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Letter from the Editor (All)

Let us count the ways

A couple of tried, true and trite figures of speech can help you understand the week’s layered news on the health of the Bay.
    Can you walk and chew gum at the same time? Practicing that feat of coordination will prepare you to understand the new Chesapeake Bay Program take on how we’re doing in cleaning up the Bay we all say we love.
    The good news is the Bay diet is working.
    We’re actually cutting back the fast-food diet of nutrients and sediment streaming into our Bay.
    Except for a two percent rise in nitrogen and sediments between 2013 and 2014.
    Got that?
    In 2009, the EPA set the equivalent of a strict calorie limit on how much nitrogen, phosphorus and sediment the Bay could swallow. By 2014, nitrogen loads dropped six percent (15.83 million pounds). Phosphorus dropped 18 percent (3.40 million pounds). Sediment dropped four percent (327 million pounds).
    All this is happening because of pollution controls put in place over the last five years by Maryland, Delaware, New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia and the District.
    But our poor Bay’s calorie intake is enormous: 282 million pounds of nitrogen a year; 19 million pounds of phosphorus; almost nine billion pounds of sediment a year.
    So you won’t be surprised that there’s still a long way to go before the Bay gets to its ideal nutritional balance by 2025. For nitrogen that’s 217 million pounds, 14 million pounds of phosphorus and seven billion pounds of sediment.
    Just what is the Bay’s junk food? Agricultural runoff is tops, followed by wastewater and sewer overflow, fallout of airborne pollutants, urban runoff and septic systems (for nitrogen).
    A walk in the park, understanding that, isn’t it? Now let’s add chewing gum.
    How does that two percent rise in nitrogen and sediment fit into those millions of lost pounds?
    The “slight increase,” the Bay Program report notes, “is due in part to a short-term shift in agricultural commodities.” Higher prices for corn spurred in large measure by ethanol meant more corn was planted. Corn craves “nitrogen-rich fertilizer that can leach off the ground and into local waterways.”
    Find the full report — including methodology — at chesapeakebay.net/presscenter/release/22587.
    If you’ve managed to walk while chewing gum, you’ll have figured out that you’ve got a part to play in reducing the Bay’s junk food diet.
    Hence our next truism: Put your money where your mouth is.
    To get the Bay to it best nutritional balance, that’s what we’ve all got to do. The Flush Tax is reducing nitrogen from our plumbing in water purification plants and septic systems. But given the resistance to controlling our stormwater runoff — with its junk-food load of nitrogen and sediment — you’d think robbers were knocking at the door.
    That paranoia helped elect Gov. Larry Hogan and Anne Arundel County Executive Steve Schuh. Now it’s feeding revision of laws already passed in the General Assembly and in the Anne Arundel County Council. On April 6, the council upheld the fee (lacking a better alternative) and principle of putting our money where our protestations are.
    Calvert citizens, you can keep your money. This fee is special to your 10 biggest neighbors. (On the other hand, they’ve got curbside county pickup of trash and recycling.)
    At the same time, newly agreed on Phosphorus Management Tools and timelines will help cut down on animal manure reaching the Bay from farm fields.
    We lawn growers — turf grass is the largest crop in the Chesapeake watershed — can mind our own fertilizer Ps and Qs. Learn the full story at www.mda.maryland/fertilizer. Consider hiring a pro like Blades of Green (who described the right way in last week’s Home and Garden Guide) to do a lawn-friendly and Bay-saving job.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Sometimes, we could have used an expert

In my early memory, mother is tearing down a wall, a sledgehammer shattering the plaster and lathing. One of us, I don’t remember which, stepped on a nail and had to have a tetanus shot. As mother struck her blows, my father may well have been telling her a story. That was the role she sweetly assigned him when they shared a job.
    If there was a job that needed doing, Mother was the woman to do it, whether or not she knew how.
    Can you see where this story is heading? Maybe I should have stuck with telling stories.
    After a day’s work at Bloomington, Illinois’ Eureka Williams vacuum cleaner factory, husband Bill’s father climbed a ladder to paint houses. Eventually he fell.
    But that’s not where this story is going, yet.
    As the children of a pair of determined do-it-yourselfers, Bill and I have climbed many a ladder, though we’ve not yet fallen. I came closest when a spring gust tried to snatch the old-fashioned, wood-framed, five-foot-tall storm window I was unhinging as I stood on a ladder outside the dining room of my 1908 bungalow in Springfield, Illinois.
    I painted every radiator and room of that house once or twice; set tile and knocked down part of a bad plaster ceiling. All without knowing a bit about what I was doing. Eventually, I got smart and called in the experts to knock down a wall, finish the dormer level, refinish the nice inch-wide maple floors and — eventually — paint. But only after stripping the many coats of paint and sometimes dark old cracked varnish from the oak trim.
    In Maryland, Bill and I worked together, painting not only the inside but also the outside of our Fairhaven Cliffs cottage, which is three floors tall on the down-slope Bay side. In some spots I had to hang upside down like a bat, but neither of us fell off the ladder, though on one of my fool’s errands, Bill did fall off a stool when I moved it from the place he expected to find it when he stepped down.
    He laid a brick patio, two down-slope outdoor sets of steps (twice each) and about a mile of six-by-sixes to hold back earth’s effort — seeming as determined as water’s — to reach its own level. Fairhaven Cliffs is a name that’s not kidding.
    We’ve been at work on the earth, too, composting and digging and planting, digging up, cutting down and replanting.
    This house and its little piece of earth has been ours for 27 years, so a lot of that work is maintenance: the perpetual campaign to keep not too far behind wear and tear. A good deal of the labor, however, is correcting mistakes we’ve didn’t know we were making.
    Every time Bay Gardener Dr. Gouin visits, he writes a new column about another folly committed by “many homeowners” who don’t know plant and soil science from Shinola. I worry that his visits coincide with my demands for a series of new columns.
    As the sun sparks off our ceilings, a painting contractor mildly suggests that semigloss may not be the best choice up there, unless you like living in a hall of mirrors.
    Who knew, until the mason came, that paving brick should be set on stone dust, not sand? Or that brick walls needed concrete underpinning?
    Or, until our recent home landscaping class at Adkins Arboretum, that you should plan a landscape before you plant it? Now some of our mistakes tower 50 feet above us.
    It’s slowly dawning on me that there’s something to be said for calling an expert.
    In this week’s Home and Garden Guide, we’ve asked the experts. They’ve got a lot to offer, in ideas, energy and skill. Listen and learn; then judge what’s right for you.
    And, when you do hire an expert as your partner, take the advice of Eddie Knudsen at Hodges ’n’ Sons Home Improvement: Ask questions and get references to ensure the contractor has the expertise and credentials to do what you want and are paying for.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Spring has us out in fellowship, purpose and celebration

March 20 was the last day of winter. March 21 was the first full day of spring.
    As you’ll remember, a season divided those days. Winter threw a hissy fit on its way out. Spring warmed our chilled hearts and invited us out.
    In Southern Anne Arundel County, the neighborhoods of Fairhaven and Arkhaven accepted the invitation. Close as we live, many of us hadn’t met for weeks; the weather wasn’t fit for fellowship. Mother Earth was a stranger, too, hidden beneath snow or whipped by wind and wintry mix. Spring’s first day was our reunion and the appointed date for our neighborhood cleanup.
    Garbed in boots, gloves and good spirits, we met at the corner for greetings and indefatigable organizer Kathy Gramp’s coffee and banana bread. By the time we reunited for community lunch, we’d not only have caught up on community gossip but also have made a better world. Behind us, dozens of heavy-duty black plastic trash bags proved our achievement.
    The hours in between were dirty work.
    Mud sucked off boots and trapped cars. In Arkhaven Dan Westland’s ancient tractor came to the rescue. But winter is not the nastiest mess maker of one entrapped car.
    Human trash is worse.
    The Arkhaven crew conquered a very large manmade dump, including a mattress. Farther up the road, mattress springs were hauled out by Barbara Smith, who also got the work of cleaning up the remains of butchered deer.
    Were cranes working with us, we could have added at least one abandoned boat to our refuge piles, plus a half-dozen rusted hulls of cars deeper in the woods. Of automotive junk, we collected only a half-dozen or so of tires, one still on its wheel. Years of cleanups, together with ­neighborly everyday pickups, have made a difference.
    Aluminum and glass are scarce nowadays. Even the bottles we pick up are mostly plastic, with beer the exception. “Miller Lite is the most popular beer of those who litter Fairhaven Road, outnumbering all other beer bottles and cans by better than 3 to 1,” Don Stewart reported.
    Even fishing line is plastic, though the virtues Sporting Life columnist Dennis Doyle extols — invisibility and indestructability — make it a deadly hazard when torn off a reel and left as litter.
    Metal rusts, but plastic will tell our story for ages to come.
    With spring, opportunity abounds to deprive future anthropologists of that story. Get together to clean up your neighborhood, your stream, your watershed.
    April 11 is the Chesapeake’s largest watershed-wide clean up day. Organized by the Alliance for the Bay, Project Clean Stream aims to bring out 10,000 volunteers at over 500 sites across all six Bay states and D.C. The goal is to collect one million pounds of trash.
    Find a cleanup site at cleanstream.allianceforthebay.org.
    After the dirty work, clean yourself up for a party. Ours was swell in food, company and the satisfaction of knowing our mother, Mother Earth, approved.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

We’re the top strata

History is the byproduct of daily life.    
    Dip a toe or jump into Maryland Day celebrations and you drift into that conclusion.
    That’s the plan. It’s been maturing for eight years under the direction of the Four Rivers Heritage Area, Anne Arundel County’s variation on the statewide program devoted (and funded) to keeping our culture alive. Some four-dozen partners join in this historic weekend. Each brings its particular interest. So much of Maryland history is on display. So many real people guide you into the human archaeology of the places we now occupy.
    So finally it dawns. We’re the top strata, laying the record of our lives on top of the layers deposited by all the people who’ve come and gone before us.
    Of course, history is a big deal in Anne Arundel County, and Maryland Day — make that weekend — makes it a party drawing lots of us in.
    History is going on just as fervently all around us.
    Just last weekend, Calvert shined the light on women writing 21st century history by the lives they are living. For 14 years Calvert has brought its Women of the World to the fore at Women’s History Month. This year, nine organizations collaborated to honor 14 women and girls at work all around us, as teachers, Scouts, judges, mediators and civic volunteers.
    Seven organizations join the Calvert Commission on Women and League of Women Voters to show the breadth of the reach of women making history by improving the quality of present life.
    Among them, the youngest were schoolgirls, seventh-graders Nina St. Hillaire and Danielle Frye and ninth-grader Dia Brown. Their achievements were History Fair projects celebrating “the heroine in our own backyard.”
    Their subject, Harriet Elizabeth Brown, probably knew she was making history when she enlisted NAACP attorney Thurgood Marshall to sue for equal pay for black teachers. But her real goal was equality: Her $600 salary bought a lot less living than the $1,100 salaries of white teachers in 1930s’ Calvert County.
    So too, each of the 14 is making history as the byproduct of daily work for our times.
    They are Amber Bayse, Calvert Memorial Hospital Foundation … Madeleine Buckley and Dayna Jacobs, Girl Scout Council … Marjorie Clagett, County Administrative Judge … Ella Ennis, volunteer … Jennifer Foxworthy, business leader … Nancy Highsmith, educator … Joy Hill, the Boys and Girls Clubs of Southern Maryland … Gladys Jones, Chamber of Commerce … Morgan Lang, student and woman of tomorrow … Daniella Lenzly, Concerned Black Women … Julie Morrison, Calvert Collaborative for Children and Youth … Janet Scott, Community Mediation Center … and the League of Women Voters Study Team on Transparency in County Government.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Snow, too, if I had my way

I’d love to tax the rain.     
    Heavy, trouble-causing rains I’d hit with draining fees. Rains that pour and seep into our lower levels, taxing us with sucking it up with the Shop Vac or a multi-thousand dollar remediation job? I’d punish them the same way storm­water-remediation-fee-averse Marylanders say our state’s most hated tax is punishing them. Bad rains would pay at least as much as the $15, $29, $85 or $170 a year some Chesapeake Country homeowners (in the nine taxed counties and Baltimore) and assorted politicians claim are draining our bank accounts.
    Sharing the taxing privileges of government would enable me to exercise their dispensations, too. I’d exempt good rains from taxation, just as churches and assorted not-for-profits are exempt. Light, nourishing do-good rains would pay only a cent — Frederick County’s fee for stormwater remediation.
    Even more, I’d love to tax snow.
    Though with reservations. From late November into early January, white-Christmas dustings would be exempted as welcome visitors — Providing they arrive in amounts of one inch or less. Also tax-free would be go-out-and-play snows falling on Saturdays and Sundays. I’m no Grinch wanting to tax the fun out of sledding and building snow forts and families. As long as they melt before Monday’s rush hour.
    Even as the snow piles of February and March retreat, they make the case for snow and, less visibly, rain taxes.
    Falling and new-fallen snow brings transient beauty. Examine those white flakes and you can imagine purity as well as infinity. If there’s acid rain in those crystals, it’s invisible.
    Old snow is not very pretty, is it? Its sooty crust is visible proof that what falls out of our environment may not be pure as the driven snow.
    When I look at my own personal snow piles, I see more than meets my eye in better weather. My beloved little car’s noxious tailpipe emissions of some 19 pounds of gases per gallon of fuel are usually invisible, being, after all, gases, including carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide and nitrogen oxides. But with snow I can see their traces in the dirty little particulate company they keep.
    Along with the soot are goopy mud, salt, de-icing chemicals and dog, cat, fox, possum, raccoon, deer and bird poo.
    Come the melt, and what happens? Where earth and grass and rain gardens suck it up, it percolates into groundwater. Without filtration, it goes downhill straight to the Chesapeake, traveling fast on the paved expressway.
    On the open road, my mess combines with your mess to make a really big mess.
    As you say good riddance to the snow, it might be a good time to think in terms of what stormwater remediation fees are remediating.
    Twenty-first century messes, I’m sorry to say, are made by you and me right here in Chesapeake Country.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Seizing life’s moments while dreaming of summer days at camp

This week’s paper, featuring our annual Summer Camp Guide, is not 100 percent wishful thinking.
    But enough of it is to take your mind off present ­circumstances.
    I left behind the gelid remains of winter mix — and the prospect of more to come — in the hours I spent considering the camps of summer. Why do kids get to have all the fun? Michelle Steel, who prepares the Guide, shared that wishful sentiment. Together we yearned to sail small boats, swim, dance, skate, invent, act, imagine, build, explore, hang out with animals and discover nature’s ways.
    Many fun-loving, far-sighted people must have stayed up into the wee hours to come up with such odd, wonderful and various things to do. Swordsmanship at one; rock climbing at another; waterskiing at a third; wilderness survival at a fourth; horsewomanship at a fifth; hearth-cooking at a sixth; comedy at a seventh; wizarding at an eighth; water polo at a ninth; dirt digging at a tenth.
    Camp is all about fun, but that’s not all it’s about.
    Camp is a turning point in a kid’s life.
    As a camper, you leave your parents behind, for days at a time if you’re an overnighter. You climb over prison’s walls into freedom. The rule of rules collapses; camp rules manage freedom rather than enforce captivity. The mold of routine shatters; fun, novelty and adventure fill camp days. Instead of sitting, you’re playing. Instead of indoors, you’re out. Instead of the kid you’ve always been, you get to try out who you might be.
    In camp you get to do the daring adventures we all dream of — with a safety net. So if you fall, you’ll most likely bounce. And your parents’ fretting won’t spoil your fun.
    Those are dreams to dream of in these cold days of late winter.
    As for doing in the here and now, we bring you a winter adventure of a lifetime.
    Mike Strandquist, an Annapolitan outdoorsman who owns Breezy Point Marina in Calvert County, wasn’t ­content to wait until summer to seize life’s moments. Or to remember the old days of what used to be.
    When his creek passed the ice test on February 23, he called the neighborhood out to play. But first they had to clear snow off iced-over open water to make their hockey ring.
    “I guarantee you it was an experience these kids will remember for the rest of their lives,” Strandquist said of the adventure.
    To his surprise, everybody came.
    “As I was not sure how parents of the other kids would feel, I was surprised that everyone we invited was allowed to come,” Strandquist said. “I guess the parents felt I have safety in mind first and foremost.”
    Exhilaration over a safety net. That’s what Bay Weekly is about this week.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Can our Free Will Astrologer break the late-winter blues?

Now is the winter of our discontent.    
    Cold February lingers like a crust of dirty snow. Pipes freeze and people shiver. Spring may be only weeks away, but getting there is a slog.
    You’ve got to be real creative to talk yourself out of such a state.
    Enter Rob Breszny, our Free Will Astrologer.
    His get-out-of February advice for you Scorpios is so good that I’ve made an editorial decision to give it to each of us, whatever our sign. I promise you’ll find it provocative, even transformative. Since taking it to heart yesterday evening, I’ve felt new spring in my step. My bad attitude is improving. I’m cheerier. I bet you’ll feel better, too. Here’s Breszny:
    Be in nature every day. Move your body a lot. Remember and work with your dreams. Be playful. Have good sex. Infuse any little thing you do with a creative twist. Hang out with animals. Eat with your fingers. Sing regularly.
    Now, here’s my plan and progress.
    Be in nature every day. That’s a hard one. Walking isn’t so appealing in gusty winds and blood-freezing cold. That crusty snow has buried the garden. Snow shoveling doesn’t much improve my mood. Guess I’ll have to make an inspirational visit to the National Botanical Garden (100 Maryland Ave., SW, Washington, D.C.) where warmth is ever-green.
    Move your body a lot. Just what I need to hear. I’ve been clinging to the fireplace like a limpet to a rock and citing cold blood as an excuse to avoid the gym. Time to load James Brown into my iPod and get up off of that thing.
    Remember and work with your dreams. What does Breszny mean? Your life dream? Or, as I suspect, the stories of sleep that fade on your wakening into the dark cave of the unconscious? If I’m right, husband Bill ­Lambrecht has his work cut out for him. Last night he dreamed he was the only guest in a bed and breakfast. Imagine his surprise when on opening the bathroom door he found a person in the tub. A living person, I’m glad to report. But who? And how to work with that?
    Be playful. Does driving a fantasy car count? Our office neighbor Linda Sefick at The Learning Edge turned up in a Mazda MX-5 Miata while her much duller Honda is repaired. Hmmmmm, I said, and picked up my husband last night in a Mercedes Benz GLK 350. Alas, I couldn’t keep it. But an extravagant test drive is one good way of playing make believe.
    Eat with your fingers. Okay, I’ll put down my fork. Especially for my husband’s homemade pizza. In celebration of its goodness, we’ve evolved a little playful ritual: I sing for my supper. My verses are tortured and I can’t hold a tune, but we laugh a lot and the pizza keeps coming.
    Sing regularly. See Eat with your fingers.
    Have good sex. Sorry. In this family-oriented newspaper, only Breszny gets to talk about sex. We’re substituting Have stimulating crushes. With Robert Redford-reminiscent James Norton playing Sidney Chambers in The Grantchester Mysteries on Public Television, crushing has been easy. The six parts of the premier series took us through February.
    Hang out with animals. Our dog Moe died on November 29, leaving us with serious animal deficiency. The birds are helping us out, gathering in flocks at our feeders, where squirrels add to the entertaining spectacle. Of course we can’t pet these birds, but I have, as you’ll read in this week’s feature story, petted an owl. In fact, it may be animal deficiency that got me into this story.
    Infuse any little thing you do with a creative twist. That’s our mission at Bay Weekly. I tell myself that your reading means we’re living up to it. That’s why you’re reading this editorial instead of the dull one I couldn’t bring myself to write.
    All together, today I’m feeling notably less discontent. But more snow is forecast. Time to pretend you’re a Scorpio and take Free Will Astrologer Rob Breszny’s advice.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Harriet Tubman now conducting tours

History is a bigger hall nowadays, with room at the table for more people than the old white guys who used to rule there. So a good story for any week of the year is the new prominence coming to Harriet Tubman as a hero of Maryland, New York and our nation.
    Harriet Tubman, a contemporary of Abe Lincoln, escaped slavery only to return home, to Dorchester County, to conduct many more enslaved people along the Underground Railroad she had followed to freedom.
    In “Harriet’s Homecoming: The road was long and never smooth for Harriet Tubman,” Emily Myron tells you more, including the Congressional honor making Tubman the first individual woman to have a National Historical Park named for her.
    As the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad National Historical Park comes together, the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad State Park is under construction on Tubman’s Eastern Shore homeland
    Blackwater Wildlife Refuge marks the spot in a landscape that’s mostly open space, farm or preserve. Listening to a new audio tour that’s part of the package will inform your drive along the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad Byway. You can bike the flatland too, with bike and kayak rentals near the Refuge.
    But that’s down the road …
    In the here and now, we’re telling this story in Black History Month.
    Why bother with Black History Month now that Black History is all our history? Or, for that matter, Women’s History Month in March?
    Memorial times still matter because we know so little of what we know.
    Our own personal history slides into forgetfulness as we march away from back then into the advancing years.
    How much — or little — do you know about the other people in your own life? Your friends? Your brothers and sisters? Your parents? Even your partner?
    Unless you’re a genealogist or writing a family history, I bet we share the same kind of amnesia. Test yourself: Do you know when and where your mother was born? If you can answer those questions, can you go a step further? How did she enter this world: by midwife or doctor or quite spontaneously in a car en route to the hospital?
    (Send me your answers and I’ll send you mine.)
    Even the people drilled into our collective consciousness in school — Lincoln, Washington and all those other presidents we honor February 22 — live on in our memories as a few semi-bright images in a fog of oblivion.
    If we know a little more of black history, it’s because such a big deal has been made of it over the last half century. Memorials, museums, monuments and, yes, Black History Month, make our pictures of the past into bright murals — maybe even movies.
    This week’s feature puts Tubman into focus and opens the way for us to see more. A landscape looks empty until you’ve learned about the people who lived in it before you. Now, 102 years after her death, Harriet Tubman can conduct you through the Shore as she knew it.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Start with a little resveratrol, add tryptophane …

My mother was not always right.    
    But in hitting the nail on the head, she had far better accuracy than I credited.
    A woman who believed she could do anything, she invested even more of her capital in cooking than she did in looking good. And she looked very, very good.
    The way to a man’s heart is his stomach, she advised.
    Ohhh mother! I scoffed, for that was back in the day when I believed love sought you for yourself alone.
    I have since learned that in this wisdom she nailed it.
    On the feast of love, Valentines Day, this is advice worth taking. Especially if you’re among the third of Americans who say they are only “a little” — worse, “not at all” — satisfied with their sex lives.
    That sad condition is reported by the survey company Survata, which invites online newspaper readers to share their opinions for a fee. The finding is not entirely scientific, but it is thought-provoking.
    Could a lovely dinner improve a lovelorn love life?
    Like love, sex and reproduction, food is a biological necessity.
    Can the pleasure of one enhance the pleasure of another? Can a satisfied stomach lead to an enamored heart — and beyond?
    Tradition tells us that’s so, offering a rich menu of foods supposed over the ages to be aphrodisiac. Oysters, chocolate, coffee, honey, artichokes, avocados, figs and an assortment of Valentine-red comestibles, including wine, beets, chili peppers, pomegranates, strawberries and watermelon.
    How could you resist loving the person who serves you foods so delicious? Foods so amorously beautiful?
    Modern science adds chemistry to the equation of lovely foods and love. Each of these contains chemicals that promote wellbeing and enhance libido. Phenethylamine and tryptophan in chocolate, for example, boron in beets and resveratrol in red wine.
    Scientific my mother was not, but she knew a lot about love. She had well-fed husbands and admirers aplenty. On this subject, I’ve taken her advice, and the results are good.
    Odds on, your mother as well as mine believed in this old wives’ tale. Think about it. Who should know more about the love that binds a family than old wives, who had just that as their job descriptions?
    Cooking for love is a womanly art to which men aspire in this modern world. Equality is fine with me. I love a meal cooked by my husband.
    This Valentines Day, food writer Caiti Sullivan continues the womanly tradition, offering a four-course meal planned to unite eye, tongue, stomach and heart in a feast of love.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com

Six more weeks of winter? Let it snow.

At first it shone fresh in memory, the gold filigree earring formed on a redbud leaf bought for me by my husband on a book tour visit to Nebraska’s Arbor Day Farm, where good practical environmentalism pairs abundantly with good food. But in the cold days and weeks after I lost it — after I’d searched coat collars, scarves, carpets and car crannies —it faded into forgetfulness.
    So its reappearance months later on the bulletin board of my post office sweetened my remembered appreciation with the shock of recognition and the surprise of recovery.
    That’s just how I felt running again into old friends among the movies in our annual Groundhog’s Movie Guide to Surviving Six More Weeks of Winter.
    Bay Weekly Moviegoer Diana Beechener is the big brain behind our guide in recent years; hence her credit as curator. Her suggestion to make Je Suis Charlie one of our categories sent me straight — do not pass go — to Richard Pryor. In my memory, nobody’s funnier or more outrageous.
    But memory fades. Tastes and styles change. Would Pryor be all that I remembered?
    With some trepidation, husband Lambrecht and I considered Netflix’s delivery of the first of six on my Pryor list, a 1979 performance filmed at Long Beach, California. We’d just sample it, we agreed. An hour and 19 minutes later, properly scandalized and aching from laughter edging on pain, we reaffirmed our faith. Pryor was even better as we traveled back in time.
    Will The Godfather hold up as well? The Nights of Cabiria? Life Is Beautiful? The Lives of Others? The Great Escape? The Fisher King? To Have and Have Not?
    Hurry up Netflix! I’m eager to see.
    Other movies I’ll be seeing for the first time. So I’m hoping to make new friends and new memories.
    There are 30 in this year’s Guide, reflecting the disparate tastes of seven Bay Weekly moviegoers as well as that of Beechener and me. So you’ll find variety, from science fiction to sleepers. Particularly attractive is the In Memory Of collection featuring seven of the great talents who died in 2014: Maya Angelou, Richard Attenborough, Lauren Bacall, James Garner, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Mike Nichols and Robin Williams.
    Six more weeks of winter? Let it snow. I’ve got all these movies to keep me warm.

Sandra Olivetti Martin
Editor and publisher; editor@bayweekly.com