoulder bone
Shoulder bone connected to the neck bone

Unless we want to end up as Hoarders on reality television, keeping house is work we do day by day.
    Put away the groceries. Wash the dishes. Sweep the floor. Harvest the last of the tomatoes. Bring home a pumpkin, plant a mum or two.
    The every-day chores roll in and out like the tides. Interplaying with their circadian rhythm are weekly chores … and on top of them monthly chores … and on top of them seasonal chores … and on top of them annual chores … and on top of them chores you might do every five years or 10 or once or twice in the lifetime you and your home spend together. Put them all together and you get some pretty complex harmonies.
    How much is your homestead asking of you this fall?
    I’m sorry to ask. But that’s the kind of devilish question Bay Weekly’s annual Fall Fix-Up Guide provokes in my head. The image dancing in my mind is appropriately seasonal for the month that brings us Halloween: It’s a skeleton, singing about the toe bone connected to the foot bone, the foot bone connected to the heel bone.
    Indoors, fall fix-up starts manageably. First comes the seasonal rotation of curtains and rugs. But of course the textiles coming and going have to be cleaned, stored and unstored. The windows under those curtains have to be washed. In the process, a little furniture has to be moved.
    That housekeeping done, I’d like the refreshment of some nice seasonal decorating. I’d like to say, Ha! fixed up for fall and relax until the Christmas season makes me a new set of suggestions I can’t refuse.
    But once the skeleton starts rattling, I see how one bone moves another.
    Starting in on fall fix-up reveals many more chores waiting in line for attention. They’ve been patient, at least a little patient, while summer kept us otherwise occupied. Now we see that the lawn needs more than cutting. It needs reseeding. That, as Bay Gardener Frank Gouin reminds us in this issue, is fall work. Of course reseeding doesn’t start with seeding; first you’ve got to prepare the soil.
    Heel bone connected to the ankle bone …
    So it follows that you can’t just harvest the last of the tomatoes. You’ve got to make compost of the vines, along with the late grass cuttings, in preparation for the certain addition of fallen leaves a few weeks hence. You’ve got to plant the fall garden. And then bulbs for spring — plus the longer-term investment of shrubs and trees.
    Ankle bone connected to the shin bone …
    Also jostling in line are chores that come due every year, like chimney sweeping and HVAC checking.
    Shin bone connected to the knee bone …
    Plus some of the chores that come due every so many years, like interior painting: Safe! Did that last year. Ever since, those freshly painted walls have been telling me it’s past time to pull out carpeting upstairs for replacement with hardwood flooring. That’s this year’s project, already started.
    Knee bone connected to the thigh bone …
    So exterior house painting will have to shuffle impatiently in line till next spring’s spruce-up. When I’m likely to have to deal with replacing two exterior doors …
    Thigh bone connected to the hip bone …

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;
Plus a life in stories:

How you cope when rain won’t go away

October ranks high on my list of favorite months — third after June and July. But June and July are not always ideal. When they follow Shakespeare’s caution — Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d — October rises in my estimation. It could climb to second in 2016, when June was splendid but July not so.
    So far, the weather gods are not cooperating.
    In its early days, October 2016 has brought us rain, rain, rain — and more likely coming.
    Hurricane Matthew will do far worse to poor Haiti, where weather routinely beats down a country and people already devastated by centuries of exploitation and bad government.
    Next, Matthew may come north for a visit.
    “The potential bad news for our area is that forecasters and models are predicting a path that brings this extremely powerful hurricane dangerously close to the East Coast of the United States,” Anne Arundel County advised early this week. “This storm should not be discounted.”
    Or Matthew may not call on us. With hurricanes you never know.
    Which can unsettle many an apple cart more fully loaded than mine with hopes and expectations.
    For one, the U.S. Sailboat Show.
    Thousands of people are converging on a mile and a half of floating docks. Surging tides below and rain falling from above — along with big winds blowing — is not the October scenario for which Boat Show organizers hope. They’ve balanced the odds of two good weekends — for the Powerboat Show follows on October 13 — for 46 years. Hurricanes have threatened, but so far they’ve all veered off. There’s been rain, like last year, when City Dock was underwater during setup, and water so high that people needed boots to see the boats. One year there were even snow flurries. But never a total washout. Not a species to be stopped by wind or water, boat fanciers turn out rain or shine. So the hatches — make that tents — are battened down and the lines strengthened. And the show goes on.
    One boat, however, won’t be showing off in Annapolis this week. That’s the Hōkūleá, a 40-year-old replica of an ancient Polynesian voyaging canoe, which is using traditional wayfinding to chart a course around the world. For two years, this Hawaiian canoe has been traveling the globe, covering more than 100 ports and 27 nations to spread its cross-cultural message of Mālama Honua — caring for Island Earth — by promoting sustainability and environmental consciousness.
    Wrapping up its journey along the entire Eastern Seaboard and through both the Great Lakes and Intercoastal Waterway, Hōkūleá planned to stop in Annapolis October 9 to 12. Until Matthew got in its way.
    The much-anticipated visit has been postponed, says Annapolis Green, sponsor of the visit, “due to the possibility that Hurricane Matthew may impact weather in the Annapolis area.”
    Beyond boat shows, we feel the pain of organizers of all sorts of outdoors events celebrating October’s often ideal weather: fall festivals, the Renaissance Festival, Patuxent River Appreciation Days.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;
Plus a life in stories:

Farewell, Joe Browder: 1938-2016

“Most of what became our woods in 1981 was a farm family’s pasture 40 years ago. We didn’t have the decades to wait for honey-scented flowers to appear again on their own timetable. We also wanted to be able to smell the wild azaleas of the Smokies and Blue Ridge, of the north Florida river forests and the Carolinas,” Joe Browder wrote in the third issue of New Bay Times, which would become Bay Weekly.
    On May 20, 1993, as the native azaleas bloomed, the gardener — Joe — had been at work a decade reshaping the “cut and regrown woods” surrounding the hilltop home he shared with his wife, Louise Dunlap. As well as those Hammocksweets — named, he noted, by “the word once used in the deepest South to describe a patch of woods in otherwise grassy, marshy low country” — he planted “14 other native American azalea species and hybrids.”
    Over 35 years, Joe’s woods matured into an encyclopedia of beloved species, diverse magnolias sharing place of pride with native azaleas, making “the air more fragrant, the woods
brighter, the hummingbirds’ and butterflies’ menus more diverse, our lives on the Bay richer.”
    In an era when “genetic genies are out of the bottle — with millions of non-native, nursery-bred azaleas planted in Bay country — Joe was not an advocate of punctilious correctness. He believed in making the best of the world in which we find ourselves and preserving what we have left. He not only planted but also lived and worked by that philosophy.
    Joe and Louise lived in Fairhaven, in Southern Anne Arundel County, overlooking Herring Bay. But they worked as environmental lobbyists in Washington. Political animals, we called them, for their intensity and ability to speak to all sides on an issue. Not all of Joe’s clients were perfect; some were genies well out of the bottle, interests that Browder could nudge into earth-friendlier directions.
    Joe balanced what must be by devoting himself, pro bono, to causes that, if lost, would make our world a far poorer place. In the Florida Everglades, Joe is being recalled as legendary for his success in holding back development.
    A former TV reporter in Florida turned advocate, Joe helped secure protections for the threatened Big Cypress Swamp, and he helped add vast swaths of sensitive lands and waters to the National Park system. He was a key player in stopping construction — already under way — of a destructive commercial airport in the Everglades.
    In a Miami Herald obituary this week, Nathaniel Reed, a former top Interior Department official, cited Joe’s “incredible energy and determination” that helped bring about an order from then President Richard Nixon to stop funding for the jetport.
    Closer to home, in the mid-1990s Joe negotiated between citizen advocates of SACReD — South County Citizens for Responsible Development — and then County Executive John Gary to broker the deal that preserved Franklin Point, Shady Side’s largest tract of undeveloped waterfront land. Franklin Point is now a 477-acre state park, supported by the West/Rhode Riverkeeper so it can be open daily from dawn to dusk.
    “We really do need to be careful,” Joe wrote in that reflection for old New Bay Times. “The air in these Fairhaven woods will be as sweet for the people who live here 40 years from now, if the families and communities of the Chesapeake are lucky, and vigilant.”
    Joe was vigilant, and we have been lucky — through, in no small part, the work he did to make it so.
    Joe and Louise had decades. They lived among azaleas and magnolias, in sight of Chesapeake waters for 35 years. But they did not have decades to lose. Joe Browder died, at home with Louise, in Fairhaven, Sunday, September 18, 2016.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Read this week’s paper with caution; it could lead you astray

Summer did its job on me.    
    It gave me plenty of time outdoors, much of it on the water, by the water and in the water, which is my favorite form of renewal.
    Lots of summer I spent boating on the Chesapeake, bathing in the ocean at Chincoteague, paddling on the Missouri River beneath the White Cliffs described by Meriwether Lewis as worn by water trickling down “into a thousand grotesque figures” so that “we see the remains or ruins of elegant buildings; some columns standing and almost entire with their pedestals and capitals.” But not so much as to eliminate precious reading hours friend Farley calls “news and snooze.” When it was just too darned hot, I news-ed and snoozed inside.
    Vacation helped too, with the wild and rugged terrain of Montana, where rivers always seem to run through it, giving me new perspective.
    So I tied up the season buzzing with ideas. Husband Bill Lambrecht and I came up with so many new projects that I had to use all 10 fingers to count them. I’ve gone so far as to put them in an accounting book, enumerating their step-by-step realization.
    On the domestic front, there’s not a curtain safe from me, and when I’ve changed them (and washed the windows underneath), I start moving pictures and furniture. Though I had to stop that this weekend to can a couple dozen pints of tomatoes while Bill was slicing jalapenos, poblanos and banana chiles for this year’s pickled peppers.
    Effectiveness is a great thing. But I may be courting too much of it, Bill suggested, when I turned down an invitation to a boating party in favor of cleaning the kitchen.
    This week’s paper is the antidote.
    Whether you’re mourning your summer or energized out of all proportion by it, this year’s Fall Fun Guide, 50 Ways to Leave Your Summer, will set you right.
    To bring it to you, calendar editor Kathy Knotts has skimmed the cream from her bulging inbox. From September 22’s autumnal equinox to Thanksgiving, she’s collected 50 ways for you to use this season as playfully as (I hope) you used Bay Weekly’s Summer Fun Guide over summer’s 101 days. You’ll find fun in festivals, field, farm and water.
    Through October you can time-travel at the Renaissance Festival … hob-nob with dream boats … run like the wind … celebrate Oktoberfest … wander through labyrinths of corn … seek the great pumpkin … share in the local harvest, including beer, wine and oysters … dress up your self, your kids and your dog for Halloween … enjoy ghostly company … trick or treat … walk on the wild and the dark side … explore local history and trace your family to kings and knaves. Into November, you can prepare for Thanksgiving by running for fun and fitness and for Christmas by building in gingerbread.
    We know so many ways to leave your summer that you’ll have to pace yourself — for one, lest your good intentions of high achievement go by the wayside. And for two, because come November 17, we’ll be guiding you into the great holiday celebrations with Seasons Bounty.
    So proceed carefully into 50 Ways to Leave Your Summer. You don’t want to have too much fun.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Preserve their legacies and honor their memories

This time of year, you’d rather think of anything but September 11, 2001.
    Back-to-school rhythms combine with lowering humidity to renew our energy. The sky — typically true-blue this time of year — seems our only limit. I’m full of plans for working smarter than ever before. The outdoors welcomes us again, as first-time Bay Weekly contributor Laura Dunaj reminds us in this week’s feature introducing beginners to backpacking, backed up by Chesapeake Curiosity columnist Christina Gardner’s inquiry into the Appalachian Trail.
    But September 11, 2001, happened, and its long shadow falls on us, especially at this time of year.
    Outrage at the terrorist audacity never goes away. Mourning never ends for all the lives lost on that day.
    Neither, I think, should ever end celebration of the unique vitality of each of those lost lives. What can you do to combat that unconquerable terrorist, death? Living well and regarding each life are the only ways I know. So I’m going to leave talk about fun and fulfillment to other weeks. Next week, for example, when our Fall Fun Guide brings you 50 Ways to Leave Your Summer.
    This week, I’m going to name people of Chesapeake Country so recently targeted by death that they’re being no longer among us is still unbelievable. This list is of course incomplete, as it is my list. There are many others — husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, neighbors — whose legends live in your telling. In obituaries and your recollections, many who I barely knew have touched me these September days. I hope you’ll add the names and fame of people who’ve touched you. Send it to me if you like, for publication in Your Say.
    I’m remembering:
    Mary Brinton, of Millersville, mother of two generations of artists, including Jean Brinton-Jaecks, who has taught so many of us in Chesapeake Country; artist in her own right, creating flocks of painted birds with carver husband Earl.
    Randall ‘Randy’ Brown, of Severna Park, whose abhorrence for waste led to a career in recycling, culminating at Clean Islands International and the Virgin Environmental Resource Station, a living field biology classroom whose students range from university, research and environmental groups to Virgin Islands school children.
    Joseph Allen ‘Sambo’ Swann, of Owings, mastermind of family-owned and run Swann Farms, whose farm-fresh fruit and vegetables made eating local a delicious reality for Southern Maryland and beyond, all the way to Baltimore and D.C. His strawberries begin the good-eating season; his peaches are now in season.
    Robert Timberg, of Annapolis, journalist, author and Marine, overcame disabling and disfiguring burns suffered in Vietnam to rise to the top of his profession as The Baltimore Sun’s White House correspondent, telling thousands of other people’s stories, including stories of fellow U.S. Naval Academy graduates John McCain, James Webb, Oliver North, Bud McFarlane and John Poindexter in his book, The Nightingale’s Song — finally telling his own story in two autobiographies, State of Grace and Blue-Eyed Boy.
    And my Illinois friend, writer Tom Teague, whose life began and ended on September 11 ___ years apart.


    To preserve the legacies and honor the memories of Sambo Swann and Phyllis Horsman, of Horsman Farms in St. Leonard, a Calvert County Farm Bureau Young Farmers scholarship is being created. You can be in on the ground floor by buying tickets for the first fundraising event, Dining in the Fields, an all-local outdoor dinner and gals Thursday, October 6, at The Cage, an historic Calvert County farm on the Patuxent River. Buy tickets at

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Tell that to the people you meet this week

Everybody’s got a story.    
    Many of those stories are never told.
    Children grow up with no idea of their mothers’ and fathers’ hopes and dreams, struggles and frustrations, hard roads and high times, determination and doubt. This very week, two friends have told me, with regret: “I never knew …”
    It’s not only husbands and wives whose partners work at NSA who couldn’t tell you what they do. Most of us have no clear idea of what keeps our husbands, sisters, best friends busy. Oh she’s in computers, they might say.
    We think we know. We’re just too busy to ask. It never occurred to us to wonder. Many of our stories remain unknown and untold until our obituaries — if anybody bothers to write us one.
    I can’t bear letting all those stories go.
    If you’ve met me, I’ve probably peppered you with questions.
    “Are you interviewing me?” a reserved friend asked over lunch the other day.
    “No, I’m interested in your story,” I told her.
    “But you’re likely to become a Bay Weekly story,” warned the third in our group.
    Telling the stories of Chesapeake Country — yours, your family’s, your neighbors — has been our job at Bay Weekly these 23 years. You’ve read, I hope with pleasure, chapters of those stories in issue after issue since April 22, 1993. A few among thousands come immediately to mind: the Balloon Man of Annapolis ( … Calvert County skateboarders Wayne Cox and Joey Jett ( … The Vera behind Vera’s White Sands in Lusby ( … our own Bill Burton, the great outdoorsman and outdoors writer who retired from the Baltimore Evening Sun to our pages (many, including the last:
    The stories in this week’s issue are a little out of the ordinary, focusing on the stories of our advertisers.
    Before making this decision, our editorial board — Alex Knoll, Bill Lambrecht and I — have been alert to the many ways our colleagues in journalism fight for survival in our fast-changing world. Common nowadays: credited sponsors, sponsored content, columns representing special interests, whole sections of bought stories in news format.
    The synthesis of our reflection is the Bay Weekly Local Business Guide you’re reading.
    In it, we attempt to tell the stories of our sponsors, the people whose advertising brings you Bay Weekly issue after issue — plus advertisers who thought this particular edition would make a good test of our readership.
    We’ve wanted to know what makes them tick: Why they got in business, why they keep it up, what their rewards are. In other words, we’ve asked them much the same questions reporters ask strangers or those enjoying their 15 minutes of fame.
    Pulling it all together took the whole Bay Weekly team, from ad reps Lisa Knoll, Audrey Broomfield, Donna Day and Karen Lambert; production staff Alex Knoll and Betsy Kehne; myself and staff writer Kathy Knotts, contributing writer Victoria Clarkson and intern Kelsey Cochran, now back at Gettysburg College.
    So it’s not just me but all of us who hope you enjoy learning the stories behind the businesses. If reading them takes you through their doors, be sure to say,
“I read about you in Bay Weekly.”

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

By our work we make ourselves and our world

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, the poet Chaucer wrote in the century before Columbus bumped into the New World, and I know what he means. Not April, when his folk were longen, but August — the last slice of summer before Labor Day sets the work year rolling again — puts the longen in me.
    So husband Bill Lambrecht and I joined a New World pilgrimage, 22 souls paddling 46 miles down the Missouri River, through the Wild West landscape of the Missouri Breaks, in the wake of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery. (They, of course, paddled and mostly pulled upstream to discover America’s way west. Downstream, as on their 1806 return journey, is much easier, with a current of about three miles an hour pushing you.)
    Off the grid, I’ve had my hands on no keyboard and my eyes on wondrous sights. My ears I couldn’t help but keep open. Nor could I suppress the journalist’s urge to ask questions.
    The first question you ask a stranger is, Where are you from? From Maryland, only us. From Virginia, Richmond specifically, four. From Wisconsin, three. From North Carolina, two; Colorado, one; Montana, a half-dozen; Canada, one — but her Alberta home is only six hours away.
    The second is likely What do you do? Which led me right back to the Bay Weekly in your hands. And confirmed our findings in all the years we’ve done this now annual issue: the work we do makes us who we are.
    Coloradan Paul DeWitt couldn’t bear the confines of the cubicle. So he broke loose, transitioning through fine furniture making — “I’d never make a living at the prices I had to charge” — to making his hobby his living. A long-distance trail runner, DeWitt set and held, “briefly,” he says, the record for the Leadville Trail 100-mile ultra-marathon: 17 hours, 16 minutes, 19 seconds. Now DeWitt works as a coach for extreme-distance trail runners, coaching online and in elite on-trail settings, say up and down the Grand Canyon a couple of times. The work he does shows in his body. If our paddle had been a race, he would have won.
    But right behind him would have been his mother and father. “We’re an athletic family,” said she, who’s run the Boston Marathon. An active marathoner, DeWitt senior went from football to boxing to coaching at North Carolina State University.
    Then, perhaps, Ingrid Stenbjorn, the corporate exec turned yogi. Unless mathematician Steve figured and beat the odds.
    Followed by the rest of us pilgrims, a psychiatric nurse practitioner; a party of five canvas suppliers and big tent manufacturers, one having just jumped the corporate ship of Cabela, the giant outdoors equipment seller; a development director for the Wisconsin State Youth Symphony with her engineer husband and aspiring journalist son; a city administrator; a corporate marketer and an IBM retiree, agile as a gymnast … and a couple of journalists.
    All of us were led by the indefatigably resourceful Kevin O’Brien, an anthropological archaeologist who has followed the trail of the Missouri River natives — and of Lewis and Clark — from St. Louis up the 2,341-mile river.
    To all of them and to you, from Missouri River country to Chesapeake Country, I tip my river hat. By what we do we make ourselves and make this wide, rich and amazing world. Happy Labor Day!

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Precious time is ticking away

This time of year makes you think like that.    
    If seasons had clocks to tell the passing of their days, we’d read the numbers 8:25 with advancing insight.
    Ah, it’s getting late, we’d think. Insects have struck up their string and tympanic bands. Even early in the day, the light has a melancholy radiance that reminds me of the lost moments of old photographs. School busses are rolling and kids waking with the sun rather than noonish. Sunsets are getting ­earlier, 7:45ish, meaning we’ve shot past the coincidence of calendar time and sunset time toward longer hours of darkness.
    But, we’d say, it’s not too late yet.
    Late summer has arrived as a blessing, sweetening our temperaments, ending our ennui and letting us go out to play. Temperatures are blissful and, after two months of stewing, we’re comfortable in our skins and in our world. Meteorological summer has still a month to go, while astronomical summer is ours until Sept. 22.
    Seize the day, seize the season, seize the hour.
    To guide the way, our paper this week is full of fun-seizing opportunity.
    To find out who’s now pushing the edge of the envelope in live music, read The Kids Are Alright. In that scene-setting story, contributor Selene San Felice, who’ll graduate college this year, introduces her generation of musicians. (Bonus points to readers who pick up the hidden references in this paragraph.)
    For a broader range in tastes and times, you’ll find more music in 8 Days a Week’s wide-ranging, weeklong listing of concerts and club dates.
    If your taste is Victorian, this Thursday is your night, when Jane Austen’s songbook is opened at Hammond-Harwood House.
    If hard-rocking outdoors summer concerts staged like mini-festivals are your thing, Friday is your night, when Goo Goo Dolls and Collective Soul play at Calvert Marine Museum.
    On a more intimate scale, most every night is your night to sit at the Tiki bar or on the beach to hear who’s up at Chesapeake Beach Resort and Spa’s classic bandshell.
    You’ll still find concerts in the park this week, too.
    Beyond music, 8 Days a Week guides you — and all the ages in your family — to dozens of ways to seize the season.
    If you’re of age, how about Saturday at Goshen Farm, with wine-tasting, noshes and jazz to benefit the historic farm?
    August 27 is a late-summer day offering too many good things to make your choices easy. You could watch jousting at Calvert’s 150th festival dedicated to Maryland’s state sport and country pleasures. Learn more about jousting in this week Chesapeake Curiosities on page 4.
    Or join the Beaches & Bay Breezes Festival in Annapolis.
    Or hit the opening weekend of the Maryland Renaissance Festival.
    Or cheer on dragon boats racing in Solomons. (Do you think the Chinese will adopt skipjack racing?)
    Or learn to fly fish in saltwater with the West & Rhode Riverkeeper and the Free State Fly Fishers Club.
    That’s just a taste of Saturday. 8 Days a Week brings you seven more days full of opportunity every week.
    I know. At this time of year, you want to do it all.
    I’m sorry to burden you with so many choices. But keeping you active in life in Chesapeake Country is what we do, weekly, at Bay Weekly.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

I’m inspissated. How about you?

Too hot to move. Too hot to cook. Too hot to exercise (except water aerobics). Too hot to sleep.
    Just how hot is it?
    Hotter than it’s ever been — relatively speaking.
    “July 2016 was absolutely the hottest month since the instrumental records began,” the Baltimore Sun reminds me, sourcing NASA.
    July 2002 felt plenty miserable to then Bay Weekly contributor April Falcon Doss. Heat, she reminded us, is relative — and so is our experience of it.
    With this August leading in the same direction, it’s too hot to write.
    Return with me, then, to those sweltering words of yesteryear:

    “Thermodynamics textbooks neatly evade defining temperature,” smugly reported the writer’s husband, her foil in the story. “Instead of telling what temperature is, they define temperature in relative terms, or whether one material is hotter or colder than another. Really, it’s not that hot out. It’s just the differential you feel.”
To which she irritably replied, “Objection: relevance.”
I find myself appallingly intolerant in extreme heat. We step under some trees. “Oh,” I gasp with relief. “It’s so much cooler in the shade.”
“Not really,” my husband badgers. “The air temperature is actually the same in the shade or out. It’s just that here in the shade you’re shielded from the force and effect of solar radiation.”
    These distinctions are absurd, at least as applied to my experience of being hot. I defy anyone to diminish my experience of heat.

Thermal Death Point
    The amount of heat capable of destroying a given species of bacteria in a given time. Three factors are involved — namely, the time, material and temperature.
    Sounds like the risk faced by my husband if he tells me once more that these fiery temperatures are merely ­relative. My encyclopedia defines heat as energy that is transferred from one body to another because they are at different temperatures. Energy transferal? Then how to explain this lassitude I feel, this utter enervation? How to explain the way that beads of sweat quiver on my lip, my chest, my brow on those long summer days?
    According to my source book, “The effect of this transfer of energy usually, but not always, is an increase in the temperature of the colder body and a decrease in the temperature of the hotter body.”
    No kidding. How else to respond to the observation that 100-degree afternoons heighten my own thermal setting?
    The only way to absorb energy without getting hotter is to change form: by melting or boiling or by changing from a solid into a vapor through the process called sublimation.

    Fat splitting.
    People are known — even hereabouts where opportunities to sweat come plentiful and cheap — to pay considerable money for the opportunity to sit in a steam room, breathing sharp, wet heat while stinging beads of sweat burst through their pores and glisten in a lake on their skin. This is homage to lypolysis, to the presumed fat-splitting properties of steam. Here in Maryland, it comes free.

    Doss found a word for it: Inspissation: the distillation of our own tissues and being in heat.
    That’s what to call it when you’re too darned hot.
    I’m inspissated. How about you?

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;