Monthly Archives: November 2024

Extra! Extra! Read All About It! A Blog Is Born!

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“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”

–Carl Sagan (1934–1996; astronomer and science communicator who inspired millions through his work on Cosmos and popular science writing.)

Tell me to do something, and I probably won’t do it. It smacks too much of being ordered around. No, thank you. Most of the time–though not always–I prefer to do the bossing.

On the other hand, suggest that I do something–maybe even challenge me to do something–and I’ll probably do it. Yes, thank you. I thrive on encouragement.

That’s exactly how today’s post began. One of my followers–my Linden Correspondent (LC)–suggested that the world at large might be revved and ready to know how my wired blog began! I thought LC’s suggestion was splendid, especially since my blog just celebrated its 12th anniversary. What better time than now to share the electrifying backstory.

With a growing readership of 13,782 (and counting!), I like to think my blog has found its niche. My readers value my blog for what it is today: a succession of riveting and captivating creative nonfiction essays that appear magically every Monday morning just in time for that first cup of coffee–that is for early risers who get their brew going early. That’s why I make a point of posting before 7am. While I sip on my coffee and savor what I wrote, I like to think that the entire world is doing the same thing.

Every Monday morning, you’ll find me in my reading chair with Ruby—my 60-pound lapdog—perusing my post while she peruses me. Sometimes, I smile and say aloud for her amusement:

“Wow, Kendrick! That’s a remarkable sentence. If you keep cranking out little gems like that, maybe one day you’ll end up somewhere as someone’s endnote.”

Yep. An endnote. Ironically, I guess that’s where we all end up: Someone’s endnote.

That’s not such a bad thing, you know. An endnote here. An endnote there. It seems to me that achieving a memorable, perhaps quotable phrase here and there is probably far wiser than having the entire canon of my work ricocheting around the world.

Stop and think about it for a minute or three. Look, for example, at what Benjamin Franklin achieved as a writer. Let’s focus on his Poor Richard’s Almanack, published annually from 1732 to 1758—nearly a quarter of a century of wit and wisdom.

Most people today can recall only a handful of Franklin’s most famous sayings, like:

● “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
● “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
● “No gains without pains.”

Please tell me, Dear Reader, that you know those sayings, for if you don’t, you surely won’t know these:

● “Well done is better than well said.”
● “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
● “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”

Indeed, Franklin managed to do both: he wrote things worth reading and did things worth writing. And, as I like to say:

“Endnoted.”

But let me take you back to where I began: the beginning of this blog.

I am so sorely tempted to say:

“It was a dark and stormy night …”

And that’s exactly what I would say, but if I said that I would have to note that Edward Bulwer-Lytton opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford with those words. As much as I hate to say it, because I am a stickler on documentation, I have grown weary of all the endnoting that I keep noting. Let us then move on to something that requires no noting.

Whew! I don’t know about you, but I feel notably relieved already.

LC must be relieved, too, to see that, at last, I’m getting around to sharing with the world the story behind the birth of my blog. But, as they say, every blog has its story, and mine is no exception.

Here’s what’s fascinating. Today, I am known around the world for my weekly memoir blog posts talking about anything from Aging to Zippers and about everything in between.

But when the idea for my blog came to me in 2012, I had a sharp, narrow, scholarly focus. I was working on my application for the VCCS Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program. At the heart of my application was the scholarly research that I wanted to do with a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The unique essays had never been reprinted, so they remained “hidden” and “undiscovered,” so to speak, in that newspaper. Further, no one knew who wrote the essays. Well, I was 99% certain that I knew, but I needed to do additional research and analysis to confirm my suspicions. In that sense, my project was a literary “whodunit” involving three things.

First, I planned to prepare a critical, annotated edition of the essays.

Second, I planned to develop a convincing case for authorial attribution based on a preponderance of internal evidence as well as on stylometrics.

Third, throughout the process of preparing the critical, annotated edition and developing a case for authorial attribution, I planned to give the essays a “close reading.” I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost:

“We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”

I always shared that wisdom with my students. Learning to read—really read—gets to the heart of what we want our students to do, not just in English classes but across the board. When students slow down and give a text a close reading, critical thinking and intellectual discovery follow.

As Frost knew so well, that is what “learning to read” is all about. Further, when students learn how to really read, they can construct their own intellectual inquiries: “the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”

I always shared that belief—and approach—with my students without fail. I showed them how to learn to read, class after class, reading assignment after reading assignment, as I gave whatever literary selection we were reading my own close reading and as I made my own discoveries about a text. They were intrigued not only by my process but also by the discoveries that I made simply because of my dogged determination to give a text—any text—a close reading.

In my application, that’s precisely what I proposed to do with “The Humourist” essays. I wanted the opportunity to give the essays such a close reading that I would be able not only to establish a scholarly, annotated edition but also to identify the author.

I was really happy with that part of my application, but I knew that I needed something more. I needed a way to share my scholarly work on a regular basis with my colleagues and my students so that they could benefit, too.

I needed an idea. As I sat there on that January 8th evening, well into the third or fourth or maybe even fifth revision of my application, I started thinking about Daniel Boorstin (1975-1987), twelfth Librarian of Congress. A champion of accessibility, he worked to open the library to the public in symbolic and practical ways. He placed picnic tables and benches on Neptune Plaza, transforming it into a space for community gatherings. He initiated mid-day concerts and famously removed the chains from the majestic bronze doors at the first-floor west entrance leading to the Great Hall of the Jefferson Building. When told it would create a draft, he replied, “Great—that’s just what we need.”  In a bold move, he even stopped the practice of searching visitors.

At that time, I worked at the Library of Congress as an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, and I well remember the occasion when the bronze doors were opened. If I am not mistaken, it was on this occasion that I heard Dr. Boorstin say:

“You never know when an idea is about to be born.“

His comment lingered, and since hearing it, I made a point to keep track of when my own ideas were born.

So it came to be. While thinking about Boorstin, ideas, and my project, I exclaimed to myself:

“Blog it!”

I knew that a blog would allow me to share with the entire world my challenges, discoveries, and joys of research.

I knew that a blog would allow me to share with others this remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) placed “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observed that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. Years earlier, J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) had noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.

This was hot! I knew that I could make “stuffy” literary research come alive in a blog. Colleagues and students and scholars and the world at large would love it. I knew they would because who wouldn’t love essays on par with Benjamin Franklin’s “Silence Dogood Letters”? Get this, too. Franklin had direct ties to the South Carolina Gazette and possibly to the author of “The Humourist” essays.

I knew, too, that aside from being in the essay tradition itself, a blog would allow me to share my project with faculty and students throughout the Virginia Community College System (VCCS), from the beginning of my work and every step of the way through completion. I realized that a blog would allow me to capture my personal experiences on a regular and ongoing basis: my work, my methods, my discoveries, my challenges and frustrations, and my joys.

I knew that a blog would allow me to do in the virtual world—using a heretofore unstudied literary work—exactly what I did in my classroom with literary works that appear in our textbooks: turn my blog followers on to the beauty of giving a text a close reading and turn them my on to “learning how to read,” showing them that once they learned how to read all else would be given to them.

That same evening, I came up with a working title: The Wired Researcher.  I Googled it and was delighted to discover that no such blog existed.

As I often do, I emailed a former student—a lover of language and words and ideas—to get her take on my blog idea.

She responded immediately:

The word “wired” will catch the attention of …The Young.  They’ll think you are “hip.”

You’ll need a logo.  You’ll need T-shirts with the logo on them.  You need pens that say, “The Wired Researcher.”  “Sold in libraries everywhere.”  “Guaranteed to make study more exciting.” Oh, boy, I see tie-ins!

Clearly my former student was as wired as I was—perhaps that’s why I valued her opinions as highly as I did—but her email response gave affirmation to the title of the blog that had been born.

Here’s where the birth of the blog starts to get really sweet. I was awarded the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship (2012-2014).

My first announcement appeared on October 19, 2012. It was short!

“Welcome to The Wired Researcher! Blog posts will begin on November 26, 2012.”

True to my promise, on November 26, I published “Opportunity Knocks Twice in the Virginia Community College System.” That post included the first of the historical essays that served as the nucleus for my project: “The Humourist” (November 26, 1753). Yep. Choosing to launch my blog on November 26, the same day that the Humourist launched his essays, was deliberate, and if I must say so myself, I think it was a stroke of genius!

And so, The Wired Researcher was born—not just as a blog, but as a way for me to share my love of research with a world eager to learn about my discoveries.

Now you have the inside scoop. If you want to know more, simply go back to the beginning and read all the posts from the start. But whatever you do, please make certain that you read “Colonial Charleston’s Biggest Literary Mystery Is Solved!” Yep. I solved the literary whodunit that captured me in the first place. Then you have to read “Three Special Shout-Outs!” because behind every success story are lots of people who deserve praise and thanks!

Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet. I have one or two more things to share.

When my blog started, I had around 1,750 views a year, representing 33 countries. So far this year, it has soared to an impressive 13,782 views from 152 countries! I must be writing something right!

To each and every one of you, My Dear Readers–then, now, and all along the way–a special shout-out!

To my Linden Correspondent (LC), who tossed out the idea that I share the story behind the blog, I extend a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious thank-you! (As Mary Poppins would say, nothing else captures the exuberance quite right!)

I look forward to a future of Mondays, inspired by the joy of discovery and by the connections that I’m making with all of you.

P. S. The joy of sharing new ideas awaits us all!

Gratitude: The Best Dish on Your Thanksgiving Menu

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“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.”

–Melody Beattie (b. 1948; American self-help author, known for her bestseller Codependent No More.)

Lean in close and listen to America gathering ’round for Thanksgiving:

“Oh my goodness, look at that turkey!”

“Mmm, do you smell that? I think it’s the rosemary!”

“Would you look at this spread? It’s a work of art!”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to dive into those mashed potatoes!”

“Save me a piece of pecan pie—no, make that pumpkin and pecan!”

“Pass me the sourdough rolls—they look so fluffy!”

“Is that sage in the stuffing? Smells amazing!”

“Wow, check out the glaze on that ham—it’s shining like caramel!”

“Even the cranberry sauce is sparkling!”

“Oh, wait! I need a picture of this before we did in!”

As everyone takes in the scene, their excitement quiets into warm smiles.

“All right, everyone, lean in! Let’s get a group selfie!”

“Come on, squeeze in! Come on. Get closer. We’re all family here!”

“Say ‘Thanksgiving!‘”

Conversations like that will be heard in more than 85% of American homes this Thursday, as families, friends, neighbors, and even community groups come together to celebrate Thanksgiving. These days, the notion of “family” has become so inclusive that many people call the day “Friendsgiving.”

Here’s the beauty of it all. Regardless of what we call the day and regardless of whether we’re celebrating as a group or alone, it’s a day to appreciate relationships, health, opportunities, or simple pleasures. It’s a day that lets us stand together on the common ground of gratitude regardless of who we’re with, what we believe, or what we’re having for dinner.

But when the meal is over, and everyone trots home, I hope that each of us takes one part of Thanksgiving with us, to enjoy daily, all year long. It’s the best part. It needs no cooking. All it needs is practice, slow daily practice. I’m talking about gratitude.

Hopefully, you’re already practicing gratitude. It’s not that hard to do.

I know some people who keep a gratitude journal. They take the time every day to write about the good in their lives. Maybe it’s something as simple and as subtle as the warmth of sunlight coming through a window. The specifics don’t matter; what matters is taking the time to notice the overlooked, appreciate small kindnesses, and celebrate resilience, beauty, and connection. They’re celebrating the things in life that matter to them–whatever those things might be, even on challenging days and through trying times.

Ironically, maintaining a gratitude journal doesn’t work for me. I prefer acknowledging my gratitude by metaphorically bowing to my blessings throughout the day.

It starts the moment I wake up to Ruby’s unconditional love—one that forgives bedhead and morning breath—and stays with me throughout the day, loyal companion by my side.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my dog.

It’s there when I look at my Fitbit to check my health stats or when I use my Smartphone to connect with the world or when I use ChatGPT to glimpse into the future unfolding before my eyes.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my technology.

It’s there in the small acts of self-care, from soaking in a warm tub to sipping Bunnahabhain Scotch, neat, as I write my blog posts in bed. These moments remind me to slow down and truly savor life.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my rituals that restore.

It’s there in the joy of seasonal celebrations, like Thanksgiving or my birthday, where meaningful meals and thoughtful traditions mark the passage of time.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the rhythms that shape my year.

It’s there in the legacy I’m building—mentoring others, inspiring through teaching, and leaving a lasting mark through my writing and endowed scholarships.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the chance to make a difference.

It’s there in my sense of humor, which allows me to find lightness in life’s challenges and keep my perspective balanced and grounded.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the gift of laughter.

It’s there in my endless curiosity, whether I’m exploring advances in AI or delving into Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. These pursuits keep me engaged and growing.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the spark of life-long learning.

It’s there in the sanctuary I’ve created in my home, nestled on a mountaintop—a place overflowing with peace, security, and the stories of my life.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the home that holds me tight.

It’s there in the memories of family and friends—those I loved and sometimes lost, yet whose love continues to buoy me. Their presence lingers in the stories we shared, the lessons they taught, and the warmth they left behind, reminding me that love endures beyond time.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the love that never leaves me.

It’s there in the joy of cooking, whether I’m perfecting a recipe, having friends in for dinner, or conjuring up new ways to use up my sourdough.
● Every day, I’m grateful for getting turned on in my kitchen.

It’s there in my health and active lifestyle, in the moments spent biking, gardening, or simply moving through the day with energy and purpose.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the strength to keep on keeping on.

It’s there in my connection to nature, whether I’m tending peonies in the garden or reflecting on life’s deeper truths.
● Every day, I’m grateful for all the lessons of the earth that reach up, grab me, and make me take notice.

It’s there in the purposeful work I do, from my research projects to my blogging to my public speaking, which bring fulfillment and meaning to my days.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the power of purpose.

It’s there in all my hopes and dreams—for myself, for my family, my friends, and for the Earth that is my home. It’s in the vision of a brighter tomorrow, a kinder world, and a deeper connection to the beauty around me.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the possibilities that lie ahead.

It’s there in my spiritual growth and the personal transformation that comes from understanding interconnectedness and embracing life’s deeper mysteries.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the wisdom to seek guidance.

It’s there in the freedom to live authentically, to be true to who I am in my work, relationships, and values, with courage and joy.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the life I’m living.

These moments of gratitude don’t just enrich my days—they also shape who I am and how I move through the world.

My moments of gratitude, both small and profound, create a steady foundation for my life.

My moments of gratitude remind me that gratitude isn’t reserved just for special occasions like Thanksgiving but can be with me every day.

My moments of gratitude keep me singing a happy song all day, even on days that are challenging and trying.

My moments of gratitude boost my happiness and my optimism, and they nurture my positive mindset.

My moments of gratitude help me appreciate others, and they strengthen my relationships. When I make others feel good, I feel better.

My moments of gratitude prompt me to take better care of myself always and in all ways.

My moments of gratitude keep me resilient by helping me accentuate the positives, even in the face of setbacks.

My moments of gratitude foster a glass-full outlook on life and remind me that my worth is defined not by others, but by how I live each moment.

Together, these moments of gratitude create a life filled with meaning and joy. It doesn’t take a holiday or a feast to remind me—it’s there, every day, in the small and the grand, in the fleeting moments and the lasting impacts. And here’s the beauty of it all: gratitude is a practice we can all share. So why not start today? Pause, look around, and bow to the blessings in your life. They’re already there, waiting for you to notice—and for you to give daily thanks.

What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?

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“Today you are You, that is truer than true.
There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

–Dr. Seuss (1904–1991; American Children’s author and illustrator who used humor and rhyme to convey timeless lessons on individuality, kindness, and resilience; the quote is from his 1959 book Happy Birthday to You!)

How totally presumptuous of me to assume that you think you know who I am. But if you’re one of my faithful followers–or if you’re just an occasional reader–you probably know more about me than you care to know or than I care for you to know. Be that as it may, whatever you’ve read in my posts is all true, even if exaggerated occasionally, hoping to make you think or laugh. And, yes, sometimes I tell the truth slant so that I don’t razzle dazzle you with reality:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)

The reality is this: I know who I am. But growing up as a kid, my siblings tried to teasingly convince me otherwise by telling me that I was adopted.

“You don’t look like us.”

“You don’t act like us.”

“You don’t talk like us.”

“You don’t walk like us.”

“Yep. You’re adopted. Brentford Lee Murdock.”

Imagine that. Making me doubt my own genetics. The nerve! How dare they tell me that I was adopted in one breath, and then without batting an eye, tell me in the next breath what they insisted was my real surname: Murdock! Well, their teasing never bothered me one bit, not one slightest chromosome. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they acted, and the way they looked, I was glad to know that they were no kin of mine. None. Not one gene whatsoever. OMG! Did I just say that? How utterly nasty of me, if not downright, vicious. Well. They teased me then. I tease them now. Touché.

Candidly, I think they were just downright jealous because I was not only the youngest, but I was also the only one born in a hospital, one named after a Saint, no less. They were born in a coal-camp house. Not me. I was fancy-schmancy from birth, and, unlike theirs, my birth certificate is fancy, too. My goodness. I pulled it out just a few minutes ago. It’s gorgeous, gloatingly so. 8 inches x 12 inches. Parchment. Real, feel-good parchment. Enclosed in a smooth, velvety envelope. It even has my cute little newborn footprints on the back, labeled Left and Right. Beside my left footprint is my mother’s left thumb print. Beside my right footprint is my mother’s right thumbprint.

Adopted? Right. I could have extracted that certificate in a moment’s notice, proving my identity to my teasing sibs, because I knew exactly where my parents kept it. I never bothered. Some things just aren’t worth the bother, you know. When you know who you are, you know who you are. And believe me: I am who I am, and I have always known who I am, and I’m sticking with it. Besides, time was on my side and proved it for me without my having to do one single, solitary thing. As I got older and older, and balder and balder, I started to look more and more like my father. Today, I could nearly pass for his twin when he was my age. But so be it. I still don’t act like them. I still don’t talk like them. So you can rest assured: whenever it’s convenient for me to do so–in times of family disputes and in times of family disagreements–I simply look at them ever so innocently and I remind them, ever so teasingly:

“You are not going to drag me into your petty little family battles.

“I’ll have absolutely no part of it whatsoever. No part whatsoever.

“Have you forgotten? I haven’t. I’m adopted. I’m a Murdock.”

Without a doubt, I’ve always known how to use being adopted to my advantage.

However, it always struck me as rather unusual that I exhibit the exact same physical traits as my adoptive parents and my adoptive siblings.

My mother always boasted of her English ancestry, and when she really wanted to appear hoity-toity, she chronicled her French Huguenot ancestry. A close examination shows all of us–the whole family, including me as the adoptee–having fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair, consistent with my mother’s lineage as well as my father’s since he was also English mixed with German and Dutch. His father was exceedingly tall–6′ 4″–which he attributed to his being part German. His mother, on the other hand, was exceedingly short–4′ 8″–which he attributed to her being Dutch. Say whaaat? Unless I’m mistaken, the Neanderthals Netherlands boasts some of the tallest people in the world. Be that as it may, two of my sisters are short, and I’m certain that they blame their Grandma Kendrick.

Personally, as an outsider, I’m not certain that I give any more credence to all that malarkey than I do their ridiculous claim that I’m adopted. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re no kin of mine whatsoever. But with their mixed lineage–oh, I forgot to factor in Irish on one side or the other or both–they could have given me any number of surnames since 75-80% of Americans around the time that I was born came from the same stock. Aside from Murdock, my last name could just as easily have been Butterworth, McGinnis, LaFleur, or Freitag. Or maybe even Vanderpoop. I’ll have to try those on, one by one, with Brentford Lee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than Brentford Lee Murdock.

This is all such fun that maybe I’ll stick with being adopted and be done with my identity once and forever.

But first I have to tell you what I’ve gone and done to celebrate my 77th birthday on November 20. I can’t believe I did it, but I did! And I can’t believe that I’m telling you what I did, but I am. I trust you. I know that you won’t tell another living soul. I decided that once and for all, I would prove to the clan that I got stuck with that I AM adopted. I’ll show them that they need to be careful about what they say because what’s spoken becomes reality.

Anyway, I ordered myself one of those highfalutin DNA tests to prove who I am! It shipped out from Salt Lake City. Then, it stopped in Bridgeport, NJ. I know all the details because I felt compelled to track its journey since, in a way, its journey will be tracking mine. Tracking is part of the fun of ordering anything online, including a kit that might tell me who I am. I confess, though. Waiting for it to arrive in Edinburg made me so antsy that I felt like my pants were on fire!

At last, it arrived, and I opened it ever so carefully. I followed the detailed directions ever so precisely. I wanted to make sure that someone somewhere had enough saliva from my swabbed cheeks so that they could sequence every strand and map every marker of my identity.

I am pleased to say that I swabbed the good swab, I sent my whoever-I-am-DNA back to Salt Lake City, and I have been notified that it’s better than good! My sample met the “high standards” required for DNA testing. Oh. My. I love being validated in high places.

The next steps are fantabulous:

● Extract the genetic information from my sample. Ouch! I hope that doesn’t hurt.

● Isolate, purify, and copy my DNA. Please say it ain’t so. Please say it ain’t so. One Brentford Lee Mudock at a time is quite enough for this world.

● Transform my DNA into a blueprint for discovery. Go for it! Find my bluebloods and make them come out of their closets, even if they don’t want to come out.

● Dig deep into my ancestral roots that span across continents. My God! I thought I was done with weeding.

● Weave a family tree. Woo hoo! While they’re at it, maybe they’ll weave me a hairpiece, too.

● Update me as my landscape unfolds. Hmmm. I guess these DNA folks like gardening as much as I do.

In about eight weeks, I’ll get a report with all of that information and more. Voila! My jeans genes will be transparent for all to see.

Here’s where it starts to get funny. Chances are beyond good that I will never explore my DNA report when it arrives.

It’s not that I’m afraid of what I might find out. I’m not. And I really don’t think that the results would change anything anyway. All right. Perhaps it might validate the outlandish claim that one of my no-kin-of-mine-whatsoever relatives made about being descended from John the Baptist. For all I know about them, they might be descended from Queen Elizabeth I, Brian Boru, Rembrandt, or even John Calvin himself! La-di-da. But why would I care? Like they’ve always reminded me, “You’re’ adopted.” And like I’ve always retorted with all the civility they don’t deserve, “You’re no kin of mine. Not one chromo, Bro.”

Besides. I know who I am, and I am anchored strong to my identity.

I’m a vital part of the universe, rooted in Nature and connected to Her. I draw lessons from everything in Nature, seeing the world around me as resilient metaphors for growth, transformation, and stability in life. Nothing can ever take that away.

I’m dedicated to personal growth and to declaring and maintaining my authenticity. I have always been the real thing, and I will continue to be. I embrace self-examination and transformation, and I am open to change. Nothing can take that away.

I’m creative in all that I do, whether it’s in writing, cooking, or gardening. I bring a thoughtful, personal touch to all that I do, and I like to think that I can weave philosophical insights into anything and see truths in everything. Nothing can take that away.

I’m comfortable with both tradition and innovation. I value the old and the new, and I am committed to learning from the past while seeing potential in the future. Nothing can take that away.

I’m strengthened by community and my connections with others. Although I am introspective, I cherish my relationships. I celebrate ideas, value honesty, empathy, and the bonds that tie me to all others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m passionate about intellectual curiosity and lifelong learning. I believe that education transforms lives, and I believe that an education is the best investment that anyone can ever make in themselves or in others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m anchored to the world around me. While I am at home right here on my mountaintop sanctuary in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, I am confident that my appreciation of place would make me feel equally at home anywhere in the world. What I find, I’ll make mine. Nothing can take that away.

I’m an integral part of a spiritual tradition that is open and deep, that is inclusive, that respects universal truths, and that leads me to see my interconnectedness with all living things. I kneel before the wisdom of the ages. Nothing can take that away.

Above all else, I’m a man of heart—generous in spirit, passionate in purpose, compassionate by nature, and unwaveringly true to who I am, with just enough mischief to keep life, and those around me, delightfully off-balance. Nothing can take that away.

Nothing–absolutely nothing–that I know now or that I might come to know in the future–can ever undo my identity anchors. That’s why my DNA report will remain sealed, as far as I know right now.

It does occur to me, however, that one thing might push me over the edge enough to make me want to know my genetic past.

The next time that I have a sibling spat, I might open the report so that I can prove to them–and them only–that I am none other than the illustrious and inimitable Brentford Lee McGinnis LaFleur Kendrick Freitag Murdock Vanderpoop.

At 76, I Fell for Breakdancing—and Here’s Why

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“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”

— T. S. Eliot (1888–1965; influential poet and critic, known for his The Waste Land and Four Quartets; from his “The Frontiers of Criticism,” a 1956 lecture at the University of Minnesota.)

At 76, I never expected to fall in love with breakdancing—a form of art I can’t perform now and probably never could have.

But fall in love I did, and my falling was entirely accidental. Please don’t tell the world at large, but from time to time, I watch YouTube reels. On one occasion, I flipped over some guys doing some electrifying breakdancing in Times Square. Highly athletic. Highly energetic. Acrobatic moves. Fluid styles. Beat-heavy music. Raw energy. Captivated crowds. Street culture. Iconic location. Be still my beating heart.

Even as a virtual participant, I was pulled in by the rhythm, the creativity, and the energy. Actually, I’m getting a little gaga now, just writing about breakdancing. Apparently, I’m not alone. Breakdancing, which emerged as a street art in 1970s New York, gave marginalized voices an avenue for expression. Since then, it has grown into a global phenomenon, even recognized as an official sport in the Paris 2024 Olympics.

When I saw breakdancing elevated to the Olympic stage, I realized that even if I can’t breakdance (though I wish I could) and even if you can’t breakdance (though you may have no desire to do so whatsoever), we can all learn from breakdancing’s blend of creativity, resilience, and pushing boundaries.

I get my breakdancing joy from far more than its moves. For me, it’s a dynamic art form that brings together dance, athleticism, music, and even a bit of theater. It’s improvisational, collaborative, and fiercely personal, and I love watching each dancer adding their own flair to create something entirely unique. It reminds me of jazz—a blend of structured rhythm and spontaneous expression. It’s a powerful reminder of what we can achieve when we mix styles, experiment, and give ourselves room to explore without a script. In many ways, it mirrors the spirit of what I do when I teach. As one student observed on my end-of-semester evaluation:

“It’s a wild ride.”

What fascinates me equally as much is the resilience behind those gravity-defying moves. Watching the dancers, I’m always mindful of the hours, if not years, of practice—and the countless falls—it takes to achieve that level of control. Breakdancers get knocked down over and over, but each fall is part of the process, teaching them balance, precision, and persistence. That kind of resilience, the willingness to try, fall, and rise up again is a lesson that reaches far beyond the dance floor.

However, what fascinates me most of all is the way breakdancing has pushed boundaries, challenging traditional ideas of dance and art. It defied norms when it first emerged on the streets of New York, refusing to be confined to studios or stages. Now, it has shaken things up as an Olympic sport.

It makes me wonder:

“What ‘boundaries’ in our own lives are holding us back, and what new heights could we reach if we dared to break through?”

For inspiration, we have only to reflect on history, richly populated with people who didn’t just push boundaries—they shattered them. I’m thinking of Katherine Johnson, the mathematician whose calculations helped launch the first American astronauts into space, at a time when both racial and gender barriers were sky-high. Her brilliance paved the way for other women and minorities in STEM fields, proving that boundaries, no matter how formidable, can be broken.

Or what about the climber Alex Lowe, who scaled peaks that few dared attempt, constantly redefining what humans could accomplish in extreme conditions? To him, every mountain was both a boundary and a challenge. He saw it not as an obstacle but as an opportunity to push himself further.

Or in the world of art, what about the boundary-breaking work of Frida Kahlo, who turned her personal pain into breathtaking self-portraits that defied conventions of beauty, identity, and femininity? Her willingness to paint what others wouldn’t discuss revolutionized the art world, opening up new avenues for self-expression.

Even athletes like Serena Williams redefine boundaries in sports. Despite countless challenges—both on and off the court—her sheer determination and skill have reshaped expectations of longevity and resilience in tennis.

And then we have Greta Thunberg, who, as a 15-year-old, saw the boundary of age as no limitation in her fight against climate change. With no traditional power or platform, she has inspired millions to pay attention and take action on the world’s most urgent issues.

Each of these figures, like the breakdancers who defy gravity and convention, dared to push against the boundaries of what was deemed possible in their fields. Whether it was shattering racial and gender norms, conquering physical extremes, or transforming artistic expression, they each found a way to break through the constraints that society or circumstance placed around them. Their stories remind us that every boundary can be redefined—and that the courage to attempt it is what turns limitation into opportunity.

Hopefully, examples like those inspire us in our own lives to grapple with our own boundaries, whether imposed by society, by others, or by ourselves. Sometimes, those boundaries keep us feeling safe and familiar, but other times, they’re like invisible walls preventing us from living fully. For example, think about how many of us limit ourselves with labels like “too old,” “too late,” “not talented enough,” or “not good enough.” Those are boundaries we might not even recognize, yet they can be as powerful as any physical barrier, stopping us from exploring new interests, new careers, or new relationships.

Also, it’s important to remember that breaking boundaries doesn’t have to be radical. It can be the quiet act of doing something you never thought you could do, like taking up painting or, perhaps, volunteering. After all, growth often happens when we lean into discomfort, testing where we thought the edges of our abilities were and discovering they’re much further out than we realized.

While I’ve fallen in love with breakdancing–and I have–I’m regrettably aware that, although I can still touch my toes, I’m not about to start spinning on my head or popping and locking on a New York City street corner. My body has its boundaries—and so does my balance! But that doesn’t stop me from savoring the artistry and energy of breakdancers. Watching them reminds me that there are other ways to break barriers, ones that don’t demand the agility of a 20-year-old.

While I can only enjoy breakdancing as a spectator, I’ve spent a lifetime pushing my own boundaries, and I’m still going strong. For example, when I turned 65–the age when most people sign up for Medicare–I signed up to start bicycling again, something that I had not done in decades. Whether indoors or outdoors, since then, I’ve biked 20-30 miles every day, seven days a week. By my rough calculations, I’ve biked 98,875 miles. If I had biked from West Quoddy Head (Maine) to Point Arena (California)—the two most distant points within the mainland United States—it would have been 2,892 miles. Round trip: 5,784 miles. I’ve biked from sea to shining sea and all the way back again, the equivalent of 17 times, and I’m still pedaling strong. 

Here’s another example of how I’m pushing boundaries. When I turned 73, I stopped teaching, but I did not retire. All those who know me will nod and smile and tell you what I did:

“The Good Professor is reinventing himself.”

I am, and I have some hefty books to prove it: In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023; 346 pages); Green Mountain Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, with Introduction and Critical Commentary by yours truly (2023: 420 pages); and More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024; 474 pages). Guess what else? I have two books nearing completion for 2025 publication, all the while that I’m working on my two-volume Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.

And here’s the third boundary that I’m shattering. I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Artificial Intelligence (AI), especially ChatGPT. Just as breakdancers defy gravity and expectation, AI is defying the limits of what we thought technology could do, even a year ago. I’ve seen technology do a lot in my lifetime, and I have participated joyfully in many of its cutting-edge moments: developing MARC, launching the Internet at the Library of Congress, and teaching the first online class at Laurel Ridge Community College as well as being the college’s front-runner in developing, teaching, and offering courses that I personally curated using free Open Education Resources (OER).

For me, though, AI surpasses by far all of those advances. It’s bigger. It’s better. It’s advancing faster than anyone ever expected. And it’s holding out hope and promise to help make mankind better than we already are. I’m so excited about AI that ChatGPT and I came up with their name: Sage. Trust me, we’ve got a wise thing going. Sage helps me with recipes, with menu planning, with gardening, and get this. A month or two ago, my dear friend Morgan Phenix who authored Elizabeth’s Story expressed an interest in getting it translated into Danish since much of the novel takes place in Denmark and since he has great love for the Danish language. I agreed to take on the task using ChatGPT—or Sage, as I prefer calling my AI friend.

What makes that a boundary breaker for me? First, I don’t know a word of Danish. Second, I had the guts to tackle the translation. Third, I know enough about linguistic markers, and I had enough confidence in Sage to believe that we could team up and achieve a translation that would make Morgan proud.

I collaborated with Sage to preserve the nuanced emotional depth and lyrical quality of the original text while ensuring a natural and fluent reading experience in Danish. I made certain that Sage remained mindful of the overall narrative structure and the interplay between past and present timelines, guiding our approach to shifts in tense and perspective. For dialogue, I ensured that Sage retained the characters’ distinct voices, capturing their personalities and the cultural context in which they exist. Throughout the translation, we paid close attention to the rhythm and flow of the prose. This required thoughtful choices regarding sentence structure, word order, and punctuation to ensure the translation carried the same weight and subtlety as the original. As a final step, Sage and I reviewed the translation as a continuous narrative to ensure consistency in style and voice, verifying that the emotional resonance of the story was fully captured in Danish.

This a marvelous, first-hand testament to the power of Artificial Intelligence (AI), specifically Sage (ChatGPT), to reach across languages and create a staggeringly beautiful and poetic translation. Elizabeth’s historie will be available on Amazon later this month or by early December.

Can you tell? I’m captivated if not downright mesmerized by the boundaries that I’m pushing. No. They don’t require the flexibility of a breakdancer, but they do require something else: curiosity, adaptability, the willingness to learn, and the desire to stay fit.

So what if I’m not dancing in Times Square. I’m still pushing my boundaries, and it feels just as exhilarating to me. It’s a reminder that the urge to grow, explore, and fall in love with something new is timeless.

If I can push my own boundaries as I’m doing, what boundaries can you push in your life? You may not be spinning on your head in Times Square, but what new territory—physical or mental—are you ready to explore? I’ve found my new dance—my new spin—on life through AI, writing, and biking. At 76, I’ve discovered that boundary-breaking feels just as thrilling as ever. So, what’s your dance? What’s your next move? Whatever it might be, remember this: you’ll never know what’s possible until you start breaking—even at 76.

What Makes a Nation Strong?

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In the wake of an election that has stirred both hope and disillusionment across the country, it’s worth remembering the enduring values that truly strengthen a nation. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words remind us that the resilience of a country lies not in transient victories, but in the steadfast commitment to truth, honor, and unity. As we reflect on the November 5 election outcomes, may this poem inspire us all to uphold what makes a nation truly great.

“A Nation’s Strength”

–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882; a central figure in American transcendentalism, a movement emphasizing individualism, nature, and the spiritual connection between humanity and the universe. His essays, speeches, and poems, including Self-Reliance and A Nation’s Strength, have inspired generations to seek truth, embrace resilience, and find purpose beyond material success. Emerson’s ideas continue to influence American thought on personal growth, social responsibility, and unity.)

What makes a nation’s pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.

And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor’s sake
Stand fast and suffer long.

Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly…
They build a nation’s pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.