Painted O’er

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History, despite its wrenching pain,
cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage,
need not be lived again.

—Maya Angelou (1928–2014), “On the Pulse of Morning”

Laughter broke the silence of the subterranean sanctuary just as Gary and I were approaching the garage elevator and saw the sign at the same time.

We couldn’t help ourselves.

The sign was anchored prominently on the wall to the right of the call button. Painted forest green, it was so glossy, even in the shadows, that it made the letters of the hotel’s former name seem more raised than they might have seemed otherwise. And the overlaid white lettering of the hotel’s new name seemed nearly an afterthought.

After our first burst of laughter, Gary and I both gasped:

“Oh. My God. Why’d they do that? Why didn’t they install brand new signage? This is just … painted o’er!”

We kept laughing as we took the elevator up to the spacious historic lobby. I recognized it at a glance. It was exactly the same as it had been when I attended meetings there a decade ago. And a year before that. And a year earlier.

We were in the midst of understated, old-world elegance. Muted olive-green velvet sofas and generous upholstered chairs gathered over richly patterned rugs, and dark-wood nested tables gave the seating areas a slightly clubby intimacy. Overhead, enormous brass chandeliers hung dramatically. The whole place felt gracious, traditional, and faintly grand—comfortable rather than showy, as though it had settled safely into its history.

Nothing had changed. Except the name.

And when it came to the parking garage, the signage hadn’t changed either. Not really. Its historic name—though painted o’er—overpowered the present.

I was still laughing quietly when we found our room and got settled in. I could not help but think about a similar scenario in Washington Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle.”

After sleeping for twenty years, Rip returns to find the quiet village inn gone, replaced by a shabby “Union Hotel”; the old shade tree has given way to a flagpole flying the unfamiliar stars and stripes. The world he knew has become a new nation.

But then Irving undercuts the transformation.

Rip looks at the tavern sign and recognizes the same ruby face of King George beneath the alterations. The red coat has simply been changed to blue and buff; the sceptre becomes a sword; a cocked hat is added; and “General Washington” is painted on top.

Painted o’er.

Surprisingly, this whole notion of a name change and what it means—or doesn’t—packed itself up and followed me as Gary and I drove back to our Shenandoah Valley home.

I started thinking about name changes outside literary landscapes. I started thinking about name changes in the real world.

I started thinking about Shenandoah County’s Stonewall Jackson High School. In 2020, following nationwide protests over the murder of George Floyd, the Shenandoah County School Board voted to rename it Mountain View High School, removing a name associated with the Confederacy.

Four years later, a newly elected school board voted to restore the name Stonewall Jackson High School. In August 2026, a federal judge ruled that restoring the Confederate names violated federal law and ordered the School Board to replace them. The board has appealed the ruling and is seeking to keep the names in place while that appeal proceeds.

For now, Stonewall Jackson High School is Stonewall Jackson High School once again.

Painted o’er. But in reverse.

The new name hadn’t been lettered over the old one. The old name had been lettered back over the new.

And that old name carried a history of its own. During the trial, a historian testified that when the school board first chose the name Stonewall Jackson, it did so in part to discourage Black students from seeking transfers into the newly opened high school.

That wasn’t a name chosen for its ring. That was a name chosen to keep a door closed.

And then I thought again about the hotel.

I had known it for decades as the Stonewall Jackson Hotel. Now, I had slept in Hotel 24 South.

I couldn’t help but wonder about its name change. What prompted it? Would it, too, return to what it had been before? Had the hotel simply painted o’er?

I had no idea. But I knew a little research might help me decide whether I had been laughing at or laughing with.

I found the answer, and it, too, took me back to 2020.

In the weeks following the murder of George Floyd, protesters began gathering outside the Stonewall Jackson Hotel, calling for the hotel to change its name and remove the enormous rooftop sign.

On June 16, the owners announced that they would do just that. They said they wanted to respect the history of the Shenandoah Valley while honoring all of its citizens and, with a new name, embrace “a future that enhances our values of equality and inclusiveness for everyone.”

Fine words. But words are easy.

The protesters knew that. They kept coming. They wanted to see the words followed by action.

In July, signs began coming down. In August, the hotel asked Staunton’s Historic Preservation Commission for permission to remove “Stonewall Jackson” from that enormous rooftop sign—the very sign I had seen more times than I can count. On September 1, the new name was announced.

Change took place. Real change.

Hotel 24 South.

The new name intrigued me, too. It wasn’t an attempt to invent a history for the place. Quite the opposite. The hotel stands at 24 South Market Street and opened in 1924. Its new name reached backward even as the hotel’s owners said they were looking forward.

Then I discovered something else.

The enormous rooftop sign itself wasn’t original to the hotel. It had been added decades later, as downtown Staunton businesses worried that bypasses, Interstate 81, and development on the city’s outskirts would carry travelers—and their dollars—right past them.

Even Staunton’s preservation staff concluded that the sign was not historically significant to the architecture of the hotel. Old, yes. Familiar, certainly. But not an essential part of what made the building historic.

That stopped me. I had been thinking about all of this backward.

Changing the name hadn’t changed the hotel’s history. The history was still there. The building was still there. The grand lobby was still there. The olive-green sofas, the rugs, the dark wood, the enormous brass chandeliers—all of it had greeted Gary and me when we stepped off that elevator.

Stonewall Jackson was still there, too. Not on the roof. Not over the entrance. Not as the hotel’s name. But in its history.

And get this. Hotel 24 South doesn’t pretend it was never the Stonewall Jackson Hotel. Its own history still says that it was. What changed was not the past.

What changed was what the hotel chose to call itself in the present.

Maybe that was what I had missed when Gary and I stood in that parking garage laughing at that ridiculous-looking sign.

Those raised letters underneath the glossy forest-green paint suddenly looked different to me.

They weren’t necessarily evidence of something unsuccessfully hidden. Maybe they were evidence of something remembered.

There is a difference.

We cannot paint o’er the past and make it disappear. Nor should we. George III remains underneath George Washington. Stonewall Jackson remains part of the history of a grand old hotel in Staunton—and part of the history of a high school in Shenandoah County.

But remembering a name and continuing to bear it are not the same thing.

The hotel chose to remember. The school board chose to bear it again.

One lets the past show through. The other asks the past to speak for the present.

Was I laughing at that sign in the parking garage? Laughing with it? With it, I think.

Perhaps that old sign got it right after all. The old name is still there. You can see it if you look.

But over it, another name.

Painted o’er. This time, with good intent.

Close Fast the Door

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The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

—Emily Dickinson.

It started to fade. All I had to do was enter the building. I left behind the exterior facade—the rough, irregular fieldstones, gray and ochre, mortared into massive walls beneath a steep roof of weathered wooden shingles. Oneness.

It started to fade. All I had to do was decide where to sit. Dark wooden pews, all stark straightness—high backs, hard edges, rigid parallel lines running wall to wall. Oneness.

It started to fade. All I had to do was look upward. The towering dark-wood pulpit climbed nearly to the ceiling, its massive paneled back crowned by a broad sounding board suspended overhead. Oneness.

It started to fade. All I had to do was listen. The voices—mine, Gary’s beside me, the priest’s and choir’s in front, the congregation all around—rose higher and higher, louder and louder, fell lower and lower, softer and softer, in sweet, sweet harmony. Amazing Grace. We Are Not Alone. A Mighty Fortress. Oneness.

It all started to fade. All I had to do was breathe. The present. All the artifacts of worship surrounding me. It all faded into the moment. The present became the past and the past stood still in the present and ricocheted into the fullness of forever. Oneness.

Oneness ended. Abruptly.

A low mechanical rumble sounded somewhere beyond the open doors, distant at first, then nearer, swelling until the engine suddenly revved—an explosive, throaty roar that flooded through all three doors and filled the chapel.

A motorcycle.

Oneness. Broken.

Suddenly, all the component parts returned. Voices. Pulpit. Priest. Choir. Pews. Congregation. Me. Gary. Stones—the very eighteenth-century stones the farmers dragged to build Old Chapel. Preserved. Keen awareness erased the fade. Oneness shattered into parts.

In that instant, I realized my loss. Oneness was gone through no one’s fault. The motorcyclist was on their own journey. Old Chapel—faithful to its past with no electricity—could not have closed its doors this hot and humid Sunday morn. But I also realized my gain. The insight came without sermon. Whenever we hope to step into moments of cherished Oneness, we need to close fast the doors of our attention to all that might intrude and steal away the prize.

Close fast the door of our attention so that we are completely present with someone we love. Listen to the story we’ve heard before as though it’s being told for the first time. Or better still, as if it’s being told for the last time. Notice the face across the table, as if we’ve never seen it before. Or better still, as if we’ll never see it again. Sit beside someone without needing anything else to happen. Or better still, as if nothing will ever happen again.

Close fast the door of our attention so that we become fully aware that beauty is transient and ever changing. We’ve seen autumn for years immemorial, but we’ve never seen its September glory through today’s eyes. We’ve seen hibiscus blossom, but we’ve never seen its yellow petals flaring from a crimson heart through today’s eyes. We’ve seen sunlight all our lives, but we’ve never seen this shaft of afternoon light spilling across the polished wood of a grand piano through today’s eyes.

Close fast the door of our attention so that we can know ourselves. We’ve known ourselves for a lifetime, but what do we make of the gray in the mirror, the roads already walked? We’re with ourselves today, right now, but what do we make of these hands on the wheel, this breath in this chest? We’ll be with ourselves tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, but what will we make of the road unwalked? The hands unfolded? The breath unbreathed?

Close fast the doors of our attention and let the world within and the world without fade into Oneness.

Alexander Gordon Goes to Class

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For more than 270 years, Alexander Gordon’s The Humourist sat largely unread in the pages of the South-Carolina Gazette.

I recovered the essays. I identified their author. I published the definitive edition.

But from the beginning, I have wanted something more.

I want Gordon in the classroom.

So today I’m releasing a free classroom teaching packet featuring two complete essays from The Humourist, with historical and literary context, discussion questions, assignment possibilities, explanatory notes, and complete citation information.

Even better, the essays are designed to slip readily into courses instructors are already teaching.

One pairs Gordon with Anne Bradstreet’s “The Prologue.”

The other pairs him with Benjamin Franklin’s Silence Dogood.

No new unit required. No syllabus overhaul.

Use them tomorrow.

Explore the Free Classroom Resource →

Gordon waited more than 270 years.

Now, he’s going to class.

There It Stood

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“Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united…” (“Yarrow Revisited”)

—William Wordsworth (1770–1850). English Romantic poet who saw profound meaning in ordinary life, memory, nature, and place.

There it stood, heavy with decades of growth. Ten feet or so tall, even when arching gracefully under its own weight. Five feet or so wide, triumphant on the forest edge. Fargesia Jiuzhaigou. A shade-loving, cold-hardy bamboo that could manage ten below zero.

There it stood, sentinel over the koi—swimming the depths of the little pond—whose mirror-surface broke over and over again as water cascaded down the fall’s mossy stones.

There it stood, softening the massive sandstone rocks that gave the waterfall its heft and that teased the dwarfed hand-hewn, lattice-windowed granite lantern at the top.

There it stood, blocking the view from where we sometimes sat on the little patio facing the pond and everything that stood beyond where it stood on the other side.

There it stood, hugging the flagstone pathway beside it, and bringing into question the path itself and any destiny to which it might lead.

It had not always stood thus.

I remember when it arrived, black-bucketed, six scrawny canes spanning six inches.

I remember when I troweled out a hole beside the koi pond and planted it in the hope that over time its greenness would tower and soften the stone-edged waterfall, the bank down from the forest floor, and even the pathway leading to uncertainty.

I remember when it stood there, dwarfed by Quan Yin—the goddess of compassion, mercy, healing, and peace—standing tall on the ledge jutting over the water’s edge.

I remember when it stood there, intimidated by the jade chīshǒu—a Chinese dragon-head–spouting its melody against the pond’s splashings.

I remember it through all the seasons, through all the glorious and trembling growth spurts and even through all my timid prunings.

And I remember it exactly as it stood on the morning of the very day I came to know it could stand there no more.

“Gary, it’s got to go.”

“What?”

“The bamboo standing there.”

He looked at it, then at me, understandably as reluctant to nod agreement as I was hesitant to undo what had been there for so long.

Gary and I both knew what stood beyond the bamboo and beyond the pathway whose inward curve lay hidden by the outward arching clump.

He and I had spent weeks landscaping all that was unseen on the other side of the bamboo. We extended the dry-stacked rock wall. We pruned the rhododendrons. We mulched the sloping bank beneath and the ground behind, curving the edge and weedwhacking all the way to the woods behind.

We knew exactly how all those changes looked–once we walked our way past the bamboo. And we loved its open spaciousness.

But sitting there on the little patio by the koi pond where we sometimes sat, the bamboo seemed to wrap us—cocoon us—in the protective cloak of a well-established past.

What would it feel like, sitting there without the bamboo?

What would it look like sitting there, without the bamboo but with all that lay behind it and beyond it, exposed and in full view?

“Maybe just prune it back a little?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see once I get started.”

My mind was made up, I thought, and early morning proved it. I set about the task with fierce resolve. Before long, my legs could not be seen beneath the cut canes that surrounded me.

Each time I carried a load to the Gladiator, the bamboo lowered itself closer and closer to the ground. Lower. Less. Nothing.

And in the moment of my final return to where it once stood, the landscape opened before me alive with unexpected potential.

I could see the first stone wall I built there, toppled in part from time and winter’s heavings but still secure in its footing.

I could see the pond’s block foundation stretched over with liner.

I could see tubing snaking its way up out of the pond, up the bank, behind boulders, and into the base of the waterfall.

I could see all the inner workings of a past that had served well but that had, at the same time, outgrown the landscape it was built to enhance.

I could see what needed to be done.

I kept what remained strong. The footing. The block foundation. The boulders too massive to yield to whim. I pulled away what had failed, reset what had shifted, and rebuilt the old wall stone by stone.

The work moved quickly now. Four long slabs of flagstone reached out over the pond, parallel to one another but each at its own height. The exposed tubing disappeared behind stone. Two copper cranes stepped onto the lower ledges. Quan Yin and the granite lantern, no longer dwarfed, took their places in the open landscape.

Then the water ran again. It slipped over mossy stones, fell into the pond, and broke the mirror surface just as it always had. The waterfall was not new, but now I could see its sound.

More than that, I could see where a rich and aged past met a shiny and reimagined present.

I was confident that time’s inevitable patina would marry both.

Standing near where the bamboo once stood, Gary and I could see through the garden now, through it all. All the way through. Clearly.

There it stood.

Always an After

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No “after” has ever failed to come.
—Brent L. Kendrick

And did they know that darkness would fall upon the land and that stars and moon would shine and day would break come morrow?

And did they know that day would become darkness again?

And did they know that clouds would one day cover the sun and rain would fall and the sun would shine again?

And did they know cold and drawing together for warmth?

And did they know hunger, that first emptiness within?

And did they know the first fullness that followed?

And did they know thirst and the sweetness of water?

And did they know weariness and sleep and waking?

And did they know pain?

And did they know fear?

And did they know safety?

And did they know loneliness before they moaned its name?

And did they know the comfort of another body near?

And did they know the wonder of touch?

And did they know desire before they knew what it wanted?

And did they know the heat of flesh against flesh, the urgency of bodies discovering what bodies could do?

And did they know afterward the quiet of lying together?

And did they know love?

And did they know that love would make one human being need another?

And did they know anger and the turning away?

And did they know the silence between them?

And did they know the reaching back?

And did they know laughter?

And did they know tears?

And did they know joy?

And did they know sorrow?

And did they know the swelling of a belly and the waiting?

And did they know the first cry of new life?

And did they know the astonishment of seeing themselves somehow continued in another?

And did they know youth?

And did they know age?

And did they know health and illness and the watching through the long night?

And did they know that sometimes morning would bring healing?

And did they know that sometimes it would not?

And did they know death?

That first stillness.

That first body that would not awaken.

That first calling of a name that brought no answer.

And did they know what to do with the body?

And did they know what to do with themselves?

And did they know that darkness would fall upon the land that night just as it had fallen before?

And did they know that stars and moon would shine?

And did they know that day would break come morrow?

And did they awaken hungry?

And did they eat?

And did they walk again upon the earth?

And did they ever believe–even once–in all their knowings, that there would always be an after.

Pissed. Doubly Pissed.

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“Man’s capacity for justice makes democracy possible; but man’s inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” —Reinhold Niebuhr (1892–1971), American theologian and political ethicist, in The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness (1944).

And I don’t get pissed without explaining why.

Yesterday—Sunday, August 23—Gary and I had planned to visit DC, so that we could attend service at the Washington National Cathedral. Gary’s never been there, but I’ve been there often in years past.

Each time I return, the Washington National Cathedral rises in all its Gothic grandeur—massive towers, flying buttresses, pointed arches, and pale stone reaching heavenward as if gravity were merely a suggestion. Yet for all its majesty, it never feels strange or forbidding. It feels familiar, almost intimate, like coming home.

Once inside, we’d take our seats beneath soaring columns that rise into ribbed vaults seemingly without end, while banners hang overhead and stained glass scatters jeweled light across the stone. Then the organ would sound, the congregation would rise, and our voices would climb together into those vast arches. For this hour, the great Cathedral would be not just a house of God for all people. It would be home for all people, including me and Gary.

And this wouldn’t have been just any Sunday. It was the Sunday when the Rev. Canon Kelly Brown Douglas, Canon Theologian at Washington National Cathedral, would climb into the Canterbury Pulpit—the very reason we had planned this trip. She does not merely deliver a sermon; she lives it—voice rising, hands reaching, intellect and righteous fire filling every corner of that enormous nave. She moves us. She stirs us. We were counting on being in her presence, knowing that she would make the Gospel feel urgent, dangerous, and alive.

But we didn’t get to go.

Not because we changed our minds. Not because our bodies surprised us with illness. Not because the weather pulled a fast one.

Gary discovered while browsing the morning news that a Freedom 250 Grand Prix would effectively commandeer downtown Washington that same weekend. The 1.7-mile race course would close Pennsylvania, Constitution, and Independence Avenues, along with 3rd, 7th, and 9th Streets, while a Level 1 security designation—the highest short of a presidential inauguration—would bring still more restrictions. City officials were already warning drivers to avoid the downtown grid altogether; access to museums and monuments was limited.

Gary and I were shocked by the news. Truthfully, neither of us had even heard of a Freedom 250 Grand Prix. Had it gone under the radar of journalists and pundits, too? Apparently not.

What I found was blistering. Critics saw the Grand Prix as a taxpayer-assisted Trump vanity project wrapped in red, white, and blue—a private motorsports spectacle that closed or restricted large portions of the National Mall, snarled traffic, hurt some nearby businesses, restricted access to museums and monuments, and even halted flights at Reagan National Airport for three hours. Preservationists worried that cars racing past at nearly 200 miles per hour could damage nearby artworks and historic murals, while corporate sponsors, administration officials, and guests paying $5,000 for an “exclusive race weekend experience” gathered in privileged comfort.

The Freedom 250 was hardly a celebration of America. It was a roughly $35 million spectacle, financed largely by Penske Corporation—the company that owns IndyCar—and corporate sponsors but still assisted by taxpayers through publicly funded security and other governmental support.

So how did this travesty come to be? Let me tell you. Hopefully, you’ll be pissed off, too, by such outlandish political shenanigans at the highest levels of our government.

Originally, the organizers wanted the race to circle the Capitol. That route needed congressional authorization—not just to use Capitol grounds, but to get around a long-standing ban on commercial advertising there. Penske Corporation president Bud Denker spent six months and held more than 100 meetings on Capitol Hill chasing that approval. Congress never gave it to him.

That should have ended the matter.

It didn’t.

At Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy’s urging, the organizers measured roads farther from the Capitol. They redrew the course a few blocks west—through and alongside the National Mall, past the National Gallery of Art and several Smithsonian museums, stopping just short of the Capitol complex. A few strokes on a map, and the race slid out of the jurisdiction that required Congress and into territory executive agencies already controlled.

According to Denker, within twenty-four hours of proposing that new route, he had a presidential executive order in his inbox to review.

Read that again. Within twenty-four hours, the president of a private corporation had a proposed executive order waiting for review.

Trump signed it January 30. Executive Order 14381 gave Interior and Transportation fourteen days to designate a route and orders to grant every permit “as expeditiously as possible.” It let the Interior Department wave the race through as a National Mall “special event” and freed Transportation to fund it. The Park Service did the rest, closing off whatever parkland the route required.

Voilà.

Trump did not overrule Congress. He did not persuade Congress. He made Congress unnecessary. A race that couldn’t win approval through the front door got moved a few blocks, handed to agencies the president controls, and turned by executive order into a fait accompli.

If that isn’t political sleight of hand, I don’t know what is.

So: doubly pissed. Pissed because this spectacle cost Gary and me our Sunday at the Cathedral. Pissed again because, when Congress would not say yes, Trump just redrew the map and circumvented congressional approval.

The first took a Sunday from the two of us. The second diminished a democratic safeguard for all of us.

We’ll get our Sunday back. Yesterday, as we watched the livestream, the Rev. Canon Kelly Brown Douglas climbed into that pulpit and stressed the urgency of doing good, of being surrounded by good, and of being held accountable to the good. She will climb into it again, and Gary and I will be there in person.

The democratic safeguard, however, won’t recover so easily. It regains its force only if enough of us insist that power still answers to the people—and that when power redraws the map, we draw the line right back.

Longing for the Astonishingly Familiar

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“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
—Mary Oliver (1935–2019), Pulitzer Prize–winning American poet.

It is a truth universally known that, for time immemorial, I have done my best to bike with something approaching—but never achieving—religious regularity. A corollary truth is that I do so while listening to gospel music.

One morning a few weeks ago was no exception, but something exceptional happened. I was listening to the Old Time Gospel Hour Quartet Station with all the old songs playing, energizing–nearly electrifying–my indoor pedaling.

“Peace, Be Still.”

“Nothing but the Blood of Jesus.”

“I’ll Fly Away.”

All the hymns I grew up on and still love.

And right about the time I started getting into the rhythm and my heart rate started getting into the vigorous zone, an unfamiliar hymn started playing. I didn’t know the lyrics, and I didn’t recognize the voices.

I was stunned. But instead of allowing myself to be slain by the newness surrounding me, I found myself saying,

“Alexa, next.”

I wanted to get back into my old, familiar comfortable groove.

I can’t even tell you the name of the new song that I skipped. But that’s okay because as I kept on pedaling to all the familiar songs I knew to be true, I started reflecting on what I had just done, and a few Robert Frost lines from Robert Frost’s “The Sound of Trees”:

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?

The familiar. I like it. I suspect most of us do.

We like our coffee in the same cup, maybe even in the same chair, at roughly the same time every morning. We have our side of the bed. Our place at the table. Our route to the grocery store.

We have our rituals, too. The things we do without ever deciding to do them. We read the same morning news. We reach for the same cereal, the same brand of toothpaste, the same old linen shirt that should have been thrown away years ago but fits us in ways a new one never could.

We love the same sounds, too. A clock ticking in another room. Rain on the roof. The furnace kicking on. A dog sighing at our feet. A voice calling from somewhere else in the house. The opening notes of a song we haven’t heard in twenty years, yet somehow we know exactly what comes next.

There’s comfort in all of that. Real comfort. And who could blame us for wanting to surround ourselves with what we know? Life gives us enough surprises without our going out looking for them.

So we build little islands of familiarity wherever we can. We arrange our days with things we recognize. Things we trust. Things that ask very little of us except that we show up.

Maybe that’s why I said it so quickly that morning.

“Alexa, next.”

I wasn’t rejecting the song. I was reaching for lyrics I already knew. But here’s the thing. The familiar may ground us. It may comfort us, reassure us, even sustain us. I would not want to live without it.

But astonishment? Astonishment usually comes from somewhere else. It comes from the thing we didn’t expect. The road we didn’t plan to take. The book we almost didn’t read. The person we nearly didn’t meet. The idea we were certain wasn’t worth considering. The flower that suddenly appears where we know perfectly well we never planted one.

And then there’s the song I told Alexa to skip. That’s the one I keep coming back to. What if I had listened? Maybe I wouldn’t have liked it. Maybe three minutes later I would have forgotten it anyway. Not everything unfamiliar is waiting to astonish us and change our lives. Sometimes a new song is just a new song.

But sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes something outside the comfortable boundaries of what we already know slips in and unsettles us just enough. It makes us look again. Listen again. Think again. It gives us something we didn’t know we were missing because, until that moment, we didn’t know it existed.

And isn’t that where so much of life’s beauty comes from? Not always from the trees whose sounds we have heard forever. Sometimes from that other noise. The one close by. The one we almost didn’t hear.

Maybe that’s all the challenge needs to be.

Not to abandon the familiar. Not to stop loving the songs we know by heart or the rituals that give our days their shape. Not to go wandering off in search of astonishment every waking minute.

Just to leave a little room for it. To take a different road now and then. To order something we’ve never tasted. To pick up the book we ordinarily would pass by. To talk with someone whose life has followed a path nothing like our own. To entertain an idea long enough to understand it before deciding what we think of it. To listen when another noise comes close to our dwelling place.

I wish I could tell you that the next morning I found that unfamiliar hymn and listened to every note. I didn’t. I don’t even know what it was.

Maybe that makes the lesson better. Some opportunities circle back. Some don’t. And sometimes we never know what beauty, surprise, or possibility was waiting inside the thing we were too quick to skip.

So I’m going to keep my old songs. Every one of them. I’m going to sing along when they play, pedal a little harder when the spirit moves me, and take all the comfort they have to give.

But the next time an unfamiliar song starts playing? I think I’ll listen, at least for a little while.

“Alexa, don’t skip.”

Robber Hicks

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“Still finding hope in every email.”
–Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947). Author and Inbox Optimist.

Pinching. Myself. Yep. That’s what I’m doing. Pinching myself. And I’ve been doing it for days. I’m in total shock. No. Total. Disbelief. Out of the blue, with no advance warning, it appeared. In. My. Email. Inbox.

What grabbed me was this. It was right there, all quiet and unobtrusive, with all the other emails from—The New Yorker, Publishers Weekly, Parade, The Paris Review, NPR, WordPress, Amazon, Facebook, and the steady stream of replies to my Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research queries. I know those senders. I know what they want before I open them.

This one was different.

The sender’s name meant nothing to me. Roberthicks. Was it Robert Hicks? Was it Robber Hicks? Either way. It didn’t matter. The subject line had captured me. No. Raptured me.

Netflix Adaptation Strategy / Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina

Oh. My. God. I was not ready. Netflix Adaptation. I nearly suffered a myocardial infarction.

Netflix? My book?

I reread the subject line.

Then I read it again.

This wasn’t entirely out of nowhere. Unmasking The Humourist had found generous readers. One reviewer wrote, “Your book does something rare. It restores a lost voice to history.” Another told me, “The Humourist deserves a wider audience.”

I mustered up enough courage to read the first paragraph.

“I am reaching out from StoryReel Studios regarding a major strategic development. Our studio has recently established a partnership with Netflix aimed at evaluating and positioning standout literary works for potential streaming adaptation.”

“All right,” I thought. “So far, so good.”

I continued with the second paragraph:

“While conducting the market research, I selected Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina due to its strong visual narrative and clear cinematic potential.”

Cinematic potential!

“Of course,” I thought. “I set the book up that way and even used cinematic staging. Now, someone’s noticing it.”

My own chapters flickered past, unbidden:

● The Curtain Closes: The Humourist Exits the Page

● Turning the Pages: The Clues in Plain Sight

● Favored in High Places: Gordon’s Royal and Aristocratic Ties

● Staging Power: Gordon, Glen, and the Slow March to South Carolina

At last, I had been discovered. I continued reading the email:

“To ensure each project receives dedicated production resources and executive attention, we cap our active roster at strictly four authors per month. We are finalizing our launch group privately before opening our public intake to avoid an unmanageable volume of requests.”

My heart sank.

● Cap our active roster at strictly four authors per month.

● Four authors.

● Per month.

I had read those words before.

I had read them all.

Email after email after email promising visibility, broadcast spotlights, reviews, awards, Hollywood bestseller status, and literary fame. Each one assuming my hope would outrun my judgment.

Somehow, for a fleeting moment, I thought this one was different.

It wasn’t.

I sat there.

I deleted the email.

I did not delete the hope.

A Rope Around the Bed

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“A rope will not stop a snake. It will, however, give a frightened man something to hold on to.”
–Poor Brentford (b. 1947). Acclaimed folklorist and voice of reason in the Wilderness.

Something was afoot, and I knew it. I had just finished making my rounds upstairs shining my Eveready along every wall and under every piece of furniture in every room. In that moment, I heard Poor Brentford downstairs.

He wasn’t talking.

He wasn’t praying.

He was chanting.

Now mind you, this wasn’t some halfhearted mumbling under his breath. No. This was a serious incantation. I looked downstairs and there he stood in broad daylight. With all the solemnity of a monk, he began:

“May the highly renowned Sage Astika, born to Jaratkaru and steadfast in truth, protect me from all serpents.”

He had hardly finished that one when he drew a deep breath and released a long, resonant “Ommmmmmmm.”

Without missing a beat, he launched into another invocation, this one delivered in a decidedly Appalachian twang:

“May all the Nagas be pleased with me, the ones who inhabit on the earth’s surface … residing in the rays of sunlight …”

I listened for a moment. His invocation droned on and on as he wandered through the earth, the heavens, rivers, ponds, and places I had never heard of. When he reached the River Saraswati, I quietly cleared my throat.

“Brentford. what on earth is going on down there?”

“Going on? Have you lost your mind. There’s a blacksnake in the house.”

“I know. So?”

“So? We have to get it out of here.”

Poor Brentford was visibly shaken: “Ommmmmmmm.”

“I get it,” I replied. “You think you’re some kind of mountaintop St. Patrick chasing snakes down into the Shenandoah River.”

“Well, at least that’s a far cry better than the blanket, broom, and bucket you plopped down on the floor down here.”

“Cute, Brentford. Real cute. Unlike you, I’m being sensible. I don’t have a doubt in the world that the snake will coil up on the towel. Then I’ll coax it into the bucket with a broom and carry him safely back outdoors.”

“Safely?”

“Of course. Safely. I don’t want to hurt it.”

“Hmpfff. I’m here to tell you exactly what that snake’s gonna do. It’s gonna slither up your leg, kwile itself around your waist, and squeeze every last bit of air out of you.”

“Whatever. Have it your way. I have work to do.”

Poor Brentford did too with his fierce determination to rid the house of the snake before dark set in. He started singing something that hardly had a tune. He had unmercifully cobbled together all the snake lore of all the ages into the most pitiful lyrics imaginable.

“Hang the garlic, spread the clove,
Sweep the lemon where you rove.
Splash the vinegar, bless the floor,
You don’t live here anymore.

“Cinnamon upon the sill,
Take your leave beyond the hill.
May your journey safe now be,
Just… don’t spend the night with me.”

And so it was. Poor Brentford carried on his shenanigans all afternoon.

Throughout it all, the blacksnake remained mysteriously hidden, no doubt frightened by the quiet that was no more.

Gary seemed unfazed by it all. Yet when it was time for dinner, he thought it best that I should go downstairs and select our bottle of wine.

I was glad to do so, but I swear. I am certain–well, I think I am–that I caught a glimpse of a black tail beneath wine cooler pulling itself out of sight. All right. Fine. I did. I scooted the cooler back a little, real gentle like, and sure enough, there was the blacksnake, all three feet or so, stretched out along the wall. By the time I got back with my bucket, he was long gone.

I decided that it might be a good thing to leave all the lights on down there. After all, he was a stranger in a strange place and dark was coming on.

As I made my way back upstairs, I kept reminding myself of something I read somewhere–I think I did–that each of us is connected to a powerful spirit animal, guardians believed to watch over us, based on when we were born. And get this. I’m Scorpio, so the snake is my protective spirit.

Gary and I decided to watch TV in the loft instead of downstairs the way we usually do. I don’t think we’ve ever watched it in the loft before. But I enjoyed it immensely, because it gave a fresh perspective on things, and Poor Brentford left us alone for a while at least.

Poor Brentford, the rope, the bed, and Ruby, awaiting her own circle. The blacksnake was unavailable for comment.

But by the time we came down for bed, he was right there, as agitated as ever.

He was just inside our bedroom, holding two pieces of rope–one much longer than the other.

“Ropes in the bedroom?” Gary raised an eyebrow, looking quizzically at me and then the bed.

Poor Brentford looked at Gary as though the answer should have been obvious.

“Well, duh. You have to put a rope in a circle around the bed, and once Ruby hops up, put a circle around her, too.”

He started laying the rope on the floor, encircling the bed.

“Trust me. A snake will not crawl over a piece of rope”

Enough was enough.

“Get out, Brentford Lee, right now. And close the door behind you.”

I read somewhere that a snake will not crawl under a closed door. I think I did. I’m almost certain I did. Somewhere. National Geographic?

Flip the Narrative

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“The facts may remain the same. The narrative doesn’t have to.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947).

I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again.

Flip the narrative.

You read it right. But I want you to read it again.

Flip the narrative.

When the daily news overwhelms you, flip the narrative.

When technology frightens you, flip the narrative.

When society disappoints you, flip the narrative.

When family and friends let you down, flip the narrative.

When your body reminds you that you’re getting older, flip the narrative.

When life seems to be shrinking, flip the narrative.

When hope begins to flicker, flip the narrative.

And if you think you know what I’m going to say next, I’m making my point.

Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because the daily news is not the whole story. Headlines are paid to interrupt your breakfast, not to nourish your soul. They shine spotlights on what is broken, while millions of quiet acts of kindness slip by unnoticed every single day. If all you read is the news, you will eventually believe darkness has won. It hasn’t. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because technology is neither angel nor devil. It is a tool, and tools have no conscience of their own. We lend them ours. Every generation has feared the next invention, certain it would be the one to finally replace the human heart. It never has. The hands change. The fear stays the same. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because society is more than its loudest voices. Every day, strangers hold doors, volunteers serve meals, neighbors check on neighbors, teachers stay late, and someone somewhere chooses grace over anger. Those stories rarely make the evening news, but they make the world worth living in. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because the people who love us are gloriously, frustratingly human. They disappoint us. We disappoint them. If we measure every relationship by its failures, we will eventually stand alone. Better to count forgiveness as often as we count offenses. Better to remember that imperfect love is still love. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because every birthday steals something and gives something back. Your knees may protest. Your memory may hesitate. Your hair may surrender. But wisdom quietly takes a seat beside you. Perspective grows stronger. Small things become precious. You stop trying to impress everyone and start noticing what truly matters. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because a life that seems to be shrinking is often becoming more focused. Doors close. Dreams change. The horizon may draw nearer. Yet, somehow, the heart discovers that depth can be every bit as magnificent as distance. Sometimes life doesn’t become smaller. It becomes richer. Flip the narrative.

Flip the narrative because hope is not pretending everything is fine. Hope looks reality squarely in the eye and refuses to let despair have the final word. Hope has outlived kingdoms, survived wars, buried loved ones, endured heartbreak, and still gets up the next morning expecting light.

Flip the narrative.