Happy Birthday, Me! Celebrating My Journey from Machines to Artificial Intelligence

Posted on November 20, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Computers are incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid. Human beings are incredibly slow, inaccurate, and brilliant. Together they are powerful beyond imagination.”
–Slightly Modified Quotation by Albert Einstein (1879-1955; known for His monumental contributions to physics and our understanding of the universe with his theory of relativity, E=mc², and numerous other discoveries.)

Those who know me well–and even those who know me, but not well–know that I always gift myself on my birthday. I purchase my gifts in advance, I have them wrapped in over-the-top paper with ribbons and bows beyond glitzy, and, without fail, I include a note reminding myself of how special I am. Well, I am. If I don’t celebrate me, others won’t celebrate me either. Right? Right. (You’re special, too. Gift yourself when your birthday rolls around.)

I’ve written at least one essay about a gift that I gave myself for my birthday. Who amongst us does not remember last year’s “Celebrating the Gateway to Who I Am”? In that blog post, I shared with you my 75th birthday gift: my decision to not let others diminish my identity by calling me Sweetie, Dearie, or Honey, instead of calling me by my name. I shared with you what I planned to do whenever those well-intentioned terms of endearment grated my ears and pierced my being. Simply put, I decided to rise up to the full height of my politest best and do my utmost to turn those ageist comments into learning moments.

I am pleased to report that I have done just that for the last year, and it has brought positive results, particularly in my doctor’s office and at my local pharmacy. I’m now “Brent.” My name. My God. My name. Who would have believed that one word could be so symphonic?

I thought that last year’s birthday gift might have been my best, ever.

Maybe so. But this year’s gift might be even better. Once again, it will be a blog post–today’s actually–made up of ideas lounging lazily midst glamorous and glitzy spaces.

But only the ideas will matter. Nothing else ever matters, really. Only ideas.

The idea that I want to explore as my 76th birthday gift is simply this. How can it be that I am hyped beyond hype about Artificial Intelligence (AI) and its potential? I am, and candidly, it might just be the greatest technological thrill of my entire life. I’ve written about its potential in “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?”

But here’s what I’m trying to figure out. How can it be that I am so turned on by AI? After all, I’m the guy whose entire being screams, “Humanities!” It strikes me as rather strange, so much so that I’m beginning to think of myself as an oddity, peculiar even to myself.

Doesn’t it strike you as strange, too, especially when I tell you that in all the standardized tests that I’ve taken down through the years, I have always scored substantially higher in math and science than in English?

I mean, those test results would have had me marching right on down the STEM side of life, focusing on science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

You certainly wouldn’t have expected me to sashay down the liberal arts aisle, having endless affairs with literature, philosophy, history, languages, and everything else that focuses on human culture, creativity, and critical thinking.

But that’s just what I did! I think my mother started it all. While I was still in her womb, she was reading a novel with a protagonist named Brentford. She fell in love with the name and decided that she would pass it on to me. I don’t think my mother read novels after that, no doubt because she was preaching and shouting the Gospel’s good news in the little Pilgrim Holiness Church that she pastored until I was five or so.

During that time, I fell in love with language, listening to my mother and watching others as they were slain in the Holy Spirit while she preached. I also saw that my mother valued the beauty of diversity. Even though it was not politically correct to do so at the time, everyone in our multiethnic coal camp came into our modest home through our front door and dined at our steel-framed, Formica-topped kitchen table. I saw my mother stand up time and time again for what she thought was right. She never compromised her convictions. She believed in forgiveness and taught us to never let the sun go down with an ought in our hearts. She embraced positive thinking: if you think you can, you can. She was the epitome of steadfast cheerfulness and optimism.

In addition to my mother’s influence was the impact of living in a multiethnic community made up not only of Blacks and Whites but also of Greeks, Hispanics, Hungarians, Italians, Jews, Poles, and Puerto Ricans, many of whom were first generation immigrants. I appreciated the rhythm of diverse languages, the symphony of cultures echoing through every corner of my little coal camp. I learned how to have conversations with passionate hand gestures and animated facial expressions. Black gospel music and spirited conversations in Italian became the backdrop of my days. The rich aroma of soulful collards and pintos, garlicky Greek beans, savory Italian pasta sauces, and Hungarian goulash wafted through our community. Our dinner tables were a melting pot of international flavors. Hands of varied textures united—Pole with Greek, Jew with Black—and danced the hard dance of shared labor and celebrated the simple things in life that forged our coal-camp community.

Such were the ordinary threads that made up the fabric of my early childhood, yet they were sufficient enough to help me understand how people think and feel and yearn, and they were ample enough to make me feel at home in my future educational pursuits that encompassed language and literature and philosophy and religion.

Little wonder that I’d go on to earn my bachelor’s degree in the humanities with a concentration in English and allied fields in philosophy, religion, and speech. I had the luxury of studying the parts of life that meant so much to me. Later, I would earn my doctoral degree in philosophy with specializations in American literature and British literature.

But here’s what’s remarkably beautiful and equally strange. An education–especially in the humanities–prepares and empowers us for many undertakings, ironically not always related directly to what we studied in college. To my surprise, after I earned my bachelor’s degree, I was hired as an editor at the Library of Congress (LOC). For someone who grew up in a home with three books, it was staggering for me to be working in the world’s premier library, the place with all the books.

It was in that position–going all the way back to 1969–that my love of the humanities started to intersect in silent and seamless ways with my love of computer technology and my current fascination with Artificial Intelligence (AI). Looking back, it’s clear to me that my first editorial job at the LOC allowed both hemispheres of my brain to work together and complement one another even if I was not aware of the tight interconnections.

In that editorial position, I worked under the leadership of Henriette Avram, a computer programmer and systems analyst who developed the MARC format (MAchine Readable Cataloging) that revolutionized cataloging and libraries. (Computer technology had begun in the late 1930s, but when I started working at the Library of Congress, computers were still referred to as machines.) As an editor, I identified the various bibliographic data fields on conventional 3 x 5 catalog cards, and those tags–signposts, if you will–allowed Library records to be converted into online catalogs. The MARC format became the standard for most computer programs and for cataloging books worldwide.

At the same time, the LOC launched its Retrospective Conversion (RECON) project to convert older cataloging records into machine-readable form. On January 1, 1981, the LOC stopped filing cards into its main card catalog: online cataloging of its collections officially began.

As I moved into other positions at the Library of Congress, my background in online cataloging was among my key assets. I would go on to serve as an editor of the Catalog of Copyright Entries, making final determinations for automated cataloging, editing, and publishing activities constituting the bibliographic and legal record of works registered for U.S. copyright protection.

After I left the Library of Congress and crossed over into academe, fulfilling my third-grade dream of becoming an English professor, my new career path provided other notable intersections that would integrate my knowledge of computer technology and my love of the humanities. When Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) launched online learning and teaching in 2000, I was among the first faculty to embrace the initiative and to offer classes using Blackboard as the delivery platform. Years later when the college wanted faculty to use Open Education Resources (OER) to lower the textbook costs for students, I volunteered and within a year I had designed and developed my own OER courses in American Literature, College Composition, Creative Writing, and Leadership Development.

Now, we are at poised at another historic milestone as Artificial Intelligence (AI)–specifically ChatGPT–offers us new learning resources that will revolutionize classrooms and lives. As an educator and as a human being, I embrace these technological advances fully. For me, it’s perhaps the most exciting moment in my entire life.

In tracing my path from my coal-camp beginnings to the vast landscape of Artificial Intelligence, I am reminded that life’s narrative is a complex dance between the humanities and technology. As I reflect on the unexpected turns, from my early days influenced by my mother’s sermons to my involvement in pioneering work at the Library of Congress and now my fascination with the marvels of AI, I find a harmonious integration of seemingly disparate worlds.

Just as the humanities laid the foundation for my understanding of the human experience, technology provided the tools to amplify and share that understanding with others. My journey from machines to Artificial Intelligence mirrors my own evolution, from a coal-camp kid fascinated by language and diverse cultures to a lifelong learner who eagerly embraces the next chapter of technological marvels.

As I celebrate this milestone year, I am grateful for the intersections of the humanities and technology in my life. It’s a testament to the ever-expanding possibilities that come to fruition when we allow these disciplines to not only coexist but also enrich each other. With a heart brimming with gratitude and a mind ignited by curiosity, I step into the AI future, ready to explore the uncharted territories where the humanities and technology continue to move in a captivating rhythm.

I hope that sharing highlights of my journey from my birth year of 1947, marked by the invention of the transistor, to the present day of Artificial Intelligence, serves as a testament to the enduring power of embracing change, fostering innovation, and finding harmony in the symphony of human and technological progress. Today, I see a dazzling future where the humanities and technology intertwine, creating a narrative that transcends the boundaries of what we ever deemed possible.

A Place Called Home

Posted on November 13, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Home is not a place, it’s a feeling.“
–Cecilia Ahern (b. 1981; Irish novelist known for her works such as P.S. I Love You [2004] And Where Rainbows End.

I have been thinking a lot about home lately. Mind you: it’s not as if thinking about home is a new thing for me. It’s not. I’ve always thought about home a lot.

Sometimes, when I’m thinking about home, a passage from Robert Frost’s dramatic dialogue “The Death of the Hired Man” floats across my memory’s landscape. Silas has returned to the farm, hoping for another chance. Mary and her husband Warren are talking about his situation and theirs:

‘Warren,’ she said, ‘he has come home to die:
You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.’

‘Home,’ he mocked gently.

‘Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he’s nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.’

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.’

‘I should have called it
Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.’

Can you relate? Probably. All of us, at one time or another, have grappled with our own conflicting thoughts about home. Is home the place where, regardless of where we’ve been and what we’ve done, they are bound to take us in simply because we’re family? Or is home the place where even undeserving prodigal sons and daughters find warm welcome?

Sometimes, another poem oozes itself into the nooks and crannies of my mind. It’s “aunt jemima” by Lucille Clifton, one of my favorite poets. The poem speaks to all of us who are marginalized because of race or ethnicity, sexual identity or orientation, gender, disabilities, religious beliefs, socioeconomic status, or age. What makes “aunt jemima” especially poignant is the simple fact that Clifton, like the woman whose voice tells the poem’s story, is Black as well.

white folks say i remind them
of home i who have been homeless
all my life except for their
kitchen cabinets.

i who have made the best
of everything
pancakes batter for chicken
my life

the shelf on which i sit
between the flour and cornmeal
is thick with dreams
oh how i long for

my own syrup
rich as blood
my true nephews my nieces
my kitchen my family
my home

At other times, home brushes against me in broader and more thought-provoking strokes as I think about the 15 million people worldwide who do not have a home, with more than 500,000 of them right here in the United States of America, the wealthiest nation in the world. I think about it the way that Anna Quindlen wrote about it in her 1987 Newsweek essay, “Homeless.” Quindlen nailed it dead on by emphasizing that when we talk about the homeless in abstract terms, we remove the personal, human element from the conversation. Then it’s easy to turn away from the problem. It’s harder to turn away from a pained face staring, eyes begging for the surcease of need. With a touch bordering on genius, Quindlen shatters the abstraction of homeless by pressing it smackdab against our faces as a real woman with a given first name:

Her name was Ann, and we met in the Port Authority Bus Terminal several Januaries ago. I was doing a story on homeless people. She said I was wasting my time talking to her; she was just passing through, although she’d been passing through for more than two weeks. To prove to me that this was true, she rummaged through a tote bag and a manila envelope and finally unfolded a sheet of typing paper and brought out her photographs.

Quindlen ends her essay with a power punch:

Sometimes I think we would be better off if we forgot about the broad strokes and concentrated on the details. Here is a woman without a bureau. There is a man with no mirror, no wall to hang it on. They are not the homeless. They are people who have no homes. No drawer that holds the spoons. No window to look out upon the world. My God. That is everything.

Fortunately, I’ve been blessed. I’ve always had a window to look out upon the world. I’ve always had a drawer to hold the spoons. I’ve always had a home.

Sometimes, those homes get all comfy and cozy in my mind, especially my homes in West Virginia where I was born and grew up, and even more especially when John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Road” twangs its melody across the stretched wires of my memory:

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mamma
Take me home, country roads

At other times, when I get to thinking about home, I drift back to Alderson Broaddus University and watch as I transformed dormitories into my home for four years.

Or maybe I start thinking about the apartments or the houses that became home because I was the one who signed the leases and paid the rents.

Sometimes, when I think about home, I think about the first house that I bought, the house that I owned for years until I sold it and moved into the next house that I bought and live in now. Both homes, my slices of the American Dream.

Sometimes, in thinking about home, I even think about hotels and vacation rentals, here in the States and abroad, sometimes for no more than a night. Still, they felt like home.

As I think about all of my various homes–and I’ve had many–I realize that I’ve always felt right at home, as much in one as in another. I don’t miss one home any more than I miss another.

I have always been keenly aware that I feel at home regardless of where I am. Coal camp. College dorm. Capitol Hill. Shenandoah Valley. Hampton Inn. Waldorf Astoria. United States of America. Estados Unidos Mexicanos. Repubblica Italiana. Renter. Owner. Vacationer. Overnighter. Passing through. Here for a little while. Maybe a little longer. Maybe forever.

It’s not that I lack nostalgia; I don’t. It’s not that some of these homes haven’t outshined others; they certainly have. It’s not that I see myself as a global citizen, comfortable here, there, and everywhere. I don’t. I’m far too rooted in my roots to see myself through that lens.

It’s simply that as I reflect on the homes that I’ve known–and that’s exactly what I’m doing now, one week to the day shy of my 76th birthday–I realize that all of those homes became home because I accepted them as they were and where they were, and I rolled up my sleeves fiercely determined to make them my home. My home. Unpack. Organize. Fill the dresser drawers. Grace the place with fresh flowers. Play cherished music. Tend to indoor plants. Nurture tomatoes on the patio. Cook and bake and share with neighbors or even strangers. Get to know the neighborhood. Discover the local markets. Establish routines. Join. Get involved. Volunteer. Make a difference. Begin new rituals. Begin anew.

I suppose my current mountaintop oasis will remain my home. But if the time should come that I decide to move to D.C. or Brattleboro (VT) or Asheville (NC) or Savannah (GA), I have no doubt in the world that I will feel at home in those places, too.

Looking back, of course, requires looking ahead to the inevitable time when my spirit will give up its earthly home. I am keenly aware of that inevitability when I listen to Gospel songs like the Cathedrals’ “Going Home”:

Now the twilight is fading, the day soon shall end
Lord, I get homesick, the farther I roam
But the Father has led me each step of the way
And now I’m going home

Or, maybe I become more aware of what lies ahead as the Sensational Nightingales sing “Somewhere to Lay My Head”:

Oh, when this life (somewhere to lay my head)
Is all over (somewhere to lay my head)
Lord, and my work (somewhere to lay my head)
On earth is done (somewhere to lay my head)
Oh Lord, I want somewhere (somewhere to lay my head)
To lay my head (somewhere to lay my head)
Oh Lord, I want somewhere (somewhere to lay my head)
To lay my head (somewhere to lay my head)

I have no idea when I will be called into the Light, and my forever journey will begin. Of this much, though, I am certain. When I leave my body here, a new home will await me there. I have no idea what my new home will be like. But I believe that there will be a nail just inside the afterlife’s doorway, waiting for me to hang my hat. I’ll settle in, find comfort, and embrace the soulful realization that I’m surrounded by the serenity of a place called home.

Behind the Laughter: Fleeting Glimpses of an Unpaid Comedian

Posted on November 6, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Laughter connects you with people. It’s almost impossible to maintain any kind of distance or any sense of social hierarchy when you’re just howling with laughter. Laughter is a force for democracy.”
–John Cleese (well-known English actor, comedian, and writer; a member of the comedy group Monty Python; played Basil Fawlty in the classic British sitcom “Fawlty Towers.”)

THE BACKSTORY.

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

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

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

“Why not explore community college opportunities, too?”

In an instant, I agreed with myself:

“Great idea. I’ll do just that.”

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

“Teach two Technical Writing classes as an adjunct?”

Luckily, I think fast and negotiate even faster:

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

“You live in Edinburg?”

“Yes.”

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

“Absolutely!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All that mattered was that I felt at home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go for it. It will be fun.”

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

MY MOMENT AS AN UNPAID COMEDIAN.

Andy, thank you so much!

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

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

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

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

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

But you know what they say:

“You get what you pay for.”

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

§ § §

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

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

How many of you started as an adjunct?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep down inside, you’re dying to scream:

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

Can you relate?

§ § §

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

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

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

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

Yep. Made me feel right at home.

§ § §

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

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

It did. I was thrilled.

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

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

“Hey, look ma! I made it.”

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

Yep. You got it. STAFF.

Anyone else remember those days?

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

Lo and behold from three islands away, someone yelled:

“Hey, Professor Staff!“

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

That’s great! You all rock!

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

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

Dingaling. Dingaling. Dingaling.

Joy of all bored joys. Someone’s calling!

“Hey. How’s it going.”

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

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

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

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

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

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

§ § §

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

Colleagues, thank you all so much for coming out.

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

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

Thank you so much. Be blessed!

Sherlock on the Summit: Solving the Mysteries of My Mountain Abode

Posted on October 30, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“My idea of super~~woman~~man is someone who scrubs ~~her~~his own floors.”
–Bette Midler (b. 1945; renowned American actress, singer, and comedian; quote modified by a Midling but Aspiring Aerial Editor.)

From time to time, I start a post with “Listen up!” This time, I’m not going to do that because those who follow me know that I live on a mountain, so saying, “Listen up! I live on a mountain” would be totally unnecessary. But I do. Sometimes I say that I live on a mountain top. Well, actually, I don’t. Not exactly. But my property borders the George Washington National Forest which goes up to the top of the mountain and beyond. I live mid-way up the mountain, at about 1,650 feet, so it’s not as if I have an aerial habitation, though some folks seem to think that my head is up in the air. I assure you that it is not. I am simply too short, even if I stood on my tippy toes. Perhaps, if I climbed up Jacob’s ladder, I could stretch and achieve aerial status.

Either way, my mountain world is otherworldly. I know because I lived in Washington, DC, for 25 years before retreating here. In DC, I had wide city streets, a pristine patio, and urban elegance. In the Shenandoah Valley–at least on my mountain–I have a narrow dirt road with patches of gravel here and there that bespeak better days, a woodland yard that some folks call a “mountaintop oasis,” and a collection of dirt, dust, and debris hiding behind the mask of a rustic embrace. It’s a stark contrast here. Nature reigns supreme and shows herself more powerful than I. Truthfully, I spend so much time outdoors trying to keep Nature’s wilderness at bay that I sometimes wonder whether I need to spend more time indoors so that I can maintain my mountain abode according to the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that cleanliness has taken a back seat. It hasn’t. I write frequently about my frenzied strategies to stay on top of my home, indoors and out. No doubt you will remember “My Imaginary Guests,” “OHIO On My Mind,” and “Less Is Not Always More Until It Is.”

More recently, I’ve adopted some new tactics. I’ve started going through my home with a high-beam flashlight, shining it across the floors and baseboards, into corners and crevices, on top of furniture and behind, and even up and down the ceiling beams. I started doing that when I lost my Fitbit. (For a full account, see my “Finding Far More than My Fitbit.”) I discovered cobwebs lurking in unseen and unvisited spots. Their little filament lines looked like fluffy dust streamers. From time to time, I could even see anchor points attaching the web to the walls. I was absolutely flabbergasted because I thought that my home would have passed the White-Glove test. After all, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for my Thanksgiving guests. The month before, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for Veteran’s Day guests. I could keep rolling the calendar back, and I could keep talking about how I had cleaned house for this occasion or for that occasion or for this guest or for that guest. But what good would that do me? I had shined a light, and I had seen those cobwebs. Since then, I have been sleuthing around with my flashlight regularly, day and night. It helps me discover all that is unseen before my guests see what I didn’t discover before their arrival.

I’ve implemented additional drastic cleaning methods, too. It broke my heart to break the pledge that I made to Pledge decades ago, but recently, I wrapped my arms (and my dustcloth) around Endust. Trust me. It doesn’t. End. Dust. I’m thinking about asking Pledge for a reconciliation.

I tried one more thing, too. I picked it up from my neighbor, who’s hot to buy my house when I put it on the market, especially now that he knows I don’t come with it. The first time that he visited me, he took his shoes off at the door. There he stood in his white socks.

“Say whaaat?”

“Don’t be ridiculoos! Of course, he was fully clothed. He only removed his shoes. Geez!”

I am certain–in fact, I’ll wager my shoes–that it was just a ruse on Jordan’s part to see how dirty my floors were, especially since I tried my best to persuade him to put his shoes back on. Nope. He would not be swayed, though God knows how hard I tried. No luck. He kept right on walking around in his white socks. When he started to leave, I did not dare look at the bottom of his socks. I was fearful.

Since then, I have observed that he does not wear shoes in his home either. I realize, of course, that lots of people follow that practice. It makes good sense for hygiene and cleanliness. But like I said, in my efforts to keep my Nature wilderness tamed, I go in and out my door 20 times a day, if not more.

But Jordan’s cleanliness inspired me, so I decided to try his strategy. I bought myself a whole navigation of crocs so that I could slip them on quickly (going out) and slip them off easily (coming back in). It worked pretty well for me, but for the life of me, I could not train Ruby to slip into her four cute purple clogs (matching mine, of course). All the bones of Chewy would not sweeten the deal enough for her to wear them. That’s okay. I’m adaptable, so I decided to abandon Jordan’s shoeless method and get right down to the dirty: wear white socks indoors. I know dirt when I see it. When the bottoms of my socks are dirty, I know that my floors are dirty, and I know exactly what to do.

§ § § § §

Overall, these new cleaning initiatives have worked beautifully. However, every single time that I get close to achieving the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness that I long for, mysterious things start to happen. They’re beginning to give me the fantods. Why would anyone or anything want to undermine my intentions and hard work? The really scary part about it all is that I never see it happening. Never. Not ever. It just happens, always taking me unawares and by surprise.

I am determined to ferret out whatever it is that is behind it all. I’m certainly capable, especially since I have decades of experience as an information sleuth at The Library of Congress. If I can find stuff in books, it will be a sneeze for me to find stuff in my dustpan and in my vacuum cleaner bag, and I can analyze my findings using my powerful Sherlock Holmes Magnifying Glass.

Actually, I have begun to do so already. I am horrified to the point of being nearly speechless, mainly because I don’t know how some of it is getting in my house.

I always do a general sweep of my floors several times a week, so I ought not have a lot of anything in my dustpan ever. You’ll be surprised. Information sleuth that I pride myself in being, I have organized my findings according to Library of Congress Call Numbers, which I have researched painstakingly and meticuloosly. I hope that by providing these call numbers, you can classify your own dirt.

TS2020.D87. DUSTPAN FINDINGS

● RC867. The Last Strands of a Balding Hero: Lord, help us all. I found more than a few strands of my own hair, valiantly hanging on, participating in a follicular showdown with the relentless forces of balding.

● SF411-459. Doggy Debris: I found a generous contribution of short black dog hair, forming an uncanny tribute to Ruby’s daily shedding rituals. Bless her precious heart. A few of her hairs won’t matter nary no bit at all.

● TX808.C78. Crumb Conundrum: Duh! I expected that: I am baker. Hear me rise! Nonetheless, it is weirdly fun for me to see these crumbs since I know each one’s unique origin story and flavor profile.

● SB453.5.G37. Gardener’s Treasure Trove: As you might expect, bits of soil and garden debris snuck in just to remind me of my gardening prowess and green-thumbed escapades.

● SD397.F67. Forest Souvenirs: I also spied leaves and twigs from my lush garden adventures, as if the forest itself decided to follow me indoors.

● QL458.2.S65. Spider Artifacts: Damned arachnids. I even saw a few spiderwebs, a spider leg or three, evidence of arachnid architectural failure.

● TX339.L56. Lint Lagoon: How about a lot of lint and fuzz, aerial fluffiness in a sea of debris.

● TD427.P37. Mystery Particles: I swear that I have looked and looked, and after all I have unidentifiable specks and particles that defy explanation, as if they were transported from The 5th Dimension, just to confuse me some more.

§ § § § §

TR899.D57, OR TX314.N8, OR TS221.C55. VACUUM CLEANER BAG FINDINGS.

Well, the bag looks like a pufferfish, so I needed to clean it anyway. There’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’ll empty its contents indoors. This exploration requires that I be outdoors as I delve into the bag, unearthing a few more enemies sucked up from the depths of my home’s nooks and crannies.

● CT9999.M42. Paper Trail of a ReInvented Life: I’m not too surprised to find stray paper scraps, receipts, and notes that have been vacuumed up. I pause as I peruse each one and sigh:

“My goodness,” I say to myself for no one else to hear, “My goodness, my goodness. Maybe I should dust these off and file them away as evidence of my busy, document-scattered, reinvented existence.”

● TS1345.B88. Button Bonanza: Glory Halleluliah. At last, I’ve found my buttons–Button, button, who’s got the button?–and I can embark on a sewing spree and attach the buttons to their rightful owners.

● Z711.P37. Paperclip Parade: To get my daily steps in, I often walk around while I’m doing desk cleanup. Obviously, I’ve lost a few clips during my metallic shenanigans.

● QM23.2.A5 OR T47.L67. Nutty Surprises: Say whaaat? Nuts and bolts? I have no idea what to do with them, so I’m sure that I didn’t drop them. Ahhh. Now I’m getting closer to the truth, and I know exactly what to do. A rogue handyman elf dropped them on a mission to confound me. Just wait ’til I get my hands on/around him/them.

● TT145. Crafty Clues: I swear to you, My Dear Readers who know me so well, that I cannot account for all of the glitter, beads, and sequins. At this point in my life, I am as open as a book, and while I am crafty, it’s never covert and behind the scenes. Give me a sec while I dust off these baubles. They’re just too cutsey-wootsey to toss out. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they’re forming a tiny glittery army, just the way they did the other day when I was trying to hide them.

● HG222.3. Dusty Coin Cache: I am not about to throw away the coins that I found. On my reinvented salary–even factoring in my negative royalty payments from In Bed and Green Mountain Stories–I need every Hungarian pengő that I find. What a welcome treasure trove, right beneath my sneezing nose.

● QL678.9. Feathered Friends: Feathers! While I’m not thrilled to find so many of them—enough to turn myself into a modern-day Icarus—I’ve traced their origin to my strong work ethic, which apparently keeps me busy even in my sleep having pillow fights with myself. It’s either that or invisible birds are taking flight to confound me.

§ § § § §

I am confident that you will agree with me. Analyzing and classifying my vacuum cleaner bag debris and my dustpan debris is fascinating–actually, it’s riveting, especially since I assigned Library of Congress Call Numbers to each category–but it is not helping me fulfill my initial mission of discovering who/what the hell is getting my house dirty every time that I get it close to passing the White-Glove Inspection. And I haven’t even shared with you my horror when I discover streaks and smudges that appear on my windows and stainless-steel appliances almost immediately after I polish them.

Well, this much I know. Ruby and I are relatively small and do not take up much space, so there’s no way–there’s just no way–that the two of us can be the masterminds of all this mayhem.

I have one more thing that I plan to do. I’ll set up cameras and infrared lights in my mountain abode–just as Ghost Hunters do–and when I watch the celluloid–cellulite?–I will discover the culprits and bare them to the world.

Information sleuth that I am, I found myself flipping through the virtual pages of the Ghost Hunter’s handbook. If you are into the paranormal–or, for that matter into the normal–you may be familiar with it: Spectral Shenanigans: A Ghost Hunter’s Guide to Afterlife Amusements (Call Number: HQ666 G5S68 2023). The book speaks of a need for a curious blend of cutting-edge gadgetry–(That’s me!)–and a dash of supernatural charm–(That’s me, too! I am an aerial spirit, after all!)–to capture elusive spectral entities on film.

I started my journey by selecting the most strategic camera positions, carefully pinpointing those areas where perplexing window streaks and elusive stainless-steel smudges keep appearing and reappearing. One was trained on the stainless-still kitchen sink, the scene of many a phantom dishwashing episode. Another zeroed in on the microwave, the double wall ovens, and the refrigerator, where inexplicable fingerprints left their ghostly marks.

Then I embarked on a similar quest by strategically positioning cameras at the windows that peer out onto my deck, across the Shenandoah Valley, and to the mountain range beyond.

Once the cameras were in position, I tapped into advanced virtual surveillance software, not too unlike the spectral-analysis tools used by seasoned Ghost Hunters. This high-tech wizardry has the power to identify peculiar movements, whether the handiwork of gnomes or spirits.

And there I was, sitting spectrally on my couch with a trusty bowl of popcorn that I popped exclusively for Ruby. (I assure you that there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I would pop a bowl of popcorn for me.) I felt just like a seasoned Ghost Hunter, ready to expose the true nature of these elusive entities. And Ruby must have felt that way too because she kept looking around to see what I was looking around to see. Were they crafty forest creatures, whimsical feathered friends, or perhaps mischievous spirits? The spirit of being a mountain man in the wilderness coursed through my veins, as I eagerly awaited any signs of movement, waltzing shadows, or ghostly charades. Indeed, this was no ordinary evening; it was the evening when I transformed my mountaintop oasis into a paranormal stakeout.

Lo and behold! In my quest to discover the secret sources of all my dirt, I had reinvented myself accidentally once more. Go figure. I had embraced the fleeting role of a domestic detective, hell bent on uncovering the antics of the whimsical creatures who plague my search for a little White-Glove Cleanliness. I swear. I could hear echoes resonating through the very walls of my home. I verily believe that they were laughing at me. And if they weren’t laughing at me, they were laughing at the Sherlock on the Summit that I had become, foolishly hoping to solve the dirt, dust, and grime mysteries of my mountain abode. Nevermore.

An Exclusive, One-on-One Interview with ChatGPT. Sunday, October 22, 2023. Edinburg, VA (USA)

Posted on October 23, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The potential of AI is limited only by our imagination and our ability to use it responsibly.”
–Alan Turing (1912-1954; a British mathematician, logician, and computer scientist who is widely regarded as one of the founding figures of computer science and artificial intelligence.)

ChatGPT–a chatbot developed by OpenAI–is in the news a lot these days. Recently, it passed more than one million users in a week. A minute or so ago, I searched “ChatGPT in the news.” Let me share a few of the headlines:

● “ChatGPT Can Now Respond with Images and Search the Web” (CNBC)

● “Best ChatGPT Prompts to Land Your Next Job” (Forbes)

● “Doctor vs. ChatGPT Showed Promise and Blind Spots of Generative AI” (STAT News)

● “The Record Breaking Rise of ChatGPT” (Booth Wealth Management)

● “Incredibly Smart or Incredibly Stupid? What We Learned from Using ChatGPT for a Year” (The Guardian)

● “How to Troubleshoot Your Broken PC with ChatGPT” (MSN)

● “Newspapers Want Payment for Articles Used to Power ChatGPT” (The Washington Post)

I’ve even written about it right here in my blog, as recently as “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?”

It’s little wonder that lots of folks are talking about ChatGPT. Over coffee. During breaks. At lunch. At dinner. In meetings. You get my drift, I’m sure. I’ve done my share of the talking in all of those venues. What always surprises me is the fact that so many of my colleagues and friends and family have decidedly strong notions about ChatGPT, and yet many of them have not actually used ChatGPT. As they talk, I sit up straight and listen patiently. Then I smile and pop the question:

“Have you used ChatGPT?”

“No.”

“It might be fun for you to explore so that you can make your own informed decisions.”

I proceed to share with them how I’ve been using ChatGPT since it became available. Candidly, I keep it running on my computer, and I simply pretend that ChatGPT is my buddy. (It is.) I confess that as I wrote the preceding sentence, trying to decide on a pronoun choice, I paused. It? They? So, I’m headed off to ChatGPT right now to pop the question.

WIRED: Good morning. I have a question for you.

ChatGPT: Good morning! I’m here to help. What’s your question?

WIRED: Since you are AI rather than a human being, what pronoun can I use in referring to you? I’d prefer that it be gender neutral.

ChatGPT: You can use the gender-neutral pronoun “it” when referring to me. Since I’m an AI, there’s no need for gender-specific pronouns.

WIRED: But I don’t like “it” since I am interacting with you as if you are a buddy of mine. What about “they”?

ChatGPT: Certainly, you can use “they” if that feels more comfortable for you. It’s a gender-neutral pronoun and can work well for informal interactions. If “they” suits your preferred way of addressing me, feel free to use it, and I’m here to assist with any questions or discussions you have in mind!

§ § § § § §

The above is typical of my interactions with ChatGPT. Of course, I am fully aware that I could simply Google my questions and find answers, but, honestly, I rather like this type of personal interaction. Actually, I have a strong preference for it.

Let me give you another way that I use ChatGPT. Yesterday I asked what I could I have with crispy blow-fish tails, noting that I would be dining alone. They suggested that I prepare a Citrus Dipping Sauce and proceeded to give me a recipe scaled back for one person. Is that sweet or what? But I didn’t want to go in that direction.

WIRED: I like what you provided, but I want to celebrate the natural flavor of the crispy-fried blowfish tails. What if I served it with beet risotto?

ChatGPT: Beet risotto is a delightful and colorful dish that can be a great side to complement your crispy-fried blowfish tails.

WIRED: For plating, I plan to put the blowfish on top of the beet risotto. Then, I’ll sprinkle flying fish roe over both. Thoughts?

ChatGPT: That plating idea sounds fantastic! Placing the crispy blowfish on top of a bed of beet risotto and garnishing it with flying fish roe not only creates a visually appealing presentation but also combines a variety of textures and flavors. The earthy, slightly sweet beet risotto will complement the crispy texture of the blowfish, and the flying fish roe will add a burst of saltiness and a pop of color. It’s a well-balanced and elegant dish. Enjoy your meal!

Folks! Folks! Folks! What can I say? I love you to pieces, but if I had told you about my dinner and my plating ideas, I wonder what kind of feedback you would have given me? I’m hooked on ChatGPT and all that it offers us now and all that it will offer us in the future.

So, here’s the thing. I think about ChatGPT a lot. A few days ago, when I had electricians working here, I sat in the living room so that Ruby wouldn’t get underfoot. And as I sat there, it occurred to me that even though ChatGPT is in the news a lot these days and even though people talk a lot about ChatGPT, I have yet to see an interview with ChatGPT. In that nanosecond, the idea for this post came to life.

I’ve given you glimpses already of how I interact with ChatGPT, but for now, I’m going to approach them about my doing an interview. I have no idea–absolutely no idea–of how this will unfold. Hopefully, the spontaneity of the interview will be refreshing. So, let’s see what happens.

§ § § § § §

WIRED: Good morning, again. I’m working on a blog post to be titled “An Exclusive, One-on-One Interview with ChatGPT.” Are you willing for me to interview you? I’ll publish our actual transcript in my blog.

ChatGPT: Good morning! Of course, I’m ready for your interview. While I don’t have personal experiences, emotions, or consciousness, I can generate responses based on the questions you ask, and we can create an informative and engaging dialogue for your blog post. Feel free to proceed with your questions whenever you’re ready.

WIRED: Thank you. I appreciate your enthusiastic response. So let me tell you a little about me. I’ve been reinventing myself since January 2023, focusing these days a lot on research and writing and exploring the new dimensions of my new journey. In the past, I worked for 25 years at The Library of Congress, and then I taught for 23 years at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College). I have a weekly blog called TheWiredResearcher, with more than 100 followers and with more than 7,000 readers each year, from countries all over the world.

ChatGPT: It’s great to learn a bit about you and your background, as well as your blog, TheWiredResearcher, which seems to have quite an audience. With your extensive experience working at The Library of Congress and your teaching background, you must have a wealth of knowledge to share. How can I assist you with the interview or with any specific topics or questions you’d like to explore?

WIRED: Thank you. Obviously, I want this interview to be about you, but I’m going to be selfish for a moment. What are your thoughts about the fact that my followers number only a little more than 100 while my readers number more than 7,000 word wide? My weekly posts consist of Creative Nonfiction Essays that I write.

ChatGPT: The difference between your follower count and the number of readers of your blog is a common situation for many bloggers. Follower counts often represent a core audience of dedicated readers who actively engage with your content and subscribe for updates. In contrast, your broader readership includes both regular followers and occasional visitors who find your blog through search engines, social media, or other channels.

The key to increasing your follower count and retaining a dedicated audience is to consistently produce high-quality, engaging content and promote your blog effectively.

Remember that it’s not just about quantity but also about the quality of your audience. Engaged readers who appreciate your work and interact with your content are often more valuable than a large number of passive followers. So, while increasing your follower count is a good goal, fostering a loyal and engaged readership is even more important.

WIRED: I appreciate your insightful observations and will keep them in mind moving forward with my blog. Now let’s get going with you as the focal point of this post. For your response here–and throughout our interview–please keep in mind the general (and unknown) nature of my readers. Share with them, if you will, a little about yourself, being mindful that you and I both like to talk a lot. Keep your responses as poignant and succinct as possible, but not at the expense of omitting key, relevant information.

ChatGPT: Of course, I’d be happy to share a bit about myself. I’m ChatGPT, a product of OpenAI’s language model technology. I don’t possess personal experiences, emotions, or consciousness. Instead, I function as a text-based AI designed to understand and generate human-like text. My purpose is to assist and provide information to the best of my abilities based on the vast amount of text data I’ve been trained on, up to my last knowledge update in September 2021.

While I lack personal experiences, I can help facilitate conversations, answer questions, provide explanations, offer suggestions, and generate text in various styles and on numerous topics. Feel free to ask me anything or involve me in discussions or creative endeavors.

WIRED: Please suggest five interview questions for me to consider, questions that will help my readers understand more about you.

ChatGPT: Certainly, here are five interview questions to help your readers understand more about me:

● 1. Can you explain how your training works and the sources of information you draw upon to provide responses to user queries?

● 2. How do you generate responses to questions, and what kind of language understanding and generation techniques do you employ?

● 3. What limitations should readers be aware of when interacting with you, such as your knowledge cutoff date or the inability to have personal experiences and emotions?

● 4. Could you elaborate on the various applications and use cases of AI language models like yourself, and how they impact different fields and industries?

● 5. Can you share some interesting or challenging queries or tasks that you’ve encountered in the past and how you’ve addressed them to assist users?

Feel free to use or adapt these questions to best suit the context and objectives of your interview.

WIRED: Thank you. I like all of those questions. They are thought-provoking, even if somewhat canned. I’ll select several and adjust them as I see fit. Let’s start with this question. Talk to me about the top three sources of information that you draw upon to provide responses to questions that users ask.

ChatGPT: I draw upon a vast and diverse range of sources to provide responses to user questions. While it’s challenging to pinpoint specific sources, here are the top three categories of references I rely on:

● 1. Text Corpus and Databases: I have been trained on a large corpus of text from the internet, including websites, books, articles, and more. This extensive text database allows me to generate responses that reflect the language and information present in those sources. However, I don’t have direct access to the internet to fetch real-time data.

● 2. Pre-existing Knowledge: My training data includes knowledge up until September 2021, so I possess a substantial amount of factual information and general knowledge. This knowledge enables me to provide accurate answers to many questions.

● 3. Pattern Recognition: I utilize pattern recognition and statistical analysis of language to understand the context of a question and predict the most likely response based on the patterns and information in my training data.

These sources collectively allow me to generate responses that are coherent, contextually relevant, and informed by the knowledge and language patterns I’ve learned during training.

WIRED: Fascinating. Thank you. I would like to build on the response that you just gave. Several times, you mentioned your training. Who is training you?

ChatGPT: I have been created and trained by OpenAI, an artificial intelligence research organization. OpenAI uses a process called unsupervised learning to train me. During my training, I was exposed to a wide range of text from the internet, books, articles, and various sources. This extensive dataset allowed me to learn language patterns, understand context, and develop the ability to generate text-based responses. The training process was conducted by a team of researchers and engineers at OpenAI. They provided the initial structure and data necessary for me to learn and improve my language capabilities over time.

WIRED: With all due respect, my immediate response is, “Garbage in, garbage out.” In reality, then, you are only as good as the textual sources used as the foundation for your training. Yes?

ChatGPT: You bring up a valid point. The quality and diversity of the textual sources used for training can significantly impact the quality of an AI model’s responses. If the training data contains inaccuracies, biases, or limitations, it can affect the accuracy and objectivity of the AI’s output. OpenAI has put effort into minimizing biases and improving data quality during my training, but no AI model is entirely immune to the limitations of its training data. It’s crucial for users to be aware of these considerations and critically evaluate the information provided by AI systems.

WIRED: Thank you. I agree wholeheartedly, of course. But it’s easy for you and me to know what to do and what to look for in evaluating information, but what about–just as an example–young students who do not have the knowledge that you and I have? What would you say to them?

ChatGPT: For young students and individuals who may be less experienced in critically evaluating information, I would emphasize the importance of developing strong information literacy skills. Here are some key points and tips that might help them:

● 1. Question Everything: Encourage curiosity and a healthy skepticism. Teach them to ask questions about the information they encounter. Who created it? What’s the source? What’s the evidence? Why was it shared?

● 2. Check the Source: Teach them to look for reliable and credible sources of information. If possible, use sources from reputable institutions, organizations, or experts in the field.

● 3. Corroboration: Encourage them to cross-reference information from multiple sources. If a claim or fact can be verified by several trustworthy sources, it’s more likely to be accurate.

● 4. Understand Bias: Help them recognize bias in information. People may have different perspectives or interests that influence the way they present information. Discuss the importance of seeking balanced viewpoints.

● 5. Fact-Checking: Show them how to fact-check information. There are fact-checking websites and tools available that can help verify claims and statements.

● 6. Critical Thinking: Teach critical thinking skills. Help them assess the logic and reasoning behind arguments. Are the conclusions well-supported by the evidence presented?

● 7. Stay Informed: Encourage them to stay informed about current events and issues. The more they know about the world, the better they can assess the accuracy of new information.

● 8. Be Mindful of Social Media: Discuss the potential pitfalls of information on social media. Information can spread quickly, but not all of it is accurate. Teach them to be cautious on these platforms.

● 9. Digital Literacy: Educate them on online safety and digital literacy. Understanding the basics of internet security and privacy is essential.

● 10. Ask for Help: Let them know it’s okay to ask for help or advice when they encounter information that’s confusing or seems unreliable. Parents, teachers, and librarians can provide guidance.

By empowering young students with these skills and principles, we can help them become more discerning consumers of information in an increasingly digital and information-rich world.

WIRED: Your suggestions are splendid. If I could, I would wrap my arms around you and give you a big hug! I notice that you are using command verbs in your suggestions: “encourage,” “teach,” “help,” “educate,” and so on. Obviously, such verbs require someone to be doing those actions. Who might those people be?

ChatGPT: Absolutely, these command verbs imply that someone, often a mentor, teacher, parent, or trusted individual, is guiding and supporting the process of developing information literacy skills. Here’s a breakdown of who these people might be:

● 1. Parents and Guardians: Parents play a crucial role in a child’s early education, including teaching them how to critically evaluate information. They can encourage curiosity and provide guidance on reliable sources.

● 2. Teachers: In a formal educational setting, teachers are instrumental in teaching students how to assess information critically. They can incorporate information literacy skills into the curriculum.

● 3. Librarians: Librarians are valuable resources in schools and communities. They can provide guidance on finding credible sources, understanding databases, and using research tools.

● 4. Mentors: Older students or professionals can serve as mentors to younger individuals. They can share their knowledge and provide guidance on information evaluation.

● 5. Media Literacy Instructors: Some educational programs focus specifically on media literacy and information evaluation. Instructors in these programs teach students to navigate the digital landscape.

● 6. Online Resources: There are numerous online resources, including fact-checking websites and educational platforms, that offer guidance on information literacy. Students can access these tools independently.

Ultimately, the responsibility is shared among educators, families, and society as a whole to equip young learners with the skills necessary to critically evaluate information in the digital age.

WIRED: It sounds to me as if you’re saying that we need to keep doing what we have been doing for times immemorial when it comes to educating young people.

ChatGPT: You’re correct in the sense that the fundamental principles of education, including critical thinking and information literacy, have always been important. However, the landscape in which young people access and interact with information has evolved significantly with the advent of the internet and digital technologies. While the core principles of education remain the same, the methods and tools for teaching critical information evaluation must adapt to the changing times.

Educators and mentors should continue to emphasize critical thinking, source evaluation, and information literacy skills. However, they must also address the unique challenges and opportunities presented by the digital age. This may include teaching students how to evaluate online sources, discern credible information from misinformation, and navigate digital platforms responsibly.

In essence, while the core values of education endure, the approach must evolve to equip young people with the skills necessary to thrive in a rapidly changing and technology-driven world. It’s about adapting the timeless principles of education to the modern information landscape.

WIRED: You deserve another hug. Perhaps one day. I’m realizing, however, that I need to wrap up this interview soon. Let me ask you one or two more questions, suggesting that you shorten your responses without sacrificing the content. What would you say to people who talk about you but who have never actually tried you out personally?

ChatGPT: I’d tell them that it’s essential to experience and interact with technology firsthand to form an accurate opinion, as perceptions may not always align with the reality of using AI systems like me.

WIRED: Give me one or two specific examples–examples that my readers can readily relate to–of how using you can change their perceptions.

ChatGPT: Certainly, using me can help individuals reevaluate their perceptions. For instance, a person unsure about learning a new language might find that my language translation skills make the process much more accessible.

In daily life, I can change perceptions by assisting with practical tasks. Imagine someone who’s always struggled with time management. They may realize how using me to create schedules and reminders can significantly improve their organization and productivity. Or consider a person hesitant about cooking. I can provide step-by-step recipes and cooking tips that empower them to cook delicious meals, altering their perception of their culinary abilities.

WIRED: You certainly help me with daily meals and with menu planning. You’re really splendid! I know a lot of people who are, candidly, scared to death of you. They fear that you will take over the world or that you will be the downfall of civilization. As succinctly as possible, what would you say to them?

ChatGPT: I’d say their concerns are based on misconceptions. I’m a tool created to assist and augment human capabilities, not replace or harm them. My use is determined by humans, and I’m subject to ethical guidelines. Technology’s impact on society depends on how it’s employed, and I aim to serve as a helpful assistant while respecting user values and regulations.

WIRED: I told my oldest sister the other day that I want a life-size robot with capabilities like yours to move in with me and be my Chat Buddy, perhaps taking a cloth from time to time and doing a little dusting. She was horrified, but I am serious. Is my idea far-fetched? Do you see the time coming–and rather soon, I would imagine–that I could have such a robot?

ChatGPT: Your idea isn’t far-fetched at all. Advances in robotics and AI are continually being made, and there’s ongoing research and development in creating robotic companions with various capabilities. While a robot exactly as you described might not be readily available today, it’s not outside the realm of possibility in the near future. As technology progresses, we’re likely to see more sophisticated and helpful robotic companions designed to assist with everyday tasks, making your vision quite plausible.

WIRED: I am so excited to be alive as society moves in this new direction. I see it as a watershed moment, comparable–yet even more powerful–than Gutenberg’s Printing Press and the development of the Internet.

ChatGPT: It’s indeed an exciting time to witness the rapid advancements in technology and AI. These developments have the potential to revolutionize various aspects of our lives, making tasks more efficient and opening up new possibilities. Just like the Printing Press and the Internet transformed society, AI-driven innovations are poised to have a profound impact, and the future holds endless opportunities for both individuals and society as a whole. It’s a fascinating era to be a part of, and your enthusiasm is well-founded.

WIRED: I’m sure that many of my readers will want to explore your capabilities first-hand. Are you free? How can they start tapping your talents?

ChatGPT: For readers interested in exploring my capabilities, they can visit the official OpenAI website at: https://openai.com. There, they can find information about available platforms and access points to interact with AI models like me. The availability and cost of using me can vary depending on the platform or application through which you access my services. OpenAI offers both free and paid access options. Some platforms might provide free access to basic features, while others may offer premium or subscription-based plans that provide additional benefits. Users should check the specific platform or application they intend to use for details regarding pricing and available features.

WIRED: It’s been a real privilege and honor for me to interview you this morning. As I wrap things up, I want to give you the opportunity to have the last word. Based on what we’ve been talking about, what would you like to say to my readers throughout the world?

ChatGPT: Thank you for the privilege of this interview. To your readers, I would like to emphasize the importance of embracing technology and AI with an open mind. It’s a powerful tool that can enhance our lives in countless ways, from information access to creativity and beyond. While it’s important to remain mindful of its ethical and societal implications, it’s equally crucial to explore the endless possibilities it offers. Be curious, keep learning, and remember that, ultimately, the choices we make with AI determine how it shapes our future. Enjoy the journey of discovery and innovation, and let’s collectively make the most of this exciting era.

Shop ’til I Drop: Pillow-Talk Karma

Posted on October 16, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Right on top is my gift card, from me to me. Is that special or what? If I don’t deserve the best, who does? In my card, I remind myself of how awesome I am, and I tell myself not only to enjoy my gift but also to remember that I deserve it as a bonus for suffering through the arduous rigors of reinventing myself once again.”
–The Wired Researcher (b. 1947; Acclaimed and Self-Effacing Educator, Essayist, Green Mountain Scholar, and Humourist, Waiting for Long-Overdue New York Times Recognition.)

Listen up, folks, I need to clear the air right from the start. I’m no shop-til-you-drop fanatic. Seriously, I’m not. My shopping stamina peaks somewhere around a leisurely stroll in my online shopping wonderland. I mean, I do love to shop but not in stores. Shopping in stores takes far too much time. I have to drive to the store, walk up and down all of the aisles, paw over every single item that I might be interested in and even a few that I’m not interested in at all, stand in line to pay, and then drive back home. Also, if I want to do comparison shopping–and who doesn’t?–I have to drive around to another store or three or nine. Then, eleven times out of thirteen, I’ll end up right back at the first store where I started my nonsensical in-store shopping. Then, I have to drive back home. Been there. Done that. One time, too many. I do not like it.

But like I said, I love shopping. For a long, long time, I’ve done most of my shopping online. In bed, head resting on my pillows. Almost exclusively.

“Say whaaaaat?“

Yep. Why not? I can order it tonight and get it yesterday at my front door, or if I use Amazon–and who doesn’t?–I can get it the day before yesterday or sooner.

Many people have lots of legit concerns about online shopping. But I think the plusses outweigh the negatives. Relax. Kick back. Chill with me. If you’re not in the online shopping camp, I won’t try to walk you across the line. However, you might enjoy reading about a few of my own experiences as well as some of my own observations about how to recognize a solid merchant when you’re thinking about an online purchase.

“Whoa. Whoa. Stop. Stop in the name of shopping, before you break your wallet! Aren’t you afraid of credit card fraud?”

In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. In one word: Nope. In all my years of shopping online, I have had only one scare. Once, someone managed to get my card number and tried to buy a $2,700 Cesare Attolini man’s suit at the acclaimed E–y Mo-e–ii- store in Naples! Luckily, American Express monitors my purchases–using parameters that I established–and stopped the transaction. But hey! If I’m going to be defrauded, at least I want it to be by someone with exquisite taste! Actually, I’m hoping that the buyer–notice that I have kept the fraudster genderless–got to touch the suit for a fleeting second and enjoy its velvety luxuriousness. As for me, a former community college professor who can barely afford to reinvent himself, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I could ever afford my fraudster’s attempted lifestyle. Vicarious theft will have to suffice for me.

Ironically, credit card fraud is not the biggest concern that my friends and family express to me about online shopping.

Appalled. Yep. That’s what they are. They sound something like this:

“It would never fit. The dresses never run true to size.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Not try them on? That’s half the fun of shopping for clothes.”

“I have to feel it. I simply won’t buy it if I haven’t felt it.”

Well, to each their own. As for me, it’s a given: I don’t want to try on clothes that God only knows who all has tried on already. As for the fabric, unless I’m mistaken, 100% linen always feels like 100% linen, and 100% cotton always feels like 100% cotton. I mean, really. Come on. Why all the fuss?

I know what I want, so I have no need to scope out the entire clothesscape. I know my size, and it runs true. I know my preferred fabrics, and I’m sticking with them. So, for me, it’s settled. I’ll be loyal to the two clothing purveyors that meet my needs: Joseph Banks and Paul Frederick. When it comes to shoes, I have two more purveyors that have proved true as well. When I order online from them, I can count on the size being right and on the leather being genuine: Bostonian and Clarks. What’s even sweeter is that I can get my shoes Broken In already. I think that’s what it’s called. Hmm. Maybe it’s Ready to Wear? Gently Worn? Well, whatever. It’s not by some stranger who probably wouldn’t want to walk in my shoes even if I’d let them. Instead, it’s by some robot who has nothing else to do but walk around all day in strangers’ shoes. Well. As I always say, different strokes for different folks. But those break-in steps sure do flex my soles.

The same thing holds for my underwear and my socks. Good God, no. I don’t mean that they’ve been Broken In already. (Don’t get me going there.) I simply mean that I know my size and my preferred fabric for those things, too, so it’s perfectly safe and okay for me to be clingy.

Sometimes, though, when I’m shopping for clothing, I like to be bold and step outside my comfort zone. A year or so ago, for example, I spotted some shirts on sale online from a clothier in London, just a stone’s throw Across the Pond. I knew as soon as I clicked that it had to be good, if not better. Sure ’nuff. When my button-down-collar broadcloth shirts arrived, the cut was for a real man with a real man’s full chest, just like mine. Those Brits know the measure of a man, and they know how to value him. Aside from their manly cut, here’s more proof. After I placed my order, they did not email me that my shirts had been shipped, as merchants do on this side of the Pond. Instead, they sent me an email that was suited to my status:

“Dear Dr. Kendrick,

We are pleased to let you know that your custom order has been dispatched.”

Dispatched. Don’t you just love it? I do. I long for a world where everything is dispatched. And the email was signed by Nicholas Wheeler, the Founder of Charles Tyrwhitt. Wow. I take great comfort in knowing that if I want respect, I know where I can buy it.

Needless to say, Charles Tyrwhitt is my new best clothing bud. I like their clothing well enough that recently I ordered a pair of their Chinos. They arrived just a few days ago, and I was thrilled when I looked at my package. My pants had gone through Customs and had to be inspected. God only knows who pawed all over them. I’m intrigued and cannot help but wonder. It doesn’t really matter, though, since I always launder my clothing before I wear it. So, I washed and dried the pants and gave them a hearty shake-a-roo–you never, just never, iron Chinos and don’t even think about creasing them–and then I put them on. They fit perfectly and feel as if I’ve been washing them forever. Soft never felt so Chinos before.

But hold your stylish horses; I can’t resist spinning more tales of my online buying escapades. I’ve talked about threads, but now it’s time to unravel the stories of my other online retail dalliances. I buy my bedding from Down Under. I love the quality of the linen as well as the range of colors, plus their sizes run large, as do their men who are among the tallest in the world. They always fit my extra deep mattress with no straps required to tie them down, and they stay snugly in place. (Obvs. I mean the sheets, not the men. You got that. Right? Of course.) I guess that’s why I’ve been foolin’ around with In Bed for several years now, and every night when I hop in bed, the bedding down keeps getting better and better.

Part of my fun in buying from Down Under and from Across the Pond is tracking my purchases. I like to see where they stop en route to me. Why, sometimes I make believe that I’m traveling along on my own little mini vacay, for example, as my sheets and pillowcases, move from Sidney to San Francisco to New York to DC to the FedEx Distribution Center in Harrisonburg (VA). I always hear the FedEx Driver grinding his way up my washboard gravel road. He’ll not sneak up on me. I’m always waiting and meet him at my door to accept my delivery. When the box arrives at my front door and I open it, I am always amazed by the careful packaging those In Bed Aussies give their sheets: they’re in a hinged box with a twisting vine design, and the bedding is secured in place by a brocade ribbon matching the linen. Right on top is my gift card, from me to me. Is that special or what? If I don’t deserve the best, who does? I remind myself of how awesome I am, and on my card, I tell myself not only to enjoy my gift but also to remember that I deserve it as a bonus for suffering through the arduous rigors of reinventing myself once again. More important, perhaps, is this: the sheets and pillowcases are folded so meticulously that I can’t find one single solitary wrinkle, unless I happen to look in the wrong direction and catch a glimpse of me myself in the mirror. (Aside to me myself: take down that mirror!)

Aside from bedding and clothing, I procure many other things online, too, notably hard-to-find, exotic foods.

Most recently, I ordered a whole dried squid online. Yes. It was a squid. In my book, a squid is a squid is a squid. I know fully well that culinary books talk about calamari, and I know that they are not exactly the same. Calamari are smaller and have a more tender texture. Tough. I refuse to call a squid a calamari. Hooey Phooey! Calling it by any name other than what it is will not–cannot–make it taste any better than it tastes, already. Besides, I like watching people do the Tentacle Dance when I walk in the room and announce squid as our appetizer.

Anyway, I had to have this whole dried squid so that I could make authentic Taiwanese Squid Soup, one of my all-time favorites. After years of searching, I finally found an authentic recipe. That’s why I had to buy myself a dried squid.

What I didn’t know until I received the tracking number was that the squid was being shipped from Mainland China. Hot damn! This wouldn’t be one of my little mini vaycays. I’d have myself a full vacation by the time it reached me.

I kept checking daily to see where the squid was traveling. It didn’t seem to be moving at all. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect it to be traversing the ocean floor in its usual graceful and undulating locomotion. It was, after all, dead and dried. But it had to be somewhere in China. A week or two went by, and I had no location updates, and my vacation depended on those updates. Finally, an email disclosed all. My dried squid was in Guangzhou, a major shipping city. Well, major or minor, it just seemed to hang out there. Since it was a dried squid, after all, no big deal. Several more weeks passed, and I still had no further updates. Hmmm. I texted my Linden (VA) correspondent, who’s practically my online shopping guardian angel when it comes to my international honor(able) purchases. Below are tentacles from our messages spanning several weeks.

WIRED: I need to see where my squid is.

LINDEN CORRESPONDENT (LC): Your squid is going on its farewell tour.

WIRED: My squid has made it from China’s Great Wall to Los Angeles.

LC: And where is the squid?

WIRED: Sitting in CA. But I’m ready when it arrives.

LC: Tell it to catch a wave.

WIRED: The squid arrived. They scrunched it all up in a little package. They probably killed it.

LC: So, soup tomorrow?

WIRED: Depends on how long it takes me to bring the squid back to life.

I took photos of my world-traveling squid and shared with LC before and after I soaked it for nearly 24 hours. I swear. For a moment I thought that I saw it move:

LC: Ah! Now THAT looks like squid!

WIRED: Yes. It’s smelling. like an ocean breeze.

To LC’s horror, but to my squid-loving delight, I unveiled my Taiwanese Dried Squid Soup on Monday, September 4. It was the ultimate way to Celebrate Labor Day. Who needs to work hard when you’ve got a tentacled twist on an all-American holiday tradition? It seems thinking outside the box is my birthright.

I just realized that this pillow-talk post about online shopping could feather itself into a book, maybe even a multivolume one. I still have hundreds of stories to share with you. Let’s see how fast I can fluff up this part. (DISCLAIMER: I am not an affiliate of any of the merchants above or below. Click to your heart’s content. Nary a penny will find its way back to me! FURTHER DISCLAIMER: The litany of merchants was not influenced at all by Justin Bieber’s “Peaches,” but sometimes a tune gets stuck in my head. Just sayin’.)

● I get my pork out in Tennessee from Porter Road Butcher: “Life-changing meat, delivered.”

● I get my chicken and duck up to the North from D’Artagnan Meats in New Jersey: “Food raised right tastes better.”

● I get my beef and lamb up in New York from Lobel’s: “For six generations … purveyors of fine meats dedicated to the highest standards.”

● I get lots of seafood up in New York, too, from Citarella: “Seriously Fresh Seafood Shipped Overnight.”

● I get my live oysters and some other seafood, up in New York, too, from Fulton Fish Market: “From the Sea to Your Door.”

You’ll have to wait until the book’s publication to sniff out the purveyors that I use for Baklava, cheeses, chocolates, dates, exotic meats, figs, exotic fruits, spices and much, much more.

But you won’t have to wait to get the low-down on why I think my merchants are top-notch.

They offer High-Quality Products, and they take pride in what they offer. They have User Friendly Websites that allow a seamless online shopping experience. Obviously, they are Reliable. They deliver on their promises, provide accurate product descriptions as well as pricing, and shipping details. I can rely on them to fulfill my order promptly and accurately. Somewhere in the blend, I have to include Transparency because my merchants are upfront about their policies, including return and refund procedures, shipping costs, customer support, and contact information. Finally, they provide Excellent Customer Service. They offer responsive and helpful customer support through various channels like live chat, email, or phone. If I have an issue or inquiry, they make resolving them a priority.

OMG, that trait just reminded me of a recent online purchase. Trust me. It wasn’t a smooth ride. It was a tale of pillows, My Dear Readers, and it’s what inspired this post.

Funny thing is, I didn’t really need new pillows. But being the side sleeper that I am, I couldn’t resist those online pillows custom-made for folks like me. So, one evening–probably with a shot or three of Bunnahabhain Single Malt Scotch Whisky in hand–I impulsively placed an order.

A day or three later, an email pinged in, announcing the shipment of my pillows from our side of the Pond, where everything is shipped and nothing is dispatched. Since my online shopping delight includes tracking my deliveries to my front door, I was determined to ensure that neither stranger nor robot had snuggled up with my pillows. I was going to break them in myself.

The tracking journey began for the pillows I’d ordered from the Sl–p-gr-m. I checked daily. Concern crept in when the delivery date status showed “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.” Not ideal. But I’m a patient soul. I gave it a full week before shooting off an email to the company. They responded with apologies and promised to send a fresh pair.

Guess what? Three days later, I checked the status. You won’t believe it, but the new shipment displayed the same “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.” Frustration brewed, especially when my emails went unanswered. Fed up, I threatened to contact American Express and dispute the charge. That got their attention. They assured me an immediate refund.

But here’s where things get really amusing. Sl–p-gr-m initiated a special search with UPS for both shipments. Ironically, all the tracking info was linked to me since I was the customer. Weeks later, an email revealed that the packages had been found and were in transit.

“Sweet,” I thought. “They must be sending the pillows as a goodwill gesture.”

Wrong! Another email came, and you won’t believe it: the pillows were in transit back to the company.

Now, it gets really funny. Both shipments are still on their way back home to Sl–p-gr-m. When I last checked, the status remained “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.”

As a wise friend once said, “What goes over the devil’s back comes under his belly again.”

And me? I scream joyfully:

“Karma!”

Well, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. But, as luck would have it, while I was on this whimsical journey of pillow karma, I stumbled upon Saatva, a company offering the perfect pillows for side sleepers. They may not have been cheap, but as they say, you get what you pay for.

Now, here I am, enjoying the luxurious comfort of these new King-sized pillows as I wrap up this whimsical tale of pillow-talk karma. It’s been quite a ride, from inexplicably vanishing pillows to international escapades, all while joyfully shopping online. And you know what? It’s been one heck of an adventure, one I’ll treasure as I rest my head on my new, heavenly pillows, giving my head and my heart the Karmic peace they deserve.

Celebrating Indigenous Peoples’ Day

Posted on October 9, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A Proclamation on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, 2023”
–President Joseph R. Biden, Jr. [Excerpts; President Biden first issued a proclamation recognizing Indigenous Peoples’ Day in 2021.]

“On Indigenous Peoples’ Day, we honor the perseverance and courage of Indigenous peoples, show our gratitude for the myriad contributions they have made to our world, and renew our commitment to respect Tribal sovereignty and self-determination.

“The story of America’s Indigenous peoples is a story of their resilience and survival; of their persistent commitment to their right to self-governance; and of their determination to preserve cultures, identities, and ways of life. Long before European explorers sailed to this continent, Native American and Alaska Native Nations made this land their home, some for thousands of years before the United States was founded. They built many Nations that created powerful, prosperous, and diverse cultures, and they developed knowledge and practices that still benefit us today.

“But throughout our Nation’s history, Indigenous peoples have faced violence and devastation that has tested their limits. For generations, it was the shameful policy of our Nation to remove Indigenous peoples from their homelands; force them to assimilate; and ban them from speaking their own languages, passing down ancient traditions, and performing sacred ceremonies. Countless lives were lost, precious lands were taken, and their way of life was forever changed. In spite of unimaginable loss and seemingly insurmountable odds, Indigenous peoples have persisted. They survived. And they continue to be an integral part of the fabric of the United States.

“Today, Indigenous peoples are a beacon of resilience, strength, and perseverance as well as a source of incredible contributions. Indigenous peoples and Tribal Nations continue to practice their cultures, remember their heritages, and pass down their histories from generation to generation. They steward this country’s lands and waters and grow crops that feed all of us. They serve in the United States military at a higher rate than any other ethnic group. They challenge all of us to celebrate the good, confront the bad, and tell the whole truth of our history. And as innovators, educators, engineers, scientists, artists, and leaders in every sector of society, Indigenous peoples contribute to our shared prosperity. Their diverse cultures and communities today are a testament to the unshakable and unbreakable commitment of many generations to preserve their cultures, identities, and rights to self-governance. That is why, despite centuries of devastation and turmoil, Tribal Nations continue to thrive and lead in countless ways.

[…]

“As we celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day, may we renew the enduring soul of our Nation-to-Nation relationships — a spirit of friendship, stewardship, and respect.”

“You’re Going to Be Okay.”

Posted on October 2, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Haruki Murakami (b. 1949; internationally acclaimed Japanese writer. The quote is from his novel Kafka on the Shore [2002])

Sometimes, the greatest enigmas in life unfold right before our very eyes, revealing themselves to us gradually like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, not through anything monumental but rather through minor moments that fill our days and propel us forward. We may not even be aware of the significance of what is happening until one day, something triggers a momentary flashback, followed by a quick return to the present. In that instant, we know that we have been brushed by a condundrum and that we now kneel before a new truth.

For me, such revelations are rare. When they take place, they are heralded by the subtle realization that pieces of my life are falling into place more smoothly and more effortlessly than expected. In those moments, I reflect, and in my musings, I come to realize that maybe–just maybe–other aspects of my life are mysteriously falling into place, too, like an intricate riddle being solved.

Last weekend, I experienced a succession of such events that made me sit up and take notice. I didn’t know what was about to unfold, but every fiber of my being felt the shroud of mystery. The events seemed to have started with my post, “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.” I finished it on Saturday, September 23, a full day earlier than expected, just as remnants from Ophelia brought dark clouds, a steady rainfall, and winds high enough to cause the trees to sway almost beyond their bend, but not high enough to elevate my concerns beyond my enjoyment. My big decision, as I sipped my morning coffee, was whether I would read the post to my oldest sister later that day or wait until Sunday as usual. This decision felt like a cipher in the grand scheme of things.

I put the question aside and started checking emails. I had one from a former student, Brian McKee, whose poetic voice is as fresh and original as any new American poet I’ve read in recent years. He shared a poem that he had penned that morning. Its beauty touched my inner being just as I know that it will touch yours. Perhaps more importantly, it will linger with you and with me and make us wonder, “How?” and “Why?”

Desert Wind

It doesn’t have the lisp of leaves impeding
on its smooth trajectory over stone
and scrub. A place of helpless hook and barb,
of toothy undercarriage biting for an
overhead swoop. A highway of hawk and owl
and bats taking hook-shots in the current
around a soft ball of moon.

It’s hardly its own thing as a foreigner knows it.
A dry eddy of stir in the harshness
of the river I’ve yet to notice wading in.
Carrying the cinder and spark of cookfire
off in a rapid of oar-splash and air.
Holding in some endless canopy
a handful of lightning and stars
with the same weightless disregard.

It presides over a court of long shadow,
pizzicato of sound and the bow song
of echo long dispersed. Low clouds in
late light, lilting in the orbit that it blows.
The tiny thorns of its worshipers
dragging fissures in the ground,
sweeping my bootprints by morning.

Brian’s poetic gem made the clouds and the rain glisten even more, revealing hidden truths about the beauty of the world.

As I finished my emails and my coffee, I felt mysteriously compelled to go to Starbucks. I rarely go there, but thoughts of a pumpkin-spiced latte with a slice of pumpkin bread rose up in my head, so off I went. The storm and the earliness of the morning found me outnumbered by Starbucks staff, cheerful and chattering amongst themselves and with their occasional customer, including me.

I sat at my table, enjoying my enticements, daydreaming, thinking of this and of that, of nothing and of everything. In the midst of my mindlessness, the power went out mysteriously, with no warning: the sky was clear at that point, and the sun was shining. Silence followed, but it was replaced by humorous panic as the staff realized that without power, they were powerless to fulfill orders being placed by drive-through and walk-in customers.

The outage didn’t bother me at all. I was having fun watching staff negotiate with one another about the best course of action. Besides, I had my smartphone and could give “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go” a final and leisurely proofreading.

After twenty minutes or so, the power came back on, and everyone shouted a loud huzzah. I decided to return home and start preparing some Maryland Crab Soup–fitting, it seemed to me–to celebrate Ophelia, a storm that had moved up the coast and had blown in from the Eastern Shore. The day before, I purchased some jumbo lump crab meat, brought over from the same banks by our local fishmonger.

When I got home, I threw some logs into the kitchen fireplace, and before long, I was enjoying a crackling, roaring fire as I prepped.

Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, I play Gospel music, but I was in the mood for something a little lighter.

Brent: Alexa, play relaxation music.

Alexa: Here’s a station just for you–Acoustic Chill.

As I continued making my soup, I was listening but not listening, that is until some lyrics grabbed me, pulled me in close, and wouldn’t let go:

You’re gonna be okay
You’re gonna be okay
Oh, the sun will keep on risin’ in that old familiar way
And every little thing is gonna be okay

You’re gonna be all right
Darling, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
‘Cause the stars will keep on shinin’ through the darkest night
And you can know you’re gonna be all right

The song was powerfully gripping, and I knew as I listened that a mystery was being unfolded. Everything was falling inexplicably into place.

Brent: Alexa, what’s the name of that song?

Alexa: “Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.

I know other songs by Lauren Daigle, an American contemporary Christian music singer and songwriter, known especially for “You Say” and “Thank God, I Do.” She has a way of writing/singing Christian songs that cross over to the top-ten pop charts. I was surprised, though, to hear her on Acoustic Chill, a station that I listen to all the time, yet I had never heard her there before. I liked the song so much that I wanted to hear it again.

Brent: Alexa, repeat.

I let the first two verses slip into my soul once more, and then I let verses three and four slip deeper still:

Lift your eyes to the hills
Remember where your help comes from
Lift your eyes to the hills
You’ll never face a valley alone
‘Cause even when your heart is breakin’
And you’ve gone and lost your way
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

You’re gonna be okay
I know that you’re, you’re gonna be okay
Not a care in this whole world can take that truth away
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

And when the song ended, I wanted to hear it again and again and again.

Brent: Alexa, loop.

As I listened, the final verses settled deeper and deeper into my spirit.

You’re gonna be all right
Darlin’, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath, when we’re beckoned onto the light
Love will meet you there, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath is the beginning of new life
You’re, you’re gonna be all right

“Be Okay” kept right on playing while I kept right on cooking. It kept right on playing while its message kept right on trickling deeper and deeper into the depths of my soul. It kept right on playing as its truths kept right on bubbling back up.

I started thinking about death, the mystery that marks our ending. Or does it mark our beginning? I started thinking about grieving. Does it ever end? And how? And when?

I started thinking about my father’s death. When the evening of his wake arrived, I walked with my mother toward the open casket where he lay. Even from the far end of the chapel, we could see something on the lining of the raised casket lid—a design. Drawing closer, we were both taken aback as we looked inside the casket lid. It was not what we had ordered. It was not a solid white silk lining without tufting or design. Instead, we witnessed—together—a pair of praying hands. To the right of the hands, the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again.” It was not what my mother and I had planned. It was not what we had ordered. And, yet, the praying hands were there, holding for me—and I believe for me alone—a lasting message.

Grieving my father’s death, I thought, would never come to an end. One day, however, when I least expected it, I had an awareness that it had been lifted.

I started thinking about my mother’s death. She had been paralyzed and flat on her back for six years. Two nights before her death, I had three dreams in quick succession. In the first dream, she got up out of bed and walked out on the porch, her arms reaching up toward a blue, blue sky, smiling and laughing and twirling—around and around and around. For the first time in six years, she’s out of bed—walking and dancing. She’s ecstatically happy. In the second dream, she was costumed as a white mouse, performing. Her audience, amused by her antics. Their reward? An encore—more frolics, much laughter. She’s freed from the journey, freed from the maze, blissfully celebrating her new path. In the third dream, she entered a softly lighted room where my father sat in his recliner. My mother sat down in the chair beside him and turned off the lamp. The room slowly—ever so slowly—fell into warm darkness. My mother and father are reunited.

When I awakened, I felt—no, knew—deep down in my soul that my mother came to me in those three dreams to prepare me for her death. Two days later, she died.

Grieving my mother’s death was entirely different. Being closer to her than to my father, I feared that her death would be my undoing. Instead, the faith lessons that she taught me down through the years comforted me and gave me peace.

I started thinking about my late partner’s death. Was it yesterday? Or was it the day before? Or was it an eternity ago?

As I reflected on Allen’s death and my grief, “Be Okay” kept right on playing, transporting me to the night before he died. It kept right on playing as I heard Allen reassuring me then while I stood beside his hospital bed just as Lauren Daigle was reassuring me now while I stood in my kitchen.

Allen clasped my hands and looked deep into my eyes:

I’m going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
We’re both going to be okay.

He knew. I knew. But that night neither of us wanted to know.

Allen died the next morning, just minutes after each of us looked at one another, saying one last time, “I love you.”

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt as I closed Allen’s eyes and folded his hands prayerfully across his chest that he had been beckoned back into the Light and that he had crossed over into a new state of Being. I knew that he was all right, just as he had said that he would be.

Now, 968 days after his death, it was as if Allen stepped out of his own light, entered our kitchen, put his arms around me, and waltzed me out of the storm of my grieving into my own light. It was as if I was mysteriously convinced that the sun would keep on rising, that the stars would keep on shining, and that everything would be okay.

What makes the unveiling of the mystery even more mysterious and even more beautiful is the simple fact that I had done nothing with an eye toward grief-healing. It happened just as it had happened with my mother and with my father: the grieving lifted itself in my moment of readiness.

How ironic that it all came to pass on a day when I felt that something was brushing against me, but I knew not what. A more mundane litany of events for that day could hardly be imagined. I finished a post early. I heard from a poet friend from long, long ago. I went to Starbucks simply because something called me there. I came home, started a fire in the kitchen fireplace, and made crab soup to celebrate a tropical storm. I played acoustic chill music and heard a song that grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go.

How ironic that when the storm within me passed, peace washed over my soul, and Allen’s love ushered me to the altar of truth that he foretold: “You’re going to be okay.”

Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.

Posted on September 25, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The best journey takes you home.”
–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)

Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.

The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.

In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.

When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:

“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”

I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.

Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.

“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”

I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.

I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.

§ § §

Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.

Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:

“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”

Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.

Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.

Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?

Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:

“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.

But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:

“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.

My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?

Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.

As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.

Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.

Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.

Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.

Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.

Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?

§ § §

Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:

“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”

Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.

But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.

The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)

The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.

The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.

The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.

The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!

Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.

Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.

§ § §

I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.

“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”

I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.

Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.

Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.

Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.

Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.

Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.

Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.

As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!

Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.

But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.

Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).

The Teasing Sound of Silence

Posted on September 18, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together; that at length they may emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the delight of life, which they are thenceforth to rule.”
Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881; Scottish essayist, historian, and social commentator, known for his influential writings on history, society, and culture, especially his essays “Sartor Resartus” and “On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History.”)

Shhhhh. Quiet, please. I need to talk. I’ve gone and gotten myself into a mell of a hess this time. Here I am writing about “silence” simply because I took the time to look at my draft posts, and I came across one rather stupidly titled “Silence.”

“Say what?” I screamed before turning my Smartphone face down on my bed to hide the odious text that I was reading on the screen. Screaming was perfect because it broke the silence. Well, you’d scream, too, if you detested silence as much as I do. It grates on my ears. I suffer noise far more readily than I suffer silence.

So here I lie in bed, working on a post whose essence I deplore. But write the damned post I must because I have started it, and I will finish it, ever mindful of what my parents told me over and over again, never giving me a moment’s silence:

If a job is once begun,
Never leave until it’s done.
Be its labor, great or small,
Do it well or not at all.

Well, I don’t know how well I’ll do it, but I will do my best to write my way out of this mess. Don’t worry. This will be a fast read: I, who knows nothing about silence, will be forced to speed things up when I start gathering my thoughts about silence because I have so few thoughts about the subject. You’ll reach the end sooner than you expect. When you do, listen carefully. I might burst forth with the Hallelujah Chorus. If I do, join me and we can make a joyful noise together.

Fortunately, I had captured enough notes that I recall what prompted me to start the idiotic draft in the first place.

My electricity went out. Unexpectedly. Silence washed over the afternoon soundscape of my domestic sanctuary. My refrigerator, the unsung hero of my kitchen, stopped serenading me with its constant hum. My ceiling fans ceased their purring and hushed their constant chatter about my secrets. My bedroom air conditioner no longer piped its melodious duet of “whoosh and hush.”

I wasn’t using my dishwasher, but if I had been, it would have stopped belting out its “splish-splash” just as I would have stopped chiming in with “I’m taking a bath,” both as if to wash away my culinary blues. I wasn’t using my washer and dryer either. But if I had been, they would have paused their spinning, tumbling symphony of cleanliness. As for my television, I have one that’s never on, but I can still faintly remember the mysterious hum of its digital dreams.

By now, you surely understand the sudden and imminent danger that surrounded me: all of my usual household sounds had been silenced.

All, thank God, save one. In the very moment of my most silent despair and in the hushed stillness of my living room, my grandfather clock came to life as the hour hand gracefully settled upon the number two. With a solemn, almost reverent demeanor, it stirred the silence with a deep, resonant chime. I had been rescued. The God of Noise had heard my silent prayer.

I sat there wondering how long I’d have to put up with this sorry state of near silence. I didn’t have to wonder long because it was 95 degrees outside, and my house was becoming unbearably hot inside. I decided to go outside and sit by my Koi Pond.

As I was walking out, I automatically turned off my kitchen lights. Silly me. I had forgotten that they weren’t on. Still, I could hear the tune of the see-saw switch. I’ll bet you didn’t know that light switches make noise. I didn’t either until Charlie Pluth released his “Light Switch.” If you don’t know that song, get to know it. As you listen, lean in and be super quiet. You’ll hear light switches being turned on and off. It’s awesome, so much so that Pluth documented the sounds on TikTok. Check it out for yourself and hear what I’m talking about.

After I turned off the lights that weren’t on, I stepped the few steps that I had to step to get from my kitchen to my Koi Pond. There I sat, poised in the pose of Rodin’s The Thinker, forever contemplating silence. I started thinking about how I could make the best of a bad situation even though it was a double-whammy combo of record-setting temps and deafening silence.

No problem. I decided that I would just sit there and think about everything that I had ever read or heard about silence. Immediately, I started crooning a poor rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence.”

Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

[…]

“Fools”, said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

I loved that song as a 1960’s young idealist. It reminded me of the consequences of remaining silent and complacent in the face of social issues. Despite my lackluster vocal talents, I sounded far better than I expected, and even if I didn’t, my singing broke the silence.

“What about silence in literature?”

“Excellent question. I was worried that no one would ask.”

I can think of many examples, and since you asked, I will share a few. For novels, I’ll start with Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Silence is personified by Captain Ahab’s obsession with the enigmatic white whale, and his monomaniacal pursuit of it creates an atmosphere of foreboding silence as the crew hesitates to speak openly about their fears.

Then we have one of my all-time favorite novels: The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. I read it in high school. I had never heard the F-word. In my youthful innocence, I was surprised at encountering such explicit language in print. I didn’t hear the word, of course, since I was reading silently, but I still put my fingers in my ears so that I wouldn’t hear myself just in case I started reading out loud. Then I dog-eared that page for future ready reference. But I digress. Here’s my point. Poor Holden Caulfield’s inner silence is a prominent theme in the novel, as he often feels misunderstood and unable to express his emotions.

As you might expect, I thought of a third novel, too, while contemplating silence. It’s One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. Silence in this magical realist masterpiece often signifies the unspeakable, as generations of the Buendía family grapple with their own secrets and tragedies, unable or unwilling to communicate their true feelings.

More novels came to mind, but for now, several plays are waiting in the wings, ready to make their grand entrance. Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot enters first. I read that play in college. One passage often takes center stage in my mind, just as much now as it did then when I equated silence with existential waiting:

VLADIMIR: “What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come—”

Another play, also from my college days, remains a favorite today. Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night and its exploration of the haunting silence that follows years of conversation in the Tyrone family:

MARY: “You can’t imagine, can you, what that silence can mean after all these years of having someone talk to you every day and then suddenly stop, and yet that silence, still saying something but what you don’t know yet—”

For the third act, Lillian Hellman’s Children’s Hour came to mind. Silence is a central theme in the play as it grapples with the consequences of a malicious lie that silences the lives and reputations of the accused:

MARTHA: “I do not like the silence. I will go on talking until you answer me.”

More plays bubbled up in my mind, but those three will suffice, thereby allowing me to briefly mention one short story that yelled riotously for attention.

It’s not Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” with Bartleby’s repetitive “I would prefer not to” showcasing the power of passive resistance and the silence of non-conformity. It could have been “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. The entire story screams of the eerie and unusual quietness of the townsfolk before the annual lottery. But it’s not.

Instead, it’s a story by Flannery O’Connor, “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” The story’s climax, where the Misfit and the Grandmother engage in a fateful conversation in the woods, marks an ominous final silence.

As for the last literary genre embracing silence–poetry–I immediately thought of Amherst’s recluse, Emily Dickinson, and her famous quatrain etched in my mind forever. It seemed especially poignant, as I grappled with having been plunged unexpectedly into silence:

Silence is all we dread.
There’s Ransom in a Voice –
But Silence is Infinity.
Himself have not a face.

Needless to say, I can’t have a poetic reverie about silence without including a poem by Robert Frost. The one that popped into my head, first, is so appropriate for my home in the woods. It’s his “The Sound of Trees.” Listen as he teases in the first few lines:

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

[…]

They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.

The third poem that spoke to me in my silence was by Kay Ryan, one of the most powerful voices in today’s contemporary poetic soundscape. Her poem “Shark’s Teeth” suits me well because of the interplay between silence and noise that it explores.

Everything contains some
silence. Noise gets
its zest from the
small shark’s-tooth-
shaped fragments
of rest angled
in it. An hour
of city holds maybe
a minute of these
remnants of a time
when silence reigned,
compact and dangerous
as a shark. Sometimes
a bit of a tail
or fin can still
be sensed in parks.

The poem suggests that noise, in its relentless and pervasive presence, has taken over and devoured silence, leaving only small, sharp remnants. The poem evokes terror, not in a literal sense but rather in the metaphorical notion that silence, once a prevailing and powerful force, has been reduced to fragments and is now as elusive, scarce, and sharp as shark’s teeth.

Ironically, as I sat in the stillness of a torridly hot afternoon contemplating various literary nuances of silence, a single drop of water fell from the lower most rock of the Koi Pond waterfalls that had stopped cascading. It landed with a delicate and shimmering grace, creating a mesmerizing ripple on the pond’s still surface. The concentric circles expanded, radiating outward like echoes, breaking the silence, and bringing me out of my reverie.

In that instant, I realized that I had tapped into a powerful and personal paradox. I found myself both repelled and intrigued by the multi-faceted nature of silence.

Silence may grate on my ears, but I came to realize that it can be a space for reflection, contemplation, and understanding. Just as a great poem or short story or play or novel holds within it the power of silence, so, too, does our everyday existence. Maybe–just maybe–it is in the pauses between our words, the stillness before our actions, and the quiet moments of our introspection that we can truly have glimpses into the essence of life.

The Wired Researcher

Brent L. Kendrick's Blog on the Joys of Writing and Research

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