“Laughter connects you with people. It’s almost impossible to maintain any kind of distance or any sense of social hierarchy when you’re just howling with laughter. Laughter is a force for democracy.”

–John Cleese (well-known English actor, comedian, and writer; a member of the comedy group Monty Python; played Basil Fawlty in the classic British sitcom “Fawlty Towers.”)

THE BACKSTORY.

My life has been punctuated by several major turning points. Two of them are inextricably linked. In the fall of 1998, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress, sold my home on Capitol Hill, bought myself a Jeep Wrangler, and relocated to my weekend cabin in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. I was fifty and determined to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a college professor. I believed fully that by fall 1999, I would be teaching in the hallowed halls of academe.

The key phrase, of course, is: “I believed.” Belief was all that I had. Hope was all that I could hang on to. When I left DC, I had no teaching offers lined up. I simply believed and hoped that a door would open.

I did my part, too, to open the door. I explored teaching opportunities at Shenanadoah University, James Madison University, and Bridgewater College. While I explored, I served as a consultant to the Librarian of Congress, driving back and forth from Edinburg to DC several days a week. One July day, as I returned home via I-66, I noticed a sign for Lord Fairfax Community College.

“Why not explore community college opportunities, too?”

In an instant, I agreed with myself:

“Great idea. I’ll do just that.”

I took the exit, found the small campus–less than a mile away–and within a magical nanosecond I was chatting about my career and my resume with Dr. Sissy Crowther who, at the time, was the dean of the Humanities Division.

“Teach two Technical Writing classes as an adjunct?”

Luckily, I think fast and negotiate even faster:

“Sure. I’d love to teach Technical Writing, but I’d love it even more if I could also teach American Literature.”

“You live in Edinburg?”

“Yes.”

“How about an American Lit from 7-10pm at our offsite Luray High School facility? That’s just over the mountain from you. And maybe you’d like a Saturday morning American Lit that we’re offering also offsite at Warren County High School in Front Royal?”

“Absolutely!”

To be sure, Dr. Crowther had just filled in some gaps in her Fall 1999 class schedule. What she did not know, however, was this. When she asked me to teach those classes at Lord Fairfax Community College, she opened the door that my third-grade dream walked through. Now was the time of fulfillment. I had arrived. I was home.

In the next nanosecond I was in my cabin, on my mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, United States of America, Planet Happiness and Dreams Come True. To this day, I do not believe–nor shall I ever believe–that my Jeep Wrangler took me there.

I did not know then that in the class schedule, under the instructor column, I would be listed as STAFF.

I did not know then that adjunct pay was low, pitifully low.

I did not know then that the American Lit classes I had agreed to teach so readily were the ones that full-time faculty had no desire to teach–at night, on Saturday, and in high-school buildings that didn’t feel like college.

Even if I had known, it would not have mattered.

All that mattered was that my childhood dream had come true.

All that mattered was that I felt at home.

All that mattered was that I was part of an academic family.

Now fast forward with me, past more than 7,000 students and more than 250 classes that anchored me morning and night during a 23-year teaching career that happened magically at a community college, right in my own back yard.

Now fast forward to January 1, 2023, when another turning point punctuated my life.

I decided to bring my teaching career to a close and to reinvent myself. Notice that I did NOT say that I retired. Retire and reinvent are two entirely different words and two entirely different worlds. Trust me: I mince no words about the difference. Trust me again: I respect both worlds. It’s simply that I am not ready to do that R-t-r- thing. All those who know me know that I keep it simple and call it the “R” thing.

Since then, I have been dynamically engaged in teaching a stellar class of one admiring student: me. Subjects? Research. Writing. Publishing. With two books to my credit in 2023 and with two more on the horizon for 2024, what can I say other than my Reinvention is all that I hoped it would be.

As you might imagine, I love talking with others about my journey, and I can be as serious or as silly as they would have me be.

Obviously, when Andy Gyurisin, Development Officer, Office of the Foundation, Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) invited me to speak at the November 1, 2023, Retirees Brunch and Learn, I accepted immediately, especially after he told me that he wanted a light-hearted, humorous presentation.

I jokingly warned Andy from the start that I would be poking fun at me, at him, at the college, at my adjunct teaching days and more.

“Go for it. It will be fun.”

The beauty, of course, about poking fun at colleagues whom you love is knowing that the tight family bonds will make the humor all the brighter.

MY MOMENT AS AN UNPAID COMEDIAN.

Andy, thank you so much!

My goodness! What can I say! Isn’t it amazing how home always feel like home?

How many of you feel as if you’re home? That’s great!

As for me, all I can say is this. Based on how I look these days—especially when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror and all the hair that I don’t have is standing up all over my head, I say to myself:

“Good God. HOME. You belong in … a home.“

Actually, I started feeling at home as soon as Andy invited me to talk. I agreed immediately, without even asking about the speaker’s fee, that I was sure I wouldn’t be getting anyway.

But you know what they say:

“You get what you pay for.”

So, folks, you ain’t gettin’ much from me, not even good grammar. You can thank Andy!

§  §  § 

Damn! That felt good. Saying damn felt good, too.

What else might have felt good if I had had the nerve to say it on the first day of class—you know—back in the day when I was teaching, especially in my adjunct days?

How many of you started as an adjunct?

Remember the pay back then? Maybe you’ve been able to put it out of your mind. I haven’t. It was nightmarish.

So, let’s see. If I had had the nerve back then, maybe something like this would have flown out of my mouth when I walked into class that first day:

“Good morning, young scholars! You know the old saying, ‘You get what you pay for?'”

They’d just sit there and stare and not reply, not even nod. Then I’d shock them with:

“Well, I’m an adjunct. I’m not being paid much, so you’re not going to get much!”

(President Blosser, you might want to put your fingers in your ears. It gets worse. Like I said: I ain’t bein’ paid much!)

Or how about wanting to say this to your students. You know the situation. You walk into class, all hyped up to talk about Dynamical Systems & Differential Equations or The Single Theory of Gravity or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire or, God forbid, something literary like the really good stuff that students love, like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. And there you stand.

“Good morning, young scholars. Does anyone have any questions?”

“Professor, I have a question, but it’s probably a dumb one.”

You know what comes next. The fixed smile. The formulaic response.

“Thanks, Casey. There’s no such thing as a dumb question except the one that doesn’t get asked.”

Deep down inside, you’re dying to scream:

“Guess what? There are dumb questions. Why don’t you just keep your dumb question to yourself.”  

Can you relate?

§  §  § 

But it’s not always about the money. We all know that! After all, we taught at a community college.

Sometimes it’s enough just to see your name in the lights or on an invitation.

I confess. I was hoping to see my name on the invitation to today’s brunch and learn—whatever the hell that is; you won’t be learning a thing from me—but I hoped to see my name on it anyway, just so I could add the event to the resume that I no longer need.

Sure, enough. I got my invitation. I opened it up with great anticipation. Yep. I was right. No speaker’s fee and no mention of my name.

Yep. Made me feel right at home.

§  §  § 

Actually, it took me back to 1999 when I started teaching here as an adjunct. I was so excited. It was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.

I could hardly wait for the class schedule to come out.

It did. I was thrilled.

I found all of my classes listed. You know, the ones at times of day that full-time faculty never want and never fight to get: 7-10 at night. And in places where full-time faculty are never thrilled to go in the dark. Luray High School. Warren County High School.

But it’s all good. I had landed myself a job teaching, and I was so eager to send that schedule to my folks back home in West Virginia so they could see that I had arrived.

“Hey, look ma! I made it.”

And sure enough—just like the invitation—my name did NOT appear on the schedule. What do you think appeared in the Instructor Column for my classes? What do you think appeared?

Yep. You got it. STAFF.

Anyone else remember those days?

§  §  § 

But you know what I did when I saw STAFF on that schedule? You know what I did?

I did it just for the sake of consistency, nothing more. I certainly not do it to get even or anything like that.

If I’m STAFF on the schedule, well, hell! I’ll be Professor Staff on my syllabi, too.

It took my dean three years to notice what I was doing. What else is new?

(Morgan, don’t look so alarmed. You weren’t my dean then. Anyway, it took you five or six years to figure out my shenanigans.)

§  §  § 

OK. This is really funny! But it’s true. The other day when I was at Sheetz pumping gas—a whole dollar’s worth; got it? A dollar’s worth—that’s all that I can afford these days. Anyway, there I stood, head down, facing the pump, so no one would see me.

Lo and behold from three islands away, someone yelled:

“Hey, Professor Staff!“

§  §  § 

But here’s what I want to know? Have any of you—since you did that R thing—had to pump gas only to discover that you were down to your last dollar?

Come on: let me see hands. You’re pumping gas and only have a dollar to your name?

Just what I figured. I guess that I should have retired, too. But I decided to be different. 

OK. What else is new? I’m always different.

So to be different this time, I decided to reinvent myself. 

Obviously, you’re getting a better paycheck than I’m getting.

§  §  § 

But that’s okay. Reinvention has had some good sides to it.

For starters, I took $400 cash, instead of the rocking chair. I wonder. How many of you opted for the rocking chair?

That’s great! You all rock!

(President Blosser, I hope you noticed. Did you see all those hands that didn’t go up? It might be time to reconsider the rocking chair.)

As for me, I didn’t need to consider or reconsider.

I took my money and bought myself a gorgeous coral bracelet. Yep. That’s what I did. See. Take a gander. I think it rocks, too.

When I finish, you all can come up close to get a better look while you drool.

For those of you who took the rocking chair, I’ve got a sweet deal for you. Let me see your hands again.

Great. I’ll visit you at your home so that you can see my bracelet while you rock … and drool.

§  §  § 

I don’t know about what you’ve experienced since you retired, but since I started reinventing myself—got it? Reinventing. There’s a difference!–I’ve heard some really silly if not downright dumb retirement jokes.

I sure hope that you haven’t heard them. You’re going to hear them again.

Question: When is a retiree’s bedtime?  Answer: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.

Question: How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Only one, but it might take all day.

Question: Why does a retiree often say he doesn’t miss work but misses the people he used to work with? Answer: He’s too polite to tell the whole truth.

§  §  §

I also get asked some really dumb questions, far dumber than the ones my students never asked. I mean, really dumb.

Just the other day, my phone rang. It was a friend. Like you, they retired. They know, though, that I did NOT do that R thing. They know fully well fully well that I’m reinventing myself.

Dingaling. Dingaling. Dingaling.

Joy of all bored joys. Someone’s calling!  

“Hey. How’s it going.”

“Good. Real good. I don’t imagine that I interrupted anything important did I?”

“Nope. I’m just lying on the couch, counting the ceiling tiles that I don’t have, just to pass the time.”

Idiot! They know fully well that I have a schedule just as rigid as the one that I didn’t have when I was teaching. These days I’m just doing a little research here and there and a little writing here and there. But you know, when you do those little things, your entire life is so loosey-goosey.

§  §  §

Yep. Loosey-goosey. That’s how I managed to get two books published this year.

In-Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around. Damn! Have I got nerve or what?

I need to see some hands. How many of you would have the nerve to write about foolin’ around in bed with whoever it is that you’re foolin’ around with?

Just what I thought. You did that R thing. You’re probably not foolin’ around with anybody. You should have reinvented yourself, like I did. Then you could have invited anybody and everybody to hop in bed with you, the way more than 7,000 people have hopped in bed with me since I got smart and reinvented myself.

I mean just look here. It’s a gorgeous book. Hard is really gorgeous. Feels good. Soft is gorgeous, too. It feels good, too, but hard feels lots better. If you want to feel it, buy your own dang copy!

§  §  §

Then while I’m counting ceiling tiles that I don’t have—you know, just to pass away my idle days—I cranked out another book: Green Mountain Stories.

It’s a gorgeous book, too. It’s available in hard copy only. It feels so good. But again, if you want to feel it, buy it!

And I am not going to tell you what it’s about. If you want to know, buy it. And shame on you if you don’t. You need to get some learning and find out all about Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, especially you women who have probably never heard of her. Shame on you. Shame I say. Shame. Buy your own copy and get some smarts.

And while you’re buying those books, remember the gifting season is fast upon us. These books will be the perfect gift—an absolutely pluperfect gift—that you can give yourself, your family, your friends—and, perhaps, even your enemies, especially the ones who think folks like me have no busy sharing with the world the shenanigans that I’ve been carrying on in bed.

§  §  §

­­­­­­­Come on now. You can be as green about my two books as you want to be—and some of you are showing color already—but don’t be jealous. Please don’t. Let me tell you why.

When I taught Creative Writing, I always told my students—even the really superior ones that I never had:

“Don’t give up your day job. Got it? Don’t give up your day job.”

And what do you think I did? What do you think I did? Come on: give it up. What do you think I did?

I went and gave up my day job. Well, it wasn’t much of one anyway, and the pay was pitifully low. But the royalty payments I’m getting from these two books are lower. Actually, the payments are pathetic. Plumb pathetic. They weren’t too bad the first month or two. $370. $276. $180. $85. Then those payments went from little to less to almost nothing. I got a check yesterday—yes, a check, a paper check; I didn’t know they even existed anymore—a whopping $1.85.

Yep. I should have listened to the advice that I gave: Don’t give up your day job!

§  §  §

All right. I’m about to wrap things up. I realize that I’ll be ending far short of the three hours that Andy said I couldn’t have, but remember: you get what you pay for and …

I wish that I had time to talk about some of the really fun essays in my book In Bed. Truthfully, they’re all funny. They are! Want proof? Fine. I’ll give you some.

One reviewer said: “The essays are most philosophical, but what I’m drawn to most often is the humor.”

Here’s another: “Engaging, poignant, humorous, heart-felt. A must read.” Did you get that? “A must read.” (Thank you, Dr. Cheryl.)

Here’s another: “Universal appeal and connectivity. Souls gathered around a complex and intriguing thought or proposition. Whimsical observations turned into moments of community meaning.” (Thank you, Morgan.)

How’s this for a final review comment. There are lots more, of course, but I’m running out of time: But how’s this: “Reminds me of Dave Berry and his dry sarcasm and satire.” OMG. I think I died and went to Heaven.

§  §  §

Sadly, I won’t get to amuse you with any of the things that I hadn’t planned to amuse you with. Like …

1. How I’m keeping my house clean…by having imaginary guests.

2. How I’m staying fit as a fiddle…the inefficient way   

3. How I’m enjoying living with a writer … me.

I wish that I could talk about those and more, but I can’t. Andy was as cheap with my time as he was with my speaker’s fee.

Anyway, you’ll find all those topics and more In Bed. So, go buy your own dang copy! And when you do, I hope that you’ll read all 55 essays in bed, which is exactly where I wrote them, night after night.

§  §  §

Andy, thank you so much for inviting me to speak.

Colleagues, thank you all so much for coming out.

It really is great to be home despite all of my banter. Laurel Ridge will always hold a special place in my heart. It opened its doors to me way back in 1999 in ye olden Lord Fairfax Community College days. When those doors opened, my childhood dream of becoming a college professor came true.

Whatever you’re doing since you did that R thing, I hope that you are having as much fun as I’m having with my own reinvention!

Thank you so much. Be blessed!