I recently travelled to the historical town of Frederick, Maryland. This was not a planned trip but one that came un-expectantly. For those who are not acquainted with Frederick, it has deep historical roots, being located at crossroads between routes east to the Chesapeake Bay and west to Baltimore and Washington DC, only 24 miles away, and along a prominent north-south trail used by Indigenous populations before colonization. The town was founded in 1745 by German settlers and it’s possible that it was named after Frederick the Great, King of Prussia.
My travels to this town started with a death. I will call this person Derek because it is an good old German name. Derek worked for 41 years for the US government before taking a retirement and settling into a blue painted row house in the historic district of Frederick. None of us were exactly sure what he did for the government because he was rather vague about it. He talked about going into work at the Pentagon but he only appeared to work about 1 to 2 days a week, at best. It is possible that he made this up but there’s proof that he was getting a pay check from the government. For these reasons, I assume he might have been a spy.
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For someone who claims to love writing, I sure can find every excuse NOT to write. Here I am… on a dedicated writing retreat. A clean house, with big inviting windows, open wide to the creativity. The quiet that only a place away from home can provide; with no chores, no dishes, no laundry, no pets… only the sun streaming in and the trees waving their wishes to the wind. The house hums… hums with electricity, heating and… potential.
A few weeks back, I got a text,