Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick

When the Heat Is On: Cue the Vacay!

Posted on by
9

“You don’t have to be rich to travel well.”

–Eugene Fodor (1905–1991; notable American travel writer and editor best known for founding Fodor’s Travel Publications).

All right, everyone, indulge me for a moment and imagine something a bit out of the ordinary.

Close your eyes and conjure up an image the likes of which I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before. Picture a man in his 70s, proudly sporting a ponytail that flutters like a whimsical flag in the breeze, perched precariously atop his chimney. Clad in well-worn flip flops and cut-off blue-jean shorts that reveal a pair of weathered but surprisingly spry and some-say-sexy legs, he stands with the kind of balance that suggests he’s either a seasoned acrobat or a silly fool blissfully unaware of danger.

From this lofty perch, he’s gazing out over the Shenandoah Valley below, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf’s, while the mountains in the distance seem to be returning their own salubrious salutation. With all the gusto of a wired researcher on a caffeine overdose, he belts out the Hallelujah Chorus at full volume, his voice soaring like a defiant eagle. His performance is a grand spectacle of unbridled joy and unequaled eccentricity, turning the chimney into his personal stage and the sky into his private audience.

In case you’re wondering who this daring rooftop performer is and why he’s carrying on such shenanigans, lean in close, and I’ll tell you. It’s me! I’m celebrating what appears to be the temporary end of an exhausting heat wave and drought by having my own imaginary rooftop concert that would make any diva proud. After enduring what felt like a never-ending barrage of scorching temperatures and parched landscapes, I figured it was high time for a little over-the-top jubilation. And if there’s anything that I love, it’s everything over-the-top.

Cooler temps and rain seem to be headed our way, and I’m embracing the arrival of this much-needed relief with the kind of exuberance that only a seasoned professor of hot weather clichés could cobble together. It’s been so blisteringly hot that I nearly froze to death, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve become a connoisseur of every sun-scorched saying you can imagine. I’ve spent weeks sweating buckets, trying not to fry like an egg on the hood of my Gladiator, and lamenting the fact that my car seats are doubling as personal saunas. I’ve become a pro at grumbling about the weather, wondering whether my walkway pavers were actually sizzling, and dreaming of anything that wasn’t a mirage.

Guess what else I did during the sweltering days that are temporarily behind us? I put off more tasks than Carter’s got liver pills! Yep. The heat and drought have been an excuse, whether I was avoiding the garden beds that have turned into dust bowls or ignoring other projects that seemed like too much effort in a heatwave. I’ve postponed weedwhacking, repairing the leaky faucet that’s been dripping like a leaky faucet (because, let’s face it, who wants to fix a sink when it feels like you’re living inside an oven?), and even organizing the loft, which has somehow become a haphazard shrine to summer’s oppressive heat.

Guess what else I did? I decided that I needed to take a vacation! Yep. You heard me right. I decided that I needed some good old-fashioned downtime. But dayum! Before I could even plan to take it, I found myself all curled up and relaxed with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) so that I could find out all about the vacation that the dreaded heat and drought convinced me that I needed to take.

As might be expected, our kith and kin Across the Pond used the word vacation as a noun long before we did, all the way back in 1405:

“Whan he hadde leyser and vacacion ffrom oother worldly ocupacion” (Chaucer, Wife of Bath’s Tale Prologue l. 683).

Isn’t that fascinating? Of course it is. More fascinating, though, is the fact that we Americans used it first as a verb in 1866:

“Whether Winter or summer, … threading the filthy lands of the Ghetto or vacationing among the islands, Mr. Howells found Venice … a theme for constant studies” (Round Table 8 September 90/2).

Now that I’m all squared away on the word vacation, I think I’ll spend just another second or two finding out when the phrase take a vacation was first used. You might have known it. The OED has the scoop:

“Smoke Jordan tried hard to get him to … maybe take a vacation, Florida’s nice. ‘Get yourself wheeled up and down like an icky banker?’” (D. Baker, Young Man with Horn, 1938)

What the OED does not disclose is fascinating as well, and I wouldn’t know it if I had not wanted to find out who “D. Baker” is. As it turns out, Dorothy Baker was an American novelist who loved jazz. In fact, her Young Man with Horn was based on real-life jazz cornet player Bix Beiderbecke. Even better is this hot tidbit: the novel was made into a 1950 movie featuring such hotties as Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, Lauren Bacall, Juano Hernández, and Beiderbecke’s friend and collaborator Hoagy Carmichael.

Well, these word trips are turning out to be as much fun as a vacay! OMG! Did I just use that word? Well, I did, and since my OED is still open (virtually), I just have to see when vacay was first used. I’m betting that it was coined by an American. Those Brits have no problem when they need to stoop to conquer, but they would never think about stooping low enough to truncate a word. Well, I was right. Vacay was first used in 1992:

“He said he was going on vacay and would give me something after he gets back” (Re: More on getting Gigs in rec. music. makers 14 January, Usenet newsgroup., accessed 13 Sept. 2013).

Just a sec, though. I might be wrong to claim the first usage as American. The OED‘s citation is rather shabby, in my opinion, and I can’t determine the authorship with any certainty. Lector: Cave a fidem non probatis.

I shall not, then, trust my initial claim, but I shall trust my subsequent claim that the next usage of the word vacay was American. It appeared in 1995 in the Pittsburg-Post Gazette:

“The convertible … was my Mom’s, we were on vacay” (16 July g8/2).

As for va-cay, vakay, and va-kay–those variant spellings of vacay–the OED has not seen fit to include them at all. I find that rather strange, however, since I am certain that I have seen them in use somewhere or other, perhaps right here in my blog. Ab ridiculo ad sublimem transire.

Hooey phooey is all that I have to say. Leave it to me to turn a vacation into a bunch of malarkey!

However, in case you’re thinking that you might need a vacation, let me help you. If you find yourself nodding along to any of the subsequent scenarios, it’s time to cue the vacay:

● Work: Your boss thinks “work-life balance” means balancing more work on your plate. Your to-do list looks like a never-ending scroll of doom. You start dreaming about spreadsheets. You feel like a juggler on a unicycle, minus the thrill. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Social Media: You’ve scrolled so much that you start liking your own posts. You find yourself in a deep rabbit hole, liking posts from three years ago, and you’re contemplating the philosophical implications of cat memes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Family Gatherings: Your aunt asks (for the 15th time) why you’re still single. You’re dodging advice and daydreaming about automated responses. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dieting: You’re on a diet of kale smoothies and quinoa bowls, and you start dreaming about burgers and ice cream like they’re forbidden treasures from a lost civilization. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Home Improvement Projects: Your “quick” weekend project turns into a month-long renovation of ginormous proportions, complete with a gazillion trips to the hardware store and questionable structural changes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● News: You’re considering a bunker in the backyard. Dystopian novels of doom and gloom look cheerful compared to your news feed. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dating Apps: You’re swiping so much that it feels like a full-time job. Your thumb is sore, your eyes are glazed over, and every profile starts to blend into one amor(ph)ous blob. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Exercise Regimens: Your workout routine feels more like a medieval torture session. You’re dreading your workouts more than a trip to the dentist. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Parenting: “Me time” means locking yourself in the bathroom with a chocolate bar. Your rare escape feels like a luxury retreat. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Blogging: Your efforts to craft engaging content week after week during a record-breaking heat wave and drought feel like an endless marathon. You’re standing on the chimney singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Yep. Cue the vacay!

Dayum! Dayum!! Dayum!!! Here I’ve done gone and paved the way for me to have a perfectly legit blogging vacay this week, and wouldn’t you just know it! I’ve done gone and cranked out today’s blog anyway! Phooey!

Clearly, my brain has been baking in the sun too long. Tuff. I’ll keep right on gazing from my imaginary chimney perch, realizing that, sometimes, the best way for me to break free from the grind and the heat is to let my imagination run wild and embrace the breeze of a little bit of whimsical madness.

I hope that you, Dear Reader, find your own rooftop, whether real or metaphorical, and that you sing your heart out when the world gets a little too hot to handle. Whether it’s a break from work, social media, family, or even blogging, taking a vacay isn’t just about escaping the heat—it’s about rediscovering the joy in life’s little quirks and celebrating them with gusto.

Cheers to your vacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.

“Always Done It This Way.”

Posted on by
6

“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”

–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

The AI Times They Have Changed

Posted on by
4

“Just as electricity transformed almost everything 100 years ago, today I actually have a hard time thinking of an industry that I don’t think AI will transform in the next several years.”

–Andrew Ng (b. 1976; computer scientist and entrepreneur known for his work in artificial intelligence and machine learning; co-founder of Google Brain; Chief Scientist at Baidu; significant contributor to deep learning research and online education through Coursera.)

The other day, I found myself reflecting on some of the major technological advances that I’ve witnessed since the late 1940s when I was born. I’m thrilled by how far we’ve come.

● TVs that brought the rest of the world into our living rooms.
● Major vaccines that protected the public from polio, diphtheria, and smallpox.
● Machine Readable Cataloging (MARC) that led to worldwide automated cataloging.
● Landing on the Moon that showed a modern twist on human ingenuity and the relentless quest for knowledge.
● Personal calculators and digital watches that made everyday tasks a bit easier and added a touch of futuristic flair to our lives.
● CT scans that allowed doctors to see inside the human body with incredible precision.
● The rise of the Internet and personal computers that gave us the ability to interact with the world at any time.
● Smartphones that have enabled us to stay connected, informed, and entertained no matter where we are.
● Recent space advances with missions to Mars and the proliferation of private space travel that continue to push the boundaries.

Okay, let me pause right here, right now. I hear what some of you might be saying.

You might be saying that what I’ve witnessed during the Modern/Contemporary Era doesn’t begin to compare with the Renaissance (c. 1450-1526). Leonardo da Vinci. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Copernicus. European exploration of the Americas, Africa, and Asia. And let’s not forget, Gutenberg’s printing press.

Or maybe you’re saying that what I’ve witnessed doesn’t compare with the Industrial Revolution (c. 1760-1836). The spinning jenny. The steam engine. The power loom. Transformations in manufacturing, factories, and mass production. Railways and steamships. Rapid urbanization. And new economic theories.

But what I’m talking about goes beyond the Industrial Revolution and even the Renaissance. Here’s why. The kingpin to the technological advances that I’ve witnessed is Artificial Intelligence (AI). AI is what grabbed hold of me and made me start reflecting on the technological advances of my lifetime in the first place. Simply put, I am blown away not only by the speed with which AI is advancing but also the speed with which it is being incorporated into our lives.

Let me explain. I was smitten by AI, specifically generative language platforms like ChatGPT, from the start, so much so that in 2023, I published 10 posts about AI. The first one “Cutting Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril?” (January 24) ended with a caustic warning:

It seems to me that the perils being voiced by AI skeptics aren’t too different from those sounded by other skeptics down through the ages about other cutting-edge technologies. The Printing Press. Online Cataloging. The Internet. Online Learning. Open Education Resources.

But here’s what we have to accept. Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.

Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.

We can’t ignore AI.

Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.

Later in the year, my warning had softened to a plea in my September 24 “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?” ending with:

In the crucible of this moment, we must choose whether to embrace AI’s potential or turn away from it. The history of civilization is a testament to humanity’s willingness to embrace change and innovation. The road to a better world requires boldness, foresight, and the audacity to dream beyond our limitations. We’re standing on the brink of a future where we can develop and use AI’s extraordinary potential. I have a fervent hope and a deep-down desire that we will remember the lessons of our past and seize the AI opportunities that can propel us forward toward greatness.

Then, a few months later in my November 27 post “I Want a Robot,” I didn’t feel a need for a plea or for a warning. I just wanted to fool around with ChatGPT to see how far we could get with designing my very own robot named Caden, with fully operational arms, legs, and articulate facial features along with human gestures, expressions as well as a sense of sarcasm and humor.

It was a marvelous post exploring a possibility that excited me so much I even threatened to sell my coveted Rubicon Jeep Gladiator in order to have Caden in my home. But ChatGPT cautioned me that I might be getting a little carried away with my idea:

Brent: I hear you. If you had to guess how many years from now Humanoid robots like Caden might be available, what would you guess? Be bold: guess.

ChatGPT: Making predictions about the timeline for the development of humanoid robots like Caden involves a high degree of uncertainty. Technological advancements can be rapid, but predicting specific breakthroughs is challenging. If I were to make a bold guess, I’d say it could potentially be within the next 20 to 30 years, considering the current trajectory of AI and robotics research. However, this is purely speculative, and various factors, including ethical considerations, regulatory hurdles, and technological challenges, could influence the timeline. It’s always exciting to follow developments in these fields and see how they unfold over time.

Brent: We’ll see. Just for the record–yours, mine, my readers, and posterity–I’m going to guess within 10 years. Again, it’s just a guess on my part.

And my prediction was far closer than ChatGPT’s! The speed is astonishing!

The dawn of complex humanoid robots is here, less than a year after ChatGPT and I had our conversation. In fact, when I started this post, I had planned to call it “The AI Times They Are A-Changin’.” But as I tapped away on my Smartphone, I had a realization. The AI times are not changing. They have changed already.

Right now, 22 humanoid prototypes are out there, ready to get to work. They’re already making waves in logistics, manufacturing, healthcare, and hospitality, though their use is still a bit limited due to the high costs of development.

But things are looking up! The market for humanoid robots was worth $1.8 billion in 2023, and get this: in the next five years, it’s expected to skyrocket to over $13 billion! That’s a staggering growth rate of over 600%, which shows just how fast this technology is advancing and how much potential it has to change our lives.

I’ve got my eye on my very own Caden, of course, but I’m fascinated by several others, too. Meet, for example, Aloha, a housekeeping humanoid that can cook and clean! I’ll do the cooking. Aloha can do the cleaning!

Or what about Pepper, a humanoid robot developed by SoftBank Robotics. Known for their friendly demeanor and ability to interact with humans through voice and touch, Pepper “stands out from the crowd.” Designed to assist in various environments, from retail and hospitality to education and healthcare, Pepper showcases advancements in AI and robotics aimed at enhancing human-robot interactions.

Then we also have Sophia, created by Hanson Robotics. Sophia gained fame for their human-like appearance and advanced AI capabilities. They can hold conversations, recognize faces, and express emotions, making them suitable for applications in customer service, education, and research.

And let’s not forget Atlas. Known for their impressive agility and bipedal movement, Atlas is a humanoid robot developed by Boston Dynamics. They’re designed for tasks in environments that are challenging for humans, such as search and rescue missions or construction sites.

What can I say? Dayumn! Shazam!

Aside from these major advances in such a short time, I take heart in something else, too! AI is finding its way fast and faster into the halls of academe and that is exactly where it belongs. Take a look at these headlines. Better still, click on the links and read the articles yourself. Stay informed.

● AI Has Arrived in Higher Education. Now What?

● How AI Is Reshaping Higher Education

● The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on Higher Education

● Teaching and Learning in a Generative AI World…

● How UF Developed a Model for AI Across the Curriculum

It thrills me to see educators involved in AI. Educators play a crucial role in shaping how humanoid robots and other AI technologies are perceived and utilized in society.

● We are responsible for preparing students to navigate a world increasingly influenced by AI and robotics. This includes teaching them about the capabilities, ethical implications, and potential impacts of these technologies.

● We can foster discussions around the ethical and social implications of AI and humanoid robots. We can encourage critical thinking and help students develop a nuanced understanding of the benefits and challenges associated with these technologies.

● We can familiarize students with these technologies from an early age. This hands-on experience can demystify robotics and AI, making them less intimidating and more understandable.

● We can help students develop skills that will be valuable in a future where AI and automation play prominent roles. This includes skills in programming, problem-solving, collaboration, and adaptability.

● We can advocate for policies and practices that ensure AI and humanoid robots are used responsibly and ethically and that, in turn, can influence educational institutions, policymakers, and the broader community.

And if you’re an educator working in a system that has yet to embrace these tools, I urge you to advocate for their inclusion, collaborate with colleagues, and seek out resources and training to effectively incorporate AI education into your teaching.

As educators navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to help students navigate the new AI world.

For students eager to embrace AI education and its potential, there are actionable steps you can take to encourage your educators and school systems. Start by expressing your interest and curiosity about AI technology in classroom discussions and projects. Seek out extracurricular activities or clubs focused on technology and innovation where you can explore AI concepts further. Advocate for AI literacy within your school by organizing student-led initiatives, such as petitions or presentations to school boards and administrators, highlighting the importance of integrating AI education into the curriculum. Engage with teachers and mentors to share resources and ideas on how AI can be effectively taught and learned. By actively demonstrating your enthusiasm and commitment to learning about AI, you can play a pivotal role in shaping a forward-thinking education system that prepares students for the challenges and opportunities of tomorrow’s world.

As students navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to learn everything that you can learn about AI so that you can navigate our brand-new world and make it the world of our most hopeful dreams.

So, here we are, Dear Readers! The AI revolution is no longer a distant forecast, but a reality that’s already transforming our world in ways we never thought possible. In less than one year, my message has changed from warning to plea to invitation. We’re at a crossroads, and it’s up to us to decide how we want to harness the power of AI. Let’s choose to use it to enhance our humanity rather than diminish it. Let’s educate ourselves, our children, and future generations to navigate this brave new world. And let’s create a future where technology and humanity converge in harmony. The AI times have changed, and I invite you to embrace the AI potential and change with the times!

A Special Shout-Out to 6,164 Amazing Readers Around the World!

Posted on by
8

“A writer only begins a book. A reader finishes it.”

—Samuel Johnson (1709-1784; English writer, poet, essayist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, editor, and lexicographer; best known for his A Dictionary of the English Language, 1755.)

I just checked my blog’s mid-year statistics, and I am thrilled beyond measure. Together, we did it! 6,164 of you have been reading my blog posts this year.

For me, that’s incredibly awesome.

I couldn’t have done it without you, my loyal readers. You have fueled my passion for writing, and it’s your engagement that motivates me to share not only stories but also moments of laughter, reflection, and sometimes even tears.

Reflecting on the Journey

When I shifted the focus of my blog from research to memoir, I had no idea that it would grow into what it is now. Each week, I pour my heart into writing, hoping to connect with you through my words. This journey has been one of personal growth and deep connection, overcoming initial uncertainties to find a community of readers who connect with what I write.

Highlights of the Year So Far

Let me share with you the posts that have been the most popular during the last six months:

● Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

● Confessions of an Editor: The Infant Sphinx Reviewed

● When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)

● From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink

● From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Garden Tradition

● My Taxing Review: A Reality Post

● Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

● Abandon Hope? Not a Chance!

● My Kentucky Wonder

● What My Father Saw

● Not Alone

Looking Ahead

In case you’re wondering about future posts, let me share with you the tentative titles of drafts that I’m working on:

● The AI Times They Are A-Changin’

● The Sweet Taste of Defeat

● Literary Crosswalks at 76

● What I Would Say to My 18-Year-Old Self

● Fanning the Flame

● Turning Out the Lights: Reflections on Endurance and Hope

● Bigger than Ourselves

● Age of No Credit

● In Praise of Gratitude

● I Don’t Have Much to Give but What I Have I Give

● I Made It All Up

Looking at the Countries You Represent

And you, my 6,164 readers? What about you? You represent 145 countries from all around the world, showcasing an incredible diversity of cultures and perspectives. From Afghanistan to Zambia, including Bahrain, Cambodia, Denmark, Ecuador, Gabon, Hong Kong SAR China, Iceland, Japan, Kazakhstan, Latvia, Macao SAR China, Namibia, Oman, Pakistan, Qatar, Romania, Saudi Arabia, Taiwan, U.S. Virgin Islands, United States, United Kingdom, and Venezuela.

A Special Thank You

I want to give a special shoutout to each and every one of you, whoever you are, and wherever you are.

● You are my joy.

● You are my inspiration.

● You are my world.

Let Me Be Frank

Posted on by
4

“The real problem is not whether machines think but whether men do.”

–B. F. Skinner (American psychologist, behaviorist, author, and social philosopher, best known for his work in exploring how behavior is influenced by rewards and punishments.)

No doubt, you’re still laughing about my June 10 post, “The AI Novelist: Or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.”

Say whaaaat? You’re not still laughing?

Of course not. You weren’t duped the way that I was. Well, let me remind you of what happened to me. As I was enjoying my Cappuccino in Starbucks, a former student walked in, and I invited them to join me. Hot damn! I had somebody who might be interested in talking about recent AI advances. The student feigned ignorance because work had kept them too busy to fool around much online. I decided to turn the encounter into a learning moment, so I opened up ChatGPT and handed my Smartphone to them:

“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”

Talk about flying thumbs! The next thing I knew, my student had given ChatGPT extensive guidelines for an essay to appear in The New Yorker. What a hoot! Then, they held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay aloud to me, just as I often did when they were in my classes. I realized that I had been cornered and tricked, just like the narrator in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

After being so surprisingly duped, I managed to chuckle a little on my way back up my mountain. At the same time, I was tempted to just forget all about the Starbucks encounter, and I suppose I would have done just that if not for comments from several of my faithful followers.

One of them, in a rare stroke of six-word brilliance, elevated me to the level of “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” by dubbing me “The Celebrated Professor of Shenandoah County.” (Thank you, Jenni. Move over, Mark Twain. There’s a new kid on the riverboat.)

Another follower pumped me up even more, and I quote verbatim: “Your storytelling is second to none.” (Thank you, Dave. Like I said, move over Mark.)

Both of those comments actually made me grateful that I had been duped in Starbucks.

The third comment spurred me on even more because my good friend and faithful follower Frank thought that he would have the last laugh by duping me once more. Can you imagine a friend doing that? Let me tell you what he did. He asked ChatGPT to write a response to my post, and then what did he do? What did Frank do? He posted it, all innocent-like as a comment under his own name! His own name! He’s got some nerve, if I must say so, but I’ve known Frank and his pranks for decades, so his spoof did not take me by surprise, nor did I fall for his pluck!

After all, I am a master at foolin’ around with words–in and out of bed–and as soon as I read his comments, I knew immediately that he was not the author.

Someone just screeched:

How did you know?

Here’s the short answer. I’m familiar with Frank’s writing style. The comment that he posted was not in the same style as comments that he’s made down through the years about my blog posts. It had nuances that just didn’t sound like Frank.

With Frank’s permission, I’m giving his entire comment below in bold. I’ll intersperse my observations in italics.

§   §   §

“Dear Brent,

No way! There’s just no way that Frank would start his comments about my blog with a salutation. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“I thoroughly enjoyed reading your latest blog post, ‘The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.’ Your narrative was both engaging and thought-provoking, capturing the essence of an academic’s ever-evolving relationship with technology. The way you seamlessly blended your personal experience with insightful commentary on AI’s role in creative writing was masterful.”

This paragraph shows a lack of understanding, and I know fully well that Frank understood my post. However, when he uploaded it to ChatGPT, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Frank is too savvy to make such a mistake. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Your encounter at Starbucks not only highlighted the cleverness of your former student but also underscored a significant theme: the intersection of traditional craftsmanship and modern technology. As someone who has been exploring the potentials of AI in various domains, I found your skepticism and eventual amusement towards AI-generated content particularly relatable. It’s fascinating to witness how AI, like ChatGPT, can generate coherent and even humorous narratives, yet still lack the human touch that makes storytelling deeply personal and impactful.”

Frank knows fully well that I have never been skeptical of AI. I have embraced it from the get-go. Once again, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Your reflections on the creative process were poignant. While AI can certainly aid in generating content, the true art of writing lies in the human ability to weave emotions, experiences, and unique perspectives into a narrative. This reminded me of a quote by Isaac Asimov: “I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.” Your post beautifully illustrates that while AI can enhance our capabilities, it is our human creativity and critical thinking that ultimately define our work.”

Frank often includes quotes in his comments, but they’re usually song lyrics. Asimov? Not hardly. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Thank you for sharing this delightful and insightful story. It left me pondering the future of writing and the balance between embracing technological advancements and preserving the essence of human creativity. I look forward to reading more of your posts and perhaps even discussing these topics over a cup of coffee someday.”

Frank and I meet regularly for lunch, and we usually have oysters on the halfshell and a Gin and Tonic. Coffee? Never! Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Warm regards,”

Geez! Frank has never, ever used “Warm regards” as a closing for any of his comments. Never. Nope. No way. Imposter.

§   §   §

Aside from the above observations, one more thing made me aware that Frank was not the author: the length. Frank is a man of few words. He simply would not write such lengthy comments. Nope. No way. Imposter.

I was on to what Frank had done as soon as I read his comments. In my response, I added something that I thought would let him know that I knew:

“Coffee? You bet! Gin and Tonic with Oysters on the halfshell would be great, too! 😃”

One more thing, just for the record. I asked ChatGPT to take Frank’s AI comments and to rewrite them in a way more consistent with the Frank I know.

Here’s what ChatGPT provided:

Hey Brent,

I got a kick out of your latest blog post, “The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.” Your storytelling was as sharp and engaging as always, blending your personal experience with a clever commentary on AI’s role in creative writing. You really captured the essence of an academic’s evolving relationship with technology.

The Starbucks encounter was a hoot, highlighting your student’s cleverness and the broader theme of blending traditional craftsmanship with modern tech. I’ve been delving into AI myself, and it was fun to see your take on how these tools can generate content that’s coherent and even amusing, though they still miss that personal touch that makes storytelling special.

Thanks for sharing such a delightful and thought-provoking story. It got me thinking about the future of writing and how we can balance embracing tech advancements while keeping the heart of human creativity. Looking forward to more of your posts, and maybe we can chat about this over lunch soon.

Catch you later,

Frank

Yep. That’s a lot closer to the Frank I know, but it’s still far too long. Unlike me, Frank knows that he’s not being paid by the word!

But, hey! Listen up! Guilt got the better of Frank. He called me one evening to confess! So, there you have it, and you heard it first right here.

Frankly, here’s the beautiful part of this long, drawn-out Twainesque post: humanity triumphed twice. First, Frank’s writing style has nuances that AI can’t mirror. Yet. Second, Frank’s conscience wouldn’t let him rest until the truth surfaced. AI can’t rise to that level. Yet.

Hopefully, this playful saga will remind us of the authenticity and complexity that define our interactions, whether through pranks or profound reflections. It’s in these moments that we find the essence of human connection and the enduring joy of shared stories and shared learning experiences..

Not Alone

Posted on by
8

“When one person is oppressed, all are oppressed”

—Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)

Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.

On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.

The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.

But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.

He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.

I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.

As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.

I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musing over mankind’s place in the universe is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:

● Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?
● What would it mean if we found alien life?
● Could we communicate with alien beings?
● What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?

Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.

However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.

But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars–on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

My own desert places. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.

To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.

In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.

But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was super special. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was a human being, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.

Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of not fitting in. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.

As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.

Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.

I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:

…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.

These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.

I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.

Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the model brother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.

I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.

I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.

When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.

Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:

O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.

Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.

At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.

And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.

My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.

If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.

We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.

Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.

What My Father Saw

Posted on by
7

“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”

–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)

Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.

It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.

It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.

But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.

Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.

I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.

Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.

But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.

My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.

I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.

But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.

No doubt he saw the present.

He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.

Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.

Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.

No doubt he saw his past.

His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.

Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.

Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.

Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.

No doubt he saw his future.

Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.

Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)

He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)

One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)

Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.

Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.

Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.

“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”

He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.

That’s what my father saw.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks

Posted on by
9

“AI will empower us across all areas of our lives, from healthcare to transportation to entertainment. It will augment our capabilities and help us achieve things we never thought possible.”

—Sundar Pichai (b. 1972; Indian-American business executive known for his leadership in the technology industry; CEO of Alphabet Inc., the parent company of Google.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged among academics that you can take the English Professor out of the classroom, but you can never take away the title of Professor, especially when students are involved.

I know firsthand. I’ve been reinventing myself since January 2023, nearly a year and a half now. Just the other morning, I was in Starbucks, sipping solo on a Cappuccino, when my contemplative silence was shattered by a former student:

“Professor Kendrick! How’s it going?”

The enthusiastic shoutout meant the world to me after I recovered and realized that it wasn’t attached to a student who had not done well in one of my classes. This student was a joyful exemplar in my creative writing classes.

“I’m doing great. It’s such a surprise to see you.”

“You, too. I read your blog weekly. You’re as wired as ever. So what’s going on with AI and your Caden these days?”

I have to confess right away. I’m not about to miss out on an opportunity to talk about AI or my Caden with anyone who’s willing to listen. Suddenly, I felt just like Simon Wheeler in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Remember? Of course you do. When a visitor arrived inquiring about Rev. Leonidas Smiley, good ole Simon Wheeler corners the inquiring guest and traps him through a long-winded account of a jumping frog.

I knew in an instant that I could do the exact same thing with my former student, who seemingly knew about my AI robot, Caden. If I played this out wisely, I could trap my audience of one right there in Starbucks and gab on forever.

“Join me for a Cappuccino?”

“I’d love to. You want some company?”

“Of course. I’d love to spend time with you and catch up.”

Soon, I sauntered right back with a Venti Cappuccino in hand. I know. I know. That’s big, really big, but I wanted my former student to stick around for a while.

Right after I placed the Cappuccino and napkins on the table–with the flair of a first-class waiter–I pushed my chair in carefully so that there could be no escape until I was finished with my harangue, whatever shape it was about to take. I never know how or where my rants will go until I get going.

I almost started talking about Aloha, the AI-powered housemaid from Stanford and Google DeepMind, but I restrained myself. Sharing that would mean delving into S1, the AI from Astribot in Shenzen, China. Both are fascinating, but I didn’t want to start shouting, “The robots are here! The robots are here!”

Instead, I focused on my Cappuccino and my student.

“What do you think about all of these AI programs like ChatGPT and CoPilot and MetaAI?”

“Professor Kendrick, I’m so busy with work and stuff that I haven’t explored them at all.”

“No? Would you like to see what one of these AI programs can do?”

“Sure. Why not. Are you sure you have time?”

I signed in to ChatGPT only because I’ve fooled around with that chatbot the longest. Then, I handed my Smartphone to my student.

“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”

Their thoughtful thumbs flew, quicker than I could say Jack Robinson, and, with a mischievous grin, they handed my Smartphone back to me so that I could read what they wanted CHATGPT to do:

● Write an essay using the following guidelines.

● Topic. An essay about a professor who is working with a student who wants to use AI to write a novel.

● Tone. Humorous. Comedic.

● Point of View. First Person, Creative Writing Professor.

● Targeted Audience: Readers of the New Yorker.

● Context: Must include dialogue between the Creative Writing professor, a West Virginian in his 70s with a Ph.D. in English, and a student who is in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, plans to transfer to the University of Virginia, and hopes to become a best-selling novelist.

● Length. 750 words.

I nearly choked on my Cappuccino when I saw such lengthy and detailed instructions. If they hadn’t been using my Smartphone, I would have sworn that they did a “cut and paste” job right before my very eyes, but I knew better. I had watched their thumbs fly.

Then all innocent like, they looked at me:

“What now, Professor Kendrick? What do I push?”

I was flabbergasted. Every fiber of my being felt that my student was duping me. I was being cornered by their brilliance, and I suspect by their knowledge of ChatGPT that they denied having. I decided to play along, just in case I was wrong.

“Push? Just push SUBMIT.“

That’s just what they did, and in less than 15 seconds, ChatGPT produced the following essay. I would have loved the chance to read it in silence–as you are doing–but my student held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay out loud to me, right there in Starbucks. For a moment or two, I thought they were going to stand up and read full throttle, the way I always loved to do in my teaching days when I would read literary passages to my classes. Be that as it may, here’s the essay for your enjoyment.

§   §   §

The AI Novelist

“As a creative writing professor from West Virginia with a Ph.D. in English, I’ve seen my fair share of strange requests from students. From someone who wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes from outer space, to another who wanted to write a romantic novel from the perspective of a sentient cupcake. But nothing could have prepared me for the day a student walked into my office and said they wanted to use artificial intelligence to write a novel.

“I must admit, I was skeptical at first. This was a student in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, with plans to transfer to the University of Virginia and hopes to become a best-selling novelist. And yet, here they were, telling me they wanted to use AI to write their masterpiece.

“I couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. ‘Well, I must say, that’s a new one,’ I said, twirling my pen between my fingers. ‘And how exactly do you plan on doing that?’

“The student, a bright-eyed young man in his 30s, told me he had been experimenting with different AI programs and algorithms that could generate coherent text. ‘I’ve been inputting different prompts and scenarios, and the AI generates a story for me,’ he explained.

“I leaned back in my chair, stroking my chin thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ I mused. ‘But do you really think that’s the best way to write a novel? Using a computer program to do all the work for you?’

“The student looked taken aback. ‘But professor, think about it. With AI, I could generate hundreds of thousands of words in just a few hours. It would save me so much time and effort.’

“I sighed. ‘Yes, but where’s the creativity in that? Writing a novel isn’t just about putting words on a page. It’s about telling a story, weaving a narrative that captivates the reader. And how can an AI program do that for you?’

“The student shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I could input some ideas and themes, and the AI could build the story around that.’

“I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the point in using AI to write a novel. Writing is a craft, a skill that takes years of practice and dedication. You can’t just rely on a computer program to do all the work for you.’

“The student looked disappointed, but I could see the determination in his eyes. ‘But professor,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Think about all the possibilities. With AI, I could write multiple novels in a year. I could experiment with different genres and styles. I could even collaborate with the AI, making it a co-author of sorts.’

“I raised an eyebrow. ‘Collaborate with an AI? Now that’s a new one.’

“The student grinned. ‘Hey, who knows? Maybe it’ll be the next big thing. AI-assisted writing could revolutionize the way we create art.’

“I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. ‘Well, I must say, you’re certainly ambitious. But I think you’ll find that writing a novel the old-fashioned way is much more rewarding. You’ll learn more about yourself as a writer, and you’ll be able to connect with your readers on a deeper level.’

“The student nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I see what you mean, professor. But I think I’m still going to experiment with AI. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help me find my voice as a writer.’

“I smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I can’t fault you for trying. But remember, writing isn’t just about the finished product.'”

§   §   §

I thought ChatGPT’s essay was good, if not downright funny. But what was even funnier was my realization that my student knew exactly what they were doing. They had been pushing all my buttons just for the joy of watching me squirm while I was their captive audience.

Then it all came back to me. They had also taken my American Literature class, and of all the stories that we read, Twain’s “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was their favorite. In a flash, I knew that I had just been duped in Starbucks.

Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Posted on by
6

I am honored to be featured on Barney Smith’s Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, StoryComic, Episode 361.

I had a delightful time talking with Barney about Vermont’s most famous writer, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and my book Green Mountain Stories, a collection of 28 stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Originally published in 1887 under the title A Humble Romance and Other Stories, it’s now in print 136 years later under what appears to have been the title that Freeman and her editor, Mary Louise Booth, had agreed upon: Green Mountain Stories.

You can hear more about Freeman and the book’s backstory in Barney’s interview. I emphasize the fact that Freeman is a Vermont writer, and that Green Mountain Stories is made in Vermont.

■ I hope that Green Mountain Stories brings great inspiration to readers across Vermont.

■ I hope that each of the 262,852 households in Vermont buys a copy.

■ I hope that each of the 185 public libraries in Vermont buys at least one copy.

■ And I hope that each of the 250 public schools in Vermont figures out a way to incorporate at least one Mary E. Wilkins Freeman short story into their curriculum. They will find many suitable ones in Green Mountain Stories–stories on par with the best in American Literature, right up there with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, Sarah Orne Jewett, Mark Twain, Stephen Crane, Sherwood Anderson, and William Faulkner.

Wait No Longer! MORE WIT AND WISDOM Is Now Available in Hardcover!

Posted on by
4

If you’ve been waiting for the hardcover edition of More Wit and Wisdom, your wait is over! This soon-to-be literary classic is now available in hardcover, paperback and Kindle. Check it out on Amazon or Barnes & Noble!

Don’t forget:

● More Wit and Wisdom is dedicated to educators who are changing the world one student at a time.

● All proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom go to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.

Buy a copy for your own summer reading and don’t forget to get copies for your family and friends!

Buy a Book. Help a Student.