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Letter from the Editor (All)

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;

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;

Let’s give the guy a little respect

Parenting is a job that leaves nobody satisfied. Children, like Freudians, lay the blame for all sorts of neuroses at their parents’ feet. Spouses bash one another for inherited faulty genes and difficult personalities. Parents censure with themselves, even — or maybe especially — those who’ve read a book or two on the developing human body, mind and emotions and whose kids give behavioral testimony to their parental units’ having done a pretty good job. Try to compliment one of those, and you’ll hear a litany of nitpicking should-haves.
    I, for one, have evolved to illumination on my hundred thousand mistakes and could advise my kids, surviving despite my errors, how to do better themselves — if only they’d listen. That’s probably my fault too, for not listening actively enough to them. Oh, if only I’d read Dr. Spock instead of believing his presence in the house was sufficiently therapeutic.
    Fathers and mothers both, gender be darned, we’re all in this job of parenting together. So we’re giving Dad his equal due, equal responsibility in Jane Elkin’s story The Poetry of Parenting, a job so tough that only poets have the words for it. In that spirit, the CalvART Gallery poetry reading where this story began featured two fathers — poets Michael Glaser and Jeffrey Coleman. Jane chose to add open-mike reader Rachel Anastasia Heinhorst, a mother. Herself a poet and parent, Jane included her perspective to balance genders but without altering the conclusion: It’s mostly guesswork, hunch and whim we follow as we lay out our children’s road to independence. At least that’s where we hope they’re headed.
    Quibbling aside, occasionally even a parent gets it right.
    How very right you’ll see in our paired first-person tributes to fathers on the celebratory occasion of Father’s Day. Diane Knaus, who writes of her father Marlow Hankey, is old enough to be the grandmother of 18-year-old Theodore H. Mattheiss III, who writes of his father Dave Mattheiss.
    Diane we’ve known forever, as far back as that old millennium when we were New Bay Times Weekly. It’s been ages, however, since she’s appeared in our pages.
    Mattheiss is a brand-new acquaintance, at Bay Weekly intensively for two weeks on the recommendation of his English teacher Amanda Newell (daughter of our contributing writer Diane Burt) to complete his senior internship and get to graduate from The Gunston School. A Stevensville lad, he’s off this fall to Washington College, where we hope that in four years he’ll win the Sophie Kerr prize, the largest undergraduate writing award in the nation. Reading his story, you’ll see we have some grounds for this hope. In the short term, we have a surer bet: that his father Dave — to whom this story comes as a surprise — will weep.
    Yes, both of these fathers have gotten it right. On at least one score.
    For we’re not going whole hog, let alone whole hippopotamus. Each writer applauds Dad on a single narrow achievement. Diane, who admits to “a curious relationship” with her father, credits him for teaching her by example and apprenticeship how to maintain an auto. Theodore’s sweetly worshipful story lauds his father for inspiring and teaching him to play — and care for — the guitar.
    Otherwise, for all we know, fathers Hankey and Mattheiss might have been duds. Like the rest of us parents.
    Still, they’ve done something right. Who knows? Maybe we all have, fathers like and mothers alike.
    Wait! Did I mean to say that about him? Sure, on Father’s Day, let’s give the guy a little respect.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Wondering how we’ll fare as leadership changes at DNR

A pre-visit look at Bay Weekly’s Facebook post of a toothy snakehead had my visiting family afraid to go in the water.
    No need to worry, I assured them. We’re reporting snakeheads in ponds, creeks, streams and rivers, not in the Chesapeake proper. On the other hand, visitors at the next-door Smiths waded with a pod of cownose rays. Then ensued a conversation about whether the first recorded encounter with a stingray was the fault of the stinger or of the stung, Captain John Smith.
    The Bay and its tributaries are full of life in many forms. Get out into it and a crab could grab your toes. A water snake could swim alongside you. An eel could slither against your leg. Fingerling fish could nibble at your toes. An osprey could soar down to hook a fish with its talons, or a tern could make its vertical dive to spear a fish with its bill. Underwater grasses could tangle round you.
    All these life forms — minus the invasive snakeheads and some would say the oyster-eating native rays — are proof of the Bay’s vitality. No species is thriving in historic abundance, but for many there is reason for hope.
    With a score of 64, rockfish earned the highest of a dozen measures of water quality on the Chesapeake Bay Foundation’s 2014 biennial State of the Bay Report. Oysters scored only eight, but they rose two points from 2012.
    Both of those species had fallen to historic lows before Maryland Department of Natural Resources broke with convention — and made a lot of people mad — to bring them back. Rockfish, the Bay’s signature sports fish and a significant commercial harvest, became a forbidden catch from 1985 to 1990. The moratorium worked, and now catches are carefully monitored not only in the Bay but also throughout the fish’s migratory route into the ocean and up and down the coasts.
    Nowadays it’s oysters rocking the boat. There’s no moratorium on oystering, a fishery almost entirely commercial. But DNR is pushing a bigger change, from the deep-rooted tradition of wild harvesting to oyster farming. Getting from here to there — a healthy oyster population for a healthy Bay — has meant new restrictions, including closing many harvest grounds in favor of sanctuaries. Reviving a commercial catch has meant creating aquaculture as a largely new industry, much like planting a wine industry in Maryland soil.
    Adding premium value to Maryland seafood — which used to be everybody’s for the gathering — is part of the plan, with brand-name Maryland oysters sought by high-end joints and picky consumers. Marketing Maryland fish — even snakehead — as delicacies with terrior has been part of the plan, with know-your-Bay campaigns reaching out to taste-making chefs.
    Many people have a hand in big shifts like these, but the orders come from policy makers. Under Gov. Bob Ehrlich, alien oysters were on a fast track to replace languishing Maryland natives. Gov. Martin O’Malley put natives back up front. Sen. Barbara Mikulski fought for the Bay in the U.S. Senate, and President Barack Obama signed an Executive Order on Chesapeake Bay Protection in 2009.
    The weight of carrying out those decisions falls on regulators in DNR. As secretary, Torrey Brown gave us the rockfish moratorium. Oyster revitalization came from Secretary John Griffin and his fisheries director Tom O’Connell. Griffin left the department to assist O’Malley.
    Gov. Larry Hogan chose a new secretary, Mark Belton, but otherwise left DNR in place for six months. Now he’s letting go the old for his own people, as he has every right to do. O’Connell and three other policy leaders are now out. Seafood marketer Steve Vilnit has chosen to leave.
    In their time, they’ve made a difference in our Bay. Now it’s time to look hopefully but critically at what the future brings.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

That’s what we want in stories — and libraries

For sharks like Mary Lee, the great white star of this week’s Creature Feature, mobility is the law of life. Though even she can’t be two places at once — despite a suggestive reading from her satellite transmitter that she was swimming toward Chesapeake Beach on May 29.
    For others of us, it’s hard to be anywhere but where we are. Though firmly rooted creatures like trees and oysters broadcast their seeds in uncountable abundance to transcend their immobility.
    Like Mary Lee, some of us are citizens of the world. Where are you from? is a question that means little to the child of a military family. But live in a place a while and you put down roots, sipping up through them the terroir of our lands and waters. So it’s with a satisfying sense of affinity that I welcome sister St. Louisan Kristen Minogue as a Bay Weekly writer this week. By way of Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, science writer Minogue finds herself transplanted to Smithsonian Environmental Research Center, off Muddy Creek Road deep in woods that barely look like Edgewater.
    At Smithsonian, a big part of her job is bringing research into the language and experience of people who don’t speak science.
    “I’m very glad to see a new generation committed to good science journalism,” the director there, Anson ‘Tuck’ Hines, told me “to translate science for the general public, including resource manager and politicians.”
    In this week’s feature story, Minogue tells another story learned from evidence, highlighting people who came before the scientists in the 3,000-year history of the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center land. Even for people rooted in a place, seeing through time takes specialized vision. Read it and you may feel, as I did, the mobility of a traveler through time.
    We do more time traveling this week in Diane Burt’s profile of baseball fan Ray Cox, whose appreciation of the Nationals rises from his teenage association with The Senators, a batboy on the field as history was made.
    Where are you from? From what place do your ­stories rise? We want to know.

A Library of Another Place — and Another Color
    In the ordinary way of things, I’m stuck in place like an oyster. But over the weekend, I adopted the mobility of a shark for a quick trip to San Antonio. Libraries were still on my mind from last week’s paper, and in my luggage to share with the editors of that city’s daily newspaper, the Express News. So the central San Antonio Public Library popped my eyes open wide. A six-story stack of red-earth and burnt-sienna rectangles highlighted in purple and silhouetted against a true blue sky, the 20-year-old Central Library encloses 240,000 square feet of space and 580,300 books plus all the other media and services that make a modern library.
    That $28 million bond purchase — plus $10 million to equip and furnish — has paid off, as a place defining its city while serving a system of 24 libraries and a county of 1.8 million people.
    Out of the debate over Anne Arundel County libraries, I hope we build places that, inside and out, reflect us as well. Budgeting decisions are only a week away. Now’s the time to share your vision with your elected representatives, your county executive and councilmen at

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

No matter which county issued your card, you can use any library in Maryland

Libraries are this week’s feature story, specifically Anne Arundel public libraries, which have come to the fork in the road and must, as Yogi Berra said, take it.
    Wherever you live, this story of one county’s conflict touches you. For there’s magic in your Maryland library card. No matter what library issued it, your card opens the door to every public library in the state. Wherever you roam, whatever special collections you want to browse, you’re a welcome visitor.
    For me and many South Arundel readers, as well as Calvert Countians, the Calvert County library system is close to home and heart.
    Calvert County’s 90,613 people have four libraries, all within 10 miles of every address. Like Anne Arundel libraries, Calvert’s run a full schedule of events. Most larger events are held at the Central Library and easily draw visitors from more than 20 miles. The four libraries, constructed between 1981 and 2006, encompass 47,140 square feet. The general recommendation for public libraries is a square foot per county resident. By this measure, Library Director Carrie Plymire tells us, Calvert Library is half the size that it should be to best serve the community.
    By the way, no Maryland library lives up to that standard. Baltimore’s Enoch Pratt comes the closest, at .0924. Anne Arundel’s system offers only .0481, the lowest of the nine central Maryland counties.
    Back to Calvert: The county’s central library is Prince Frederick, which moved in 2006 into a newly constructed building: “At 28,000 airy square feet, it doubled our space,” said Patricia Hofmann, the library director in charge of its creation. “There is plenty of room for information in all forms, 27 well-used computers, teaching and get-togethers, even a café.” The cost, 10 years ago, was $8 million.
    Since 2006, Calvert Library Prince Frederick has added another 20 public computers. The meeting rooms are used every day for library programming and community organizations and businesses. Plymire, who replaced Hofmann, says she “often wishes for another 5,000 square feet to accommodate more meeting rooms, a technology lab, creative space for audio and video production and other flexible spaces that would enable Calvert Library to better serve its community.”
    Two more of Calvert’s libraries are upgrading. In 2013, Southern library moved from 3,250 square feet in Lusby to an interim location in Solomons, 9,200 square feet of the old Woodburns grocery store The county spent a little under $1 million, and the Calvert Library Foundation added another $233,000 for additional windows, technology and furniture. A new 16,000-square-foot library for the southern part of the county is slated for land acquisition in fiscal year 2021.
    Twin Beaches branch is currently operating in 4,240 square feet of leased space in Chesapeake Beach. Staff are very creative with their programming — often borrowing space in neighboring senior centers or fire stations — as there aren’t any meeting rooms or dedicated storytime space in the branch. Twin Beaches is slated for a new 16,000-square-foot branch with architecture and engineering to begin in fiscal year 2019. That project is expected to cost approximately $7 million.
    The fourth branch, Fairview, has its feet solidly in the past, looking pretty much the same as when I first used it nearly three decades ago. At 5,200 square feet it is, Plymire says, “a very busy branch right on Route 4 that serves much of the commuting population.”
    With Maryland’s rare magic library card, they’re all yours.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

But first we must remember

With Memorial Day upon us, I know you’re as eager as I to slip into something more comfortable — like fewer clothes, bare ankles or the water of a just-opened swimming pool.
    But not just yet, for first I have a promise to keep.
    Never to forget the original meaning of Memorial Day. That’s what Bill Burton asked of me.
    Long before Burton became a newsman, before he became outdoors editor for the flourishing Baltimore Evening Sun, before the boredom of early retirement landed him on the pages of then six-week-old New Bay Times, Burton was a SeaBee. He joined up just out of high school, in the early days of World War II, and would have gone sooner had not his family held him back.
    Whatever his war stories, Bill never told them — though in explaining why he never went in the water he did cite a promise to swim no more if he should be delivered from a desperate plight about which, if more were asked, his answer was enough said.
    A reporter through and through, Bill told the stories of other veterans. Chief among them was Henry ­Beckwith …

    Henry Beckwith of Navy Air who went down over Great Britain in ’44. As we fished, studied and chased girls, we anxiously waited to join the fight against Tojo and Hitler. Several times the Navy turned us down; we weren’t yet 17.
    We had planned to serve together, but I wanted the SeaBees; Henry, Navy Air, so we parted when we joined up. I never saw him again, though often I have played tennis at the recreational center named in his honor.
    I have lived a full life while Hen was around only 19 years. He never had the time to marry, start a family, never enjoyed the pleasures of adult life, that first new car and house, grandchildren, the works.
    It isn’t only on Veterans and Memorial Day I think about those two carefree students, Hen and me, and wonder why it was he. Why was I the lucky one?
    The day I received a newspaper clipping telling about villagers in Ireland burying Hen in a field where his plane went down, aloud I promised him he would never be forgotten.
    Nor should any of the others be forgotten; it matters not what war, what place, what time. It matters only that they made the supreme sacrifice. Enough said.

    That moving tribute was written by Bill Burton 10 years ago, in 2005, about a month before he turned 79 — 60 years more than his friend ever had.
    So Bay Weekly honors Memorial Day, a commemoration begun to honor and decorate the graves of the Civil War dead with a story Bill Burton would have liked.
    This year’s Memorial Day story comes to us from contributing writer Sandra Lee Anderson, of St. Leonard, who excerpted from her Uncle Chuck Baird’s book The Blue of the Sky, his record of the feelings of a 19-year-old experiencing the death of comrades during battle and their burial at sea.
    The book is unpublished, but thanks to Anderson — whose mother was her brother’s helper in the book — The Blue of the Sky is in the collection of the United States Navy Memorial Foundation in Washington, D.C.
    In it Laird speaks only briefly of the dead. Instead he speaks for them, in the voice of a young sailor full of life, fear, determination and expectation whose life could have at any moment been cut short. Until the moment they were no more, their stories would have been much like his.
    Promise kept.
    Now, while we can, let’s live in the fullness of this summer — whose pleasures unfold before you in this year’s edition of our annual Summer Fun Guide, tucked in the pages of this week’s paper.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Smithsonian Environmental Research Center’s Open House givea us all a taste of the pleasures of camp life

Now I hardly go out there, but I’ve spent a lot of time on the Bay.
    You won’t read those words, the nostalgic second clause of Tuck Hines’ description of his early days as a marine ecologist at Smithsonian Environmental Research Center, in the senior scientist’s conversation with Bay Weekly this week. There you’ll read the serious stuff, like whether we’re doing ourselves in on this planet. But, as Hines’ words suggest, there is more to being a scientist than the lessons you learn.
    Being a scientist can mean you get to spend a lot of time outdoors doing what kids go to camp to do. Playing in the water. Catching crabs and fish. Creating clever tools from what nature puts in your way. Stuff that’s called fun.
    Viewed in that way, the coincidence of Bay Weekly’s conversation with Hines and our Last-Minute Camp Guide this week isn’t so much coincidental and serendipitous. Serendipity is what we call it when things come together in a way that makes opportunity. In this case, serendipity brings me a cure for the envy that always hits when I read about all the fun awaiting kids at summer camp.
    Nature, water, creativity and creatures: The things kids find at camp, while getting out and active, are the things many scientists spend a lifetime doing. Unless, like Hines, you climb the ladder into administration, which means staying indoors and leaving much of the fun behind.
    I sure hope you help your kids make that connection, as it opens the door to a lifetime of summer fun.
    It’s too late for me, I sigh, imagining how different a life I might have had had it occurred to me to be in nature rather than writing about it.
    But it’s not too late. Not for you or me. All of us, all ages including the kids, will find an open door to science at Smithsonian Environmental Research Center’s 50th Anniversary Open House this Saturday, May 16.
    From 10am to 3pm that promising May day — a high of 78 is predicted, with some cloud shelter from the sun — all of us can act like scientists. We can roam woods and fields, ride and wade the water, try to pull up a catch, climb a giant tower, all in the company of people who look at nature in a way to make sense of it while enjoying it.
    In such a place and in such company, kids might find a career to keep them playful and happy their whole lives long.
    Even us already grownups can swerve into a new avocation. Citizen scientists are welcomed to the Smithsonian team.
    “We’ve had dozens of citizen scientists over the years. We’ve been very blessed to have a great group,” Hines told me. “Much of our mapping and measuring has been done by scientists along with volunteer scientists. We’re now building citizen scientists into a program so it’s not just one project but a collection of programmatic approaches to use volunteers who are not scientists most effectively.”
    If you, like me, are nostalgic for the pleasures of camp, you might rediscover them at Smithsonian Environmental Research Center. Use May 16’s Open House as your tryout; reservations give you free parking and tickets for river cruises:
    Sunscreen and your hat, closed shoes, a water bottle and a bug bracelet would be good companions for your day at camp.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

I read the epic of motherhood in the comfort of home

Motherhood in her full span lives in my neighborhood.    
    In the eyes of eight-month-old Alexander Ehecatl Groves, Ana Dorates is queen of the universe. She is our Madonna, mother adored. But she is only one chapter of an ageless story.
    The women of Fairhaven Cliffs span the whole story in its many stages. We are — to borrow the seven stages of the Finnish mythology of the ­Kalevala — maiden, wife, mother, crone, sage, warrior and healer. As we travel the womanly continuum, we do not abandon who we were before. Childless or childed, each woman is stirred by the baby, the role Alexander will so briefly play. For the mothers among us, Ana awakens in each of us memories of our own babies in our arms.
    At the other end of the spectrum, no matter how young we are, we see in one another what we are becoming. Girls, mothers, grandmothers: we are one community; now and again, one family will span three, even four, generations. We have a whole community of women who have passed, still living in communal memory.
    Many among us are in life’s early chapter, the maidens. Nearly three decades ago, I moved into a Fairhaven popping with children, many of them girls: Ariel and Emelia, Stephanie, Sarah and Mary, Maureen, Megan and Lisa, Betty Elizabeth, Leslie, Maggie and Colleen, Alex and Katie Lee, Anastasia, Lily … In this age of marrying late, many remain their own women in their 20s and beyond, making their way in the world before taking on the responsibility of making a home and ­family. They are wonders, thrilling and inspiring those of us who remember when fewer women could become what they dreamed. They are poets, dancers, scientists, dreamers, teachers, world travelers and beauties as well. One is a warrior, a Marine Naval Academy graduate.
    Marriage is calling some of the maidens. Mary and Leslie are soon to be wives, with Leslie’s wedding planned on our little Fairhaven Beach on June 13.
    Leslie’s sister-in-law, Kelly, is soon to enter the next stage, growing with her baby.
    Stephanie, who has moved away, is the mother of two school-age boys, Jason and Ethan, and has plumbed the depths of dread when her younger was found to have a brain tumor at only six. He is winning his battle.
    Other mothers have lost children in untimely twists of fate. Those tragedies surely make them sages.
    With time we bear that least desirable of title: crones. But the long perspective of the Kalevala takes the sting out of the word, defining crone as wise woman and elder. We step into that role as our children step out of our lives into their own. Now our goal, says the ­Kalevala, is “to achieve true knowledge through experience and to be able to retain, apply and transmit it.” That’s a role I’ve watched us all grow into.
    It was to gain their wisdom that we begged our sages to tell us their stories. Many have been shy to claim any wisdom, but that’s still the girl in them speaking. We who asked knew its truth.
    Healers? I wonder about that role. Perhaps it’s in our leaving we achieve that role. Motherless we all become, sooner or later. Bearing that role among us now is Debra Gingell. Long of Fairhaven, her mother, Jean VanHoose, left this world on April 24, six days shy of her 91st birthday. For Debra — and perhaps us all — healing is part of the grieving: “Throughout my life I hope for her to be proud of me,” Debra wrote in memoriam. “The words she wrote in my Easter card gave me peace in knowing that held true.”

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;

Before you answer it, think safety

A glimpse of a small boat under full sail sets my heart racing.
    Back to the Water is a season all its own in Chesapeake Country, aligned with spring but serving separate pleasures.
    We expect less warmth of Back to the Water. Winds are often gusty, giving sailors some fun, and water temperatures in the mid 50s mean a cold bath that could do you harm. Air temperatures could be colder or much warmer on a day on the water, which is all in the day. If you’re one of those people who the water’s pull affects like the tides, the weather won’t keep you on land.
    For fishing people, the pull of their prey is irresistible. For boaters, it’s the call of the wild: reunion with the elements, timelessness, freedom. Sailboaters work the elements to their purpose or try themselves against them. Motorboaters command horsepower and ride the thrill of speed.
    Hailing from parts of the Midwest where cornfields were the biggest open spaces and rivers the waterways, I know how lucky we are to live here, where water is ours for the taking — in sizes from ponds and creeks to the ocean.
    Plenty of us out here have the boats to get us on the water. But you don’t have to own the boat — or a big boat — to have its pleasure. Kayaks — a bandwagon barely moving when New Bay Times began — are as common and affordable (or pricey) as bikes. If you haven’t gotten one of your own yet, you can paddle for minimal rental costs, even free, all over Chesapeake Country. Any day now, you’ll be seeing opportunities in our 8 Days a Week calendar of events.
    Getting out on the water on bigger boats, sail and motor, is no problem, either. Find options of both sorts in a range of prices at City Dock Annapolis and on historic boats at Calvert Marine Museum in Solomons.
    Not even disabilities need keep a water lover landlocked. Chesapeake Regional Accessible Boating offers free sailing excursions and lessons at Sandy Point State Park:
    When you’re out on the water with a professional captain or guide, safety will be your first lesson. Make safety your first priority when you’re on your own, and you’ll vastly improve your chances of returning home after a beautiful voyage on the water.
    The bad luck boating stories in my collection are not all funny; there’s major mishap among them, and far too much tragedy.
    Last year, Maryland Natural Resources Police investigated 23 water-related deaths, 17 involving boats. Nationally, nearly 85 percent of all drowning victims were not wearing a life jacket.
    In the excitement of splashing your boat for the first time this season, Col. George F. Johnson IV, superintendent of NRP, warns boaters “may overlook some things that will keep them out of harm’s way. We urge everyone to take 15 minutes or so to do a stem-to-stern equipment check. If you get stopped on the water, our officers will conduct a safety inspection and may issue a citation or require you to return to shore.”
    No-penalty safety inspections are also offered by the Coast Guard Auxiliary:
    To make yourself and your passengers (even your dog) as safe as your boat, buy a new, comfortable lifejacket and wear it. Modern inflatable life jackets and vests are a world away from the old cumbersome Mae Wests. They’re even stylish, and stay flat until you need them.
    “People think that in an accident they will have time to grab their life jacket and put it on,” warns Johnson. “In reality, bad things often happen in the blink of an eye. And once you’re in the water, it may be too late. Life jackets only work when you wear them.”
    One more thing: Please, if you haven’t yet, take the Maryland Safe Boating Class. It’s life-saving and very accessible with online (‎) as well as instructed options (again, watch 8 Days a week).

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher;