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Articles by Sandra Olivetti Martin

It takes a lot of preying to make so big a bug

In summer’s abundance, praying mantises grow like corn.
    Emerging in spring warmth from their tan, papery egg masses, they are tiny, pale-green nymphs. By autumn, after several exoskeleton sheddings and many good meals, the tan, winged adults can be six or seven inches long.
    The habit of folding their long forearms gives the species the name praying mantis. They might better be called preying for they use those arms to grasp food, mostly other insects. Thus they’re good bugs for your garden. Their predation can include male mantises that, useless after mating, may be turned into food by the females making eggs for next year’s generation.
    Like corn, mantises mostly wait for their food to come to them, as they are ambush predators. With two protruding compound eyes and three small simple eyes, they see well. All the better as their flexible necks enable them to rotate their heads, almost 180 degrees in some species. Most of the members of the plentiful order are camouflage artists, with our praying mantises copying twigs. The unsuspecting bug that comes too close to this twig becomes dinner, held in those praying arms for devouring.
    Also like corn, mantises are ­annuals, productive for one season but doomed by cold weather.
    Corn has been harvested in most of our fields. But mantises are around a while longer.

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:

Reluctant osprey still have several weeks to enjoy Chesapeake fishing

“The osprey’s back again this morning,” wrote Ron Wolfe in early October. “This one, sometimes accompanied by another, apparently failed to receive the fall migration memo,” Wolfe, a fisherman, added. “I suspect it’s part of this year’s hatch and doesn’t want to leave the only home it knows.”
    Not to worry, advises Maryland Department of Natural Resources’ Dave Brinker. “Birds are like people,” Brinker told Bay Weekly. “Some leave early, some leave late.
    “It really hasn’t gotten cool enough for most birds to start moving just yet,” he explained, noting that in the last week of September, “I saw osprey in New York, all the way up to Maine,” where he is banding saw-whet owls.
    “When the water temperature begins to cool, the fish are less active. Once the food source is hard to find, the birds will move on.
    So, Brinker concluded, “This bird hasn’t missed the boat just yet.”
    Compare previous years’ osprey migration patterns in ornithologist Rob Bierregaard’s long-term studies at

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:

So far, it’s just a surmise

Could it be pilot whales?    
    What was Clara Gouin’s surmise as she made quick assessment of the marine pod swimming beneath the Chesapeake Bay Bridge just as she and Bay Gardener Dr. Francis Gouin crossed by truck above.
    “Driving over the Bay Bridge at 50 miles an hour, you don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “But looking straight down, I saw these large, dark shapes, at least 10 feet long, maybe more, with big blunt heads like whales, very dark, all under water. I saw their outlines, their shadows.”
    One was particularly well defined. “It was quite large and had huge pectoral flippers on each side, and it was paddling, using them in synchrony, at right angles.”
    Awed at a sight “I’ve never been privileged to see,” Gouin checked out the possibilities.
    Researching whales, she learned that pilots are a type of dolphin, thus cousins to the bottlenose dolphins that frequented the Chesapeake this year. Just this weekend — two days after Gouin’s sighting — two separate dolphin sightings were reported in the Rhode River, reports West-Rhode Riverkeeper Jeff Holland.
    Pilot whales leap like the now familiar bottlenose dolphins. But Gouin saw no leaping or dorsal fin showing.
    “I thought it could be dolphins,” Gouin said, but the silhouette was wrong, “too big and too dark.
    “I thought it could be manatees,” she said, but they, too, are smaller and usually solitary when they visit the Chesapeake.
    Whales seemed to fit the bill.
    Nonetheless, Gouin doubted herself. “I didn’t recall any visits by pilot whales,” she said, “but I noted online that they occasional do go into shallow bays as far north as Cape Cod.”
    Gouin also knew that humpbacks may be seen into the mouth of the Chesapeake
    Turning to experts at Maryland Department of Natural Resources and the Marine Mammal Stranding Network got Gouin no closer to a reliable identification. But her report has passed up the ladder to the National Aquarium in Baltimore, which manages live sighting reports, as a possible sighting.
    Could there be pilot whales in the Chesapeake?
    “It could be,” said the Network’s Amanda Weschler, but no sightings had been reported.
    Tell us your experiences at ­

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;