Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick

Epigraphically Yours

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“A thought that does not result in an action is nothing much, and an action without thought is nothing at all.”

—Georges Bernanos (1888–1948; French novelist and essayist best known for his spiritually intense works exploring grace, despair, and the inner struggles of faith. He is perhaps most acclaimed for his 1936 novel The Diary of a Country Priest (1936), a profound meditation on suffering, humility, and redemption.)

My thoughts have a mind of their own. Sometimes, they pop up uninvited. Sometimes, they spiral into a whole inner drama, as if they’re running their own show. Sometimes, they’re mischievous, refusing to listen when I try to be calm or focused. Sometimes, they come from a place that I don’t understand, as if another mind is in there with me.

Regardless of how or when they arrive, they make me realize that my inner world is alive, unpredictable, and full of drama.

Just the other day, a thought walked out on my stage and started an entire play long before the curtains of my sleep had even been pulled back.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” appeared. I realize, of course, that it’s the most famous sermon ever preached in American history.

On July 8, 1741, in the little town of Enfield, Connecticut, Edwards preached the sermon for an hour or so. Scores of listeners were so shaken they converted on the spot. The crowd’s terrified sobbing made it clear they’d better get right with God. Pronto.

I’ve taught the sermon for decades, emphasizing not only its role in stoking the fervor of The Great Awakening but also its perfect sermon structure: Verse, Doctrine, Reasons, Application, and Call to Repent. Boom! That’s Edwards’ framework in a nutshell.

Clearly, the entire sermon is part of my drama, but it was just one character that stole the show the morning it showed up on my mental stage.

It was the verse at the beginning of Edwards’ sermon. There it stood, spotlighted on an otherwise dark stage, reciting with all the doom and gloom it could muster up for its seven-word soliloquy:

“Their foot shall slip in due time.”

Like I said, I’ve taught the sermon so often that I knew the context of the verse from Deuteronomy. I knew what came before and after:

“Vengeance is Mine, and recompense; Their foot shall slip in due time; For the day of their calamity is at hand, And the things to come hasten upon them.” (32-35)

But it wasn’t actually the verse standing there under the spotlight that wouldn’t let go. It was something incredibly simple: what do you call the quote that writers often put at the start of something? In this case, Edwards had put a Bible verse, but I wanted the broader term that would apply to writings other than sermons.

Epigram?

Epigraph?

In a flash, Lucille Clifton hipped her way onto the stage beside the Bible verse and started her own dramatic recitation:

“This is called ‘After Blues,’ and the ‘epi thing’ is ‘I hate to see the evening sun go down.'”

She stood there and paused long enough for me to wonder whether she was referring to Faulkner’s short story, “That Evening Sun,” before I found myself saying:

“There. She’s using the ‘epi thing’ just like Edwards.

Epigram? Epigraph? Don’t tell anyone, but I had to look it up.

Epigram. A concise poem dealing pointedly and often satirically with a single thought or event and often ending with an ingenious turn of thought.

Nope. It must be the other epi thing.

Epigraph. A quotation set at the beginning of a literary work or one of its divisions to suggest its theme.

Yep. That’s it. Epigraph. That’s what Clifton couldn’t think of as she started to read “Afterblues,” and that’s what I couldn’t think of as I reflected on the verse that catapulted Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.”

To my surprise, next up on stage was Alexander Gordon, Clerk of His Majesty’s Council, beaming brighter than the stage lights, making his debut as the author of the famous Humourist essays, proudly holding up for the audience to see his first essay in The South-Carolina Gazette with its own “epi thing”:

“Quocunque volunt mentem auditoris agunto.” Horace. (“And raise men’s passions to what heights they will.”) (November 26, 1753)

And after thunderous applause, he strutted back and forth across the stage, holding up the front pages of the Gazette week after week after week, all the way up to his final essay on April 2, 1754, it, too, having its own “epi thing” just as the others did:

“Facies non omnibus una, Nec diversa tamen.” Ovid (“Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as those of sisters ought to be.”)

The standing ovation was such that the audience hardly noticed the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) making its professorial entrance, determined to set the record straight once and for all about the “epi thing” that seemed to be stealing the show.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Listen up! Epigraph in the sense of a short quotation or pithy sentence placed at the commencement of a work to indicate its leading idea was first used in 1850 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: “And write me new my future’s” (Future & Past in Poems (new edition) vol. I. 362).

No sooner had the OED finished pontificating than one of the theatergoers hurled a rotten tomato, brightening the OED’s already reddening cheeks:

“Rubbish! Utter rubbish! We all know that epigraphs have been around forever and forever. “

“Have not!” another screamed!

“Have, too!” insisted the first. “Shut up before I hit you across the head with a fact! Ever heard of Horace? He is one of the most quoted authors in epigraphs across centuries of Western literature.”

Luckily, their interruption did not spoil the performance. The two of them took their boisterous debate out to the proscenium while the OED retreated backstage.

But then, the director seemed to be taken off guard as a local celeb made his way on stage, dragging me along.

I chalked it all up to one more theatrical shenanigan, but I was eager to find out why Barry Lee–acclaimed podcast host of Breakfast with Barry Lee–had made such an appearance and what role I could possibly play in this comedy extempore.

“I love the way you start your blog posts every week with one of those ‘epi things.’ They’re really thought-provoking. I might just print them out and tape them on my office walls.”

“Thanks, Barry. I add them after I finish writing a post, just as a hint of what’s coming.”

“I really like today’s quote that you took from Ovid: ‘Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.’ Persistence is so important in every thing we do in life. What made you decide to start your weekly blog posts this way?”

With that question, I knew exactly why he had dragged me up on stage with him. He was determined to have his own Q & A, ignoring the way I had scripted the play.

“I’m glad you like them, Barry. I hadn’t thought that much about it, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ve always started my posts with a quote, going all the way back to my blog’s birth in 2012.

Just as I flashed my TheWiredResearcher.com blog on the screen with every intention of reading every “epi thing” from then until now, the lights started fading, and in a moment of total darkness someone with the proverbial hook pulled me and Barry out of sight.

Then the lights rose softly, and there–front and center–stood my Mother, holding up for the audience to see, a slew of handwritten sermon notes, each beginning with a Bible verse.

She made no attempt to read the tear-stained pages in her hands. She just stood there as if her smile spoke all that needed to be spoken.

It did. I reembered at once her advice when I started writing my own grade school essays.

“Always start with a quote to capture attention and make people want to follow along.”

From that point forward, I did just that. The earliest “epi thing” that I recall using was a quote by Douglas McArthur at the start of one of my many Voice of Democracy essays.

In the instant of that fleeting recollection, I was on stage once more, the light shining more on my Mother than on me, as I my little drama opened with my McArthur “epi thing”:

“Old soldiers never die. They just fade away.”

When I finished, the lights faded. The curtains closed. Amidst a thunderous and standing ovation, they opened up again as we all joined hands and bowed for the curtain call.

My inner child somehow slipped into the audience, just long enough to toss two bouquets back onto the stage. By the time my Mother caught her bunch of asters, I had made it onstage again, standing beside her, grabbing my own nosegay of words. We both laughed as we realized that those tossed words would serve as the perfect “epi thing” not only to open this post but also to close it:

“A thought that does not result in an action is nothing much,

and

an action without thought is nothing at all.”

The Route Home

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“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

—Douglas Adams (1952–2001. Best known for his 1979 novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a blend of science fiction, sharp wit, and existential insight.)

Home was just a few miles away–ten at best–and I knew exactly how to get there. I could have done it blindfolded. But as I headed home, I decided to fool around with my Jeep’s navigation system. Just for fun. Just for the hell of it.

● Start ENGINE

● Press NAV

● Select HOME

● Press GO!

Getting home have been easier. I knew that a gentle voice would tell me just what to do and when to do it.

● Please proceed to the highlighted route

● At end of the road, turn left on Hoover Road

● Turn left

I decided to turn right. That’s where my fun began.

● Route recalculated

● At end of the road, turn right

● In one thousand feet turn right

● Take the next right onto I-81 toward Edinburg

No way. I wasn’t about to hop on the Interstate, head south to Edinburg, then backtrack on Rt. 11 toward home.

I ignored the commands. I kept right on going while my Jeep’s voice kept right on trying to change my mind:

● Route recalculation. Make a U-turn where possible.

Eventually, I decided that I needed to stop foolin’ around. It was obvious–and I knew it anyway–that my Jeep’s navigation system would keep redirecting me with each of my wrong turns until I reached home.

But that little joyride made me realize something. I may not be the world’s best when it comes to getting from one place to the next, but I’ve always managed to find my way. Even in the days of printed road maps, I got where I needed to go. I highlighted my routes in yellow so I could see them clearly. And even when I forgot the map, I figured that I’d end up in the right place if I followed the road signs, stayed mindful of cardinal directions, and paid attention to my brain’s compass. It always seemed to work.

These days, with GPS built into every vehicle, I may not always take the shortest route. But I trust my Jeep’s system enough to head off anywhere, barely noticing my surroundings, confident that I’ll get a heads-up when it’s time to turn.

Still, after that bit of foolin’ around, I found myself scratching my head and wondering:

Do I extend that same trust to the systems that guide my life’s journey?

Do you?

In truth, we have navigational systems for nearly everything that matters—health, learning, careers, relationships, aging, and faith. We know the basics. We’ve heard about them. We’ve read about them. We’ve lived long enough to know that they work. But how often do we trust them? How often do we follow their cues with the same confidence that we give a GPS?

Take health, for example. The map isn’t mysterious: eat real food, move your body, sleep enough, manage your stress, hydrate, and laugh once in a while. We’ve seen the studies. We’ve heard it from doctors and mothers and friends who’ve faced wake-up calls. And still, we drive right past the obvious. We skip meals or eat meals that barely qualify as such. We stay up late, ignore symptoms, and postpone appointments. The check engine light flashes, and we figure we’ll deal with it next week.

And then there’s education. Curiosity and critical thinking are clearly marked paths. We’re told to keep learning, keep questioning, and keep evolving. And yet, how many of us treat learning like something that ends with a diploma or a degree? Or reject new ideas because they don’t come from their usual route? We scroll more than we study and nod along more than we inquire. We’d rather feel certain than feel stretched.

When it comes to careers, we’ve got entire industries built around career navigation—assessments, mentors, and step-by-step plans. We’re advised to find meaning, stay flexible, and avoid burnout. But those signs are easy to ignore when the faster route promises more money, more status, or just less fear. We trade direction for acceleration, only to find we’re speeding toward a place we never meant to go.

Even in relationships, we know the guidance there too: communicate, be honest, show up, listen, say thank you, and forgive. Don’t just speak—connect. Love is not a mystery novel. And yet we sabotage, assume, ghost, or stay silent. We expect relationships to work without maintenance. And when they don’t, we blame the other driver instead of checking the map.

Aging? There’s no avoiding this road. Ask me. I know. But there is a way to travel it. Let go of what no longer fits. Befriend your limits. Gather your joys and carry them with you. The people who age well usually do it with humor, grace, and a willingness to take new roads—even slower ones. But many of us cling to the idea that if we just hit the gas hard enough, we can outrun time. Spoiler alert: we can’t.

And faith—whatever form that takes. Every tradition has its own kind of compass. Not a GPS, no. There’s no turn-by-turn audible voice telling you exactly what to do. But there is the inner voice–the compass that knows, even when the map is blank. And there are coordinates: love, service, awe, humility, and compassion. Yet faith may be one of the hardest to trust because we’re not 100% certain of the destination. At best, we have a hope that we will arrive. In the meantime, faith requires that we keep on moving, even when the road ahead is unknown and sometimes dark.

I scratch my head again, and I wonder: Why is it so easy to trust the voice in our vehicles–and so hard to trust the wisdom we’ve already been given?

I think I know. Maybe it’s because GPS promises certainty. It offers fast answers, smooth roads, and an almost soothing illusion that we are in control. Life doesn’t work that way. Life meanders. It doubles back. It throws in detours, delays, and dead ends. And unlike our vehicles’ voices, the inner systems that help us live well—truly live—don’t shout. They speak softly in hushed tones. They require attention. They assume we’re willing to participate.

Still, I wonder: what if we gave those quiet inner systems the same trust that we give the GPS?

What if we followed the map toward health, education, careers, relationships, aging, and faith—not perfectly, but faithfully? What if, when we made a wrong turn, we heard a calm voice say: Don’t worry. Recalculating. What if we believed it?

Maybe then we’d realize that we were never really lost. We were just rerouted, always headed in the right direction–home.

The Third Time’s the Charm — Now in Hardcover!

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Good news, friends!

The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed is now available in hardcover — alongside paperback and Kindle editions.

Whether you’re reading in bed, on your favorite chair, or anywhere your journey takes you, The Third Time’s the Charm promises to entertain, uplift, and inspire. Settle in and let the journey begin.

In this third volume of delightfully thought-provoking essays, I invite you into the most intimate spaces—both literal and metaphorical—of a life lived fully and authentically.
From Appalachian coal camps to deep connections with family, friends, and a loyal canine companion, these essays explore joy and loss, solitude and connection, memory and reinvention—with warmth, wit, and unflinching honesty.

You’ll find stories of dust bunnies and online dating, gardening and global warming, grief and the wonder of AI. Each essay offers a window into the universal truths that shape our lives, reminding us that every “postage stamp” of existence is rich, rooted, and uniquely ours.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Let’s keep turning pages together!

P.S. The hardcover version makes a pretty terrific gift — especially for anyone who loves life’s twists, turns, and unexpected laughter.

From Francesco’s Stew to the Sound of My Pounding Heart

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“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE; ancient Chinese philosopher and founder of Taoism. His teachings emphasize harmony with the natural flow of life.)

Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM.

With rhythmic precision, it keeps pounding just like my heart.

But it’s not my heart.

It’s my mind, beating to the same rhythm, chanting.

I want. I want. I want.

In my most recent chant, I wanted Francesco Mattano’s famed Peposo, a traditional Tuscan Red Wine Beef Stew. It’s so simple with just a few ingredients: garlic, beef, salt, coarsely ground black pepper, a bouquet garni, and red wine. Simmered for several hours and served up in a well of buttered polenta, it’s the recipe’s clean simplicity that makes it so sinfully delicious.

Altroché! That’s just what I wanted–an entree promising good-to-the-last-bite deliciousness. At the same time, I was well aware that I had leftover pork tenderloin as well as chicken salad.

Once upon a time, I would have rushed off to the grocery store, bought the provisions for Peposo, and celebrated another culinary triumph.

These days, however, even though my wants are as rhythmic as my heart, I am pulling back as I try to reconcile what I want with what I have.

With food, for example, I wanted Francesco’s stew, but I had pork tenderloin and chicken salad already prepared. The craving was there, but so was a perfectly good meal.

Take books, for example. I’ve dedicated decades of my life to Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and I’ve amassed a significant collection. But I want to chase after one more obscure letter or document that will make my already rich archive even richer.

What about dating? I want romance—not out of need, but out of hope. My life is full and meaningful, yet I’d love to share it with someone who brings his own fullness—a shared life made richer by both of us.

Even in garden centers, new specimen evergreens whisper, “Take me. Plant me.” But I already have a beautiful Zen-like landscape.

I’m also trying to reconcile what I want with what I need.

I might want dessert, but what I need is a meal that aligns with my health goals. I’m cutting out sweets but keeping nightly Bunnahabhain—for balance!

When it comes to fitness, I might want quick results, but I need consistency not as much in biking as in weight training.  At my age–no, at any age–real strength comes from steady, intentional effort.

What about my writing?  I want more time to write, but I need to manage my other commitments more wisely so that I have the time I need.

Even in relationships, I want certainty, but I need to let connections unfold naturally—his rhythm, my rhythm, coming into step together.

The more I realize that I don’t need everything I want and that, in reality, I already have what I need, the more I’m discovering new dimensions of freedom.

What had been a constant search for more, whether material things, achievements, or validation, has given way to peace.

What had been a scarcity mindset has become a focus on embracing abundance—not in excess, but in sufficiency.

What had been a notion that having more means being more has yielded to the realization that I’m already enough.

What had been impulse is now intentional as I make choices that nourish me rather than just satisfy my fleeting cravings.

I’m shifting from grasping to gratitude,
from craving to contentment.

I’m no longer mistaking wants for purpose.
I’m recognizing that growth, connection, and presence matter more.

I’m starting to trust the rhythm of life,
just like I trust the rhythm of my own heart.

My heart beats on, steady and sure—
not demanding, just existing.

It thumps a lesson that I’m learning:
I don’t have to chase every want.
What I need is already here—or on its way, arriving in the fullness of time.

And that, in itself, is everything.

The Rust Whisperer

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“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE. Founder of Taoism. His teachings focus on harmony with nature, patience in becoming, and the quiet power of letting life unfold in its own time.)

Every time I walked to my Jeep and looked toward the forest’s edge, I chuckled. Smack dab in front of me was a contraption the likes of which I had never seen in my life. Actually, I made it and even gave it a name. The Rust Spa.

“Say whaaaaat?” someone just rasped.

Yes. The Rust Spa. It didn’t take me long to come up with the idea. It works so well that I may apply for a patent and sell it to US Steel, the company that owns the trademark for Corten. You may know it as COR-TEN.

Either way–and rather ironically as you will discover–the COR stands for COrrosion Resistance and the TEN stands for TENsile strength. Corten is well-known for aging gracefully and creating a deep, natural tone as “the thickened oxide forms.” For me, that translates to aging gracefully as plain ole rust appears, and I actually love the deep rich natural brownish-red tone that metal takes on over time.

That’s exactly why I bought myself a Corten planter–for its trademark rusty patina. Of course, I realized when I bought it, that rusting would take time.

I knew it would take a long, long time when the planter arrived, and I opened the box. Behold! Sleek. Clean. Almost smug in its shine. Smooth bare metal, cool to the touch, untouched by time. No rust, no streaks, no signs of surrender. Just raw, industrial silver. It was so pristine it practically glinted in the morning sun, as if daring me to try to change it.

Change it, however, I would, and I knew my resolve from the start. In a bottle, I mixed equal parts of white vinegar and hydrogen peroxide with one tablespoon of salt per cup of liquid. Then I positioned the Corten planter on a stump near the forest’s edge, and every three hours or so, I sprayed it evenly like a soft mist of time.

After just a few applications, the raw steel started to shift—deep ochre streaks rippled down the surface, gathering in drips and blooms that caught the light like burnished velvet. The edges darkened, the face mottled, and the rust arrived quietly.

But I was eager for a little more fanfare. In that moment–and let history take note–I came up with the idea that will ensure my infamy: The Rust Spa. I wanted to speed up the alchemy. Easy peasy. I misted the planter with my magic spray of time. I put it inside a black yard bag to trap heat and moisture, both ideal for rust formation. Then, to keep it all in place, I inverted the delivery box and placed it on top. Voila! The Rust Spa.

The Rust Spa worked its quiet magic. When I disrobed the planter, it sat proudly on its stump throne, no longer silver and self-conscious, but cloaked in a deep, burnished rust. Its warm, mottled patina caught the light in uneven streaks, each drip and blush a quiet testament to time, to weather, to letting go. It no longer shouted; it hummed. And in that stillness, it held a beauty—neither flashy nor fresh but seasoned and settled. With a coat of boiled linseed oil, I sealed the patina in place, locking in that rich, rusty finish like a photograph of time itself.

Now, locked in time, it graces my deck in the middle of a rustic, wrought-iron table with stone top.

It’s there in all my comings and goings, and every time I cast admiring glances in its direction, I cast backward glances to my own life, to all the times when I wished to be older so that I could experience sooner all the things that I would experience later on at the appointed time.

When I was eleven and twelve, I was eager to be a teenager, so I could do the “cool stuff.” Looking back, I’m not certain what the “cool stuff” was. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t have a telephone. We had a TV, but why would I stay up late? For what? As for choices, I was known for making my own and for making them my way. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

After I reached my teenage years, I was eager to be sixteen. Even though we didn’t have a family car, my sister and her husband lived next door. Judy taught me how to drive, and I thought that I had arrived when I got my driver’s license. I’m not sure why. I suppose I dreamt of driving off into the sunset with the gay date that I didn’t have in the Chevy that I didn’t own. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

Then, of course, I was so eager to be eighteen, so I could get away from all the limitations of my home, my town, and my place. I did. I went to college in fast pursuit of me, myself, more authentic than the one I wasn’t really able to be in my home, my town, and my place. How ironic that I always went back on holidays and breaks. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

With my degree in hand, I was eager to start climbing the rungs of my career ladder. That’s just what I did, and it ended up being a twofer. I landed a position at The Library of Congress, at home in the place with all of the books. And I found myself living on Capitol Hill, at home with me as a gay guy, realizing that I wasn’t alone. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life to a place where I could learn more. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

The place turned out to be the University of South Carolina in Columbia, where I earned my doctor’s degree in philosophy and became an expert in American Literature, British Literature, Handpress Bibliography, and, more important, where I learned that an education softens character and keeps it from being cruel. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life to a place where I had been before: home. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

I circled back home to DC and the Library of Congress. A place of emotional grounding where I felt whole, safe, and—authentic. A place where I sensed spiritual and intellectual belonging. A place where I could elevate self-acceptance from fleeting to permanent. A place where I could wrap my arms around all with all that my mother taught me as a child about diversity, equity, and inclusion and, at the same time, widen my embrace to include gender identity and sexual orientation. A place where, through the power of my pen, I soared to heights higher than I ever dreamt that words could fly. Still, I was eager to be what I had dreamt of being since the third grade: a college English professor. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

Laurel Ridge Community College opened the door, and the dream was fulfilled. Imagine! Me–a professor. A desire to stretch my students helped me stand on tiptoe looking at the bright futures of more than 7,000 students for twenty-three years. And beyond fulfilling the professional dream was realizing another one. Falling in love and exchanging wedding rings. Two men living their lives openly. Proud. Explanations? None. The happiness of our twenty-year love outlives Allen’s unexpected death. Still, I was eager to write my final chapters. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

I’m writing them now as one more part of Reinvention. Ask all who know me. I did not reTIRE because I ain’t no ways tired. In fact, I’ve been reinventing myself forever, with every twist and turn of my journey. This most recent started in 2023, and it’s turning out to be one of the most creative and productive times of my life. Five published books with others in progress. Speaking engagements several times a year, including a few that showcase not only my hopes for AI to save us from ourselves but also my hopes for online dating to spirit another Mr. Right my way so that we can co-author the closing chapters together–his, mine, ours.

And here’s where I start to chuckle again. My Corten planter had absolutely nothing to do with achieving its exquisite and inexplicable patina. I did it by speeding up the process in my Rust Spa. I kept applying my mist of time until it achieved the look that I wanted. Then, I sealed it for all eternity.

And so it is with me. Despite all the times down through the years when I wished to be older so that I could experience sooner all the things that I would experience later on at the appointed time, I could do little more than wish and dream.

In reality, I had no more control over achieving my aged patina than my planter had. It’s been a journey filled with yearnings. To arrive. To become.

In reality, every time I was eager to be “somewhere next,” I had to wait on time to take me there.

In reality, I can no more see my finish than my planter can see its.

Yet I know that it’s seasoned.

Yet I know that it’s settled.

Yet I know that it’s not finished.

Still, of this much I am certain. When the appointed time comes, soft and magical mists will seal in place patinaed perfection.

An Unexpected and Charming Surprise

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“Holding a book in your hands is like holding another human being.“

—Leah Price (b. 1970. Literary scholar and historian of the book, known for her work on how and why we read across time and format.)

Well, this was unexpected—in the best possible way.

The paperback edition of The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed just became available—much earlier than planned! I was already celebrating the Kindle release today, and now, here comes the paperback joining the party.

So whether you’re a digital reader who likes to swipe beneath the covers, or someone who prefers the feel of a real book in hand, you now have options. The hardcover (with its fabulous dust jacket) is still on the way—but today, I’m just enjoying this double dose of charm.

This collection gathers 440 pages of essays written, as always, In Bed—thoughtful, humorous, grounded, and a little mischievous. If you decide to dive in, I hope it keeps you company, makes you smile, and maybe even nudges a memory or two of your own.

P.S. If you enjoy it, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a review. A few kind words go a long way in helping others discover this little book of big heart.

Still Foolin’ Around in Bed—Now Digitally!

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“Lovers of print are simply confusing the plate for the food.”

—Douglas Adams (1952–2001; British author and satirist best known for his cult-classic sci-fi series The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. he embraced e-books long before they were mainstream.)

Well, friends… it’s official.

The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed is now available on Kindle!

This is the first of three editions rolling out over the next couple of weeks. Today, I’m delighted to share the digital version for all of you who like to read with the lights off, your glasses on, and your e-reader tucked beneath the covers.

This collection gathers 440 pages of my most personal essays—stories that stretch from Appalachian coal camps to online dating, from gardening joys to philosophical musings, all written (as always) In Bed. There’s humor, heart, and a fair amount of reflection. If you’ve followed The Wired Researcher blog, you’ll recognize the voice. If you’re new, welcome to my little “postage stamp of native soil.”

Coming soon: the paperback edition, followed by the hardcover—with its delightfully mischievous dust jacket. I’ll be sharing more when each one arrives.

Until then, if you’re eager to start reading, the Kindle version is ready to crawl under the covers with you. I’d love to hear what resonates—and what surprises you.

P.S. If you enjoy it, a quick review on Amazon would mean the world. It helps other readers discover what you’ve found—and it gives my word messengers a better chance of finding their destination.

Redbuds of Remembrance

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“To be remembered, to have one’s name spoken—these are the most powerful things anyone can hope for.“

–Paul Monette (1945–1995; award-winning gay author, poet, and activist. His 1988 Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir was one of the first memoirs to document the AIDS crisis from a personal, unflinching perspective.)

Cercis canadensis—or Redbud, as we call it here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia—is blooming now, as April unfurls, splashing the forest with an unmistakable purple that defies subtlety. Not pink. Not lavender. But a wild, jubilant purple that dares the bare trees around it to remember what life feels like. Its blossoms don’t wait for leaves, and they don’t hide behind foliage. They burst straight from the bark, bold and tender all at once—like a memory that insists on being remembered.

They seem more magnificent this year, tugging at my heart more fiercely than ever before, making David’s words ring out above his gentle whisper:

“When the Redbuds bloom, remember me.”

David and I knew one another decades ago at the Library of Congress where we both worked in the United States Copyright Office. When we first met, David was a Cataloger, and I was a Technical Support Specialist and then Copyright Training Coordinator. We were hello-in-passing colleagues.

Later, a close and unexpected bond developed between us. I became the Library of Congress Intern Director, coordinating a 9-month program that brought together a dozen or so highly talented librarians from within the Library and across the nation, providing them with an in-depth understanding of the library’s collections, its services, and its management infrastructure.

Sitting in my office about two weeks before the program’s start, I looked up and saw David standing there. After I congratulated him on being selected for that year’s Intern class, he gave me a troubled look:

“Thanks. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Come on in.”

He closed the door as he entered. He sat down, sighed, and shot me another look that to this day remains in my memory as one of existential angst:

“I have AIDS.”

My reply hung in the air, like eternity:

“I’m so sorry.”

What else could I have said? It was 1985. Even though AIDS (Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome) was generally known to most Americans, as it spread within the gay community, it started making its way to sensational articles in national newspapers, leaving all of us–especially in the gay community–terror stricken.

● 37% in Poll Say AIDS Altered Their Attitude to Homosexuals

● Saliva Discounted as an AIDS Threat

● More and More AIDS Cases Found Among Drug Users

● Panel Disagrees Over AIDS Risk for Public

● Grim New Ravage of AIDS: Brain Damage

● Rock Hudson, Screen Idol, Dies at 59

I had read those articles and more, but they had not prepared me for this moment.

Sitting across the desk from me was not Rock Hudson. Not a brain-ravaged AIDS person. Not a drug user. Not any of the things that I had read about.

Sitting across the desk from me was my friend David. David, poised at a high point in his career. David, diagnosed with AIDS. David. Death.

Before my three words had reached David’s ears, I walked around to where he sat. As I stretched out my arms, David stood to receive my embrace. Each knowing that friends stand for friends. Each knowing that friends stand with friends.

“I don’t know what to do?”

“About what?”

“About starting the Intern program.”

I knew the answer that I was about to give David was true. It had nothing to do with being gay. Nothing to do with AIDS. It had everything to do with being. Everything to do with living.

“I don’t have a magic ball, David, but it seems to me that as you face unknown health issues, a structured program like this might just be the anchor that you need.”

“But what about my fellow interns?”

David was well aware that for the next nine months, we would all share a small classroom–with top library officials appearing and making presentations throughout the day. It was close quarters. It was rigorous. It was intense.

He was also well aware of the public reaction to AIDS. Fear was thick in the air—fear of infection, fear of proximity, even fear within the gay community itself. At one point, some wondered whether poppers had caused the epidemic.

“I don’t know how your fellow Interns will react, but I’d urge you to stick with the program. I’ll be with you every day, and I’ll have your back.”

David left my office, leaving each of us with lots to think about.

For David, thinking about whether to continue with the program or let a disease with an unknown trajectory–other than eventual death–take charge of his life and spirit.

For me, thinking about navigating the months ahead while remembering that I was directing the most prestigious Library Intern program in the nation.

Two weeks passed. No word from David. Hopeful, I went ahead and made his name tent, stacking it with the others. As I stood at the door, greeting each of the Interns, I saw David walking my way:

“Let’s do it!”

And do it, we did, for a succession of days strung together like a strand of survival pearls. Then, one day, just before we were breaking for lunch, David asked whether he could share something with his classmates.

I knew what was coming. I knew, too, that anyone with something to share knows better than anyone else not only when to share but also how to share.

David shared his news with them as bluntly as he had shared it with me, but his existential angst had softened, perhaps in the hope that a burden shared would become a burden lessened.

I watched each face in the room. I listened to every word. To every breath between the words. One by one, each Intern summoned courage to offer consolation, support, hope, and help. When the last among them had offered all they had to give, one spoke again, laying one thing more upon love’s altar:

“Let’s have lunch brought in so we can all stay here together. Today. With David.”

We did.

The spirit that shone around the room that day continued to shine upon us day after day, month after month, all the way through a triumphant Intern graduation with David as one of our speakers.

David and his fellow Interns proved themselves to be a class beyond measure.

Where many people spoke of separation, the Interns spoke of inclusion.

Where many people chose to remain socially ignorant, the Interns chose to embrace information as power.

Where many people practiced discrimination, the Interns practiced acceptance.

I like to think that all of us rose to the occasion. We did. At the same time, I know that it was David who helped us rise higher than we ever imagined simply because we were not trying to rise. We were just trying to be … ourselves. We were just trying to let him be … himself.

In David, we did not see the face of AIDS.

In David, we saw the face of humanity.

In David, we saw the face of ourselves.

In David, we saw the depth of our empathy.

In David, we saw the things that each of us valued most.

In David, we saw opportunities to be more present, to say “I love you” more, and to recalibrate the course of our own lives.

In David, we saw the face of our own mortality, our fears of not having lived fully, of leaving things unsaid, and of being forgotten.

Through David and with David, we grappled with all of those grave issues–spoken and unspoken–confident of being fellow travelers on a shared journey.

Through David, with the arrival of every new spring since–now numbering forty–I am wrapt by redbuds of remembrance.

Two Ways to Plant Boxwoods

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“We were just boxwoods until someone believed we could be part of something beautiful.”

–— Anonymous. Possibly the shy one in the corner.

Ten pots of Buxus Microphylla, or, as I prefer saying in plain English, Little Missy boxwoods—five per row, glossy green and neatly packed—sit patiently in the open bed of an Army Green Jeep Gladiator. It’s the last Saturday in March, early morning, overcast, but already brushing up against seventy degrees. The air hums with quiet possibility. The gravel drive crunches underfoot, the hills beyond still bare-limbed and watching. The day is waiting, hopeful. So are the boxwoods—waiting, hopeful, wondering—ready to take root in the earth but not yet knowing where.

One other player in this little drama unfolding before us is waiting–hopeful and wondering, too. That would be me. It’s been two weeks since I bought the boxwoods and asked Woodstock Gardens to hold them for me. I had been eyeing the weather forecast, and when I saw that Saturday’s temp would soar to 83°, I knew that the time had arrived for me and the Little Missy boxwoods to perform.

I knew where I wanted to plant them: along a stepped, stone pathway with a wide expanse of gardening space reaching out to the rock wall above that defines the walkway to my kitchen. Down through the years, lots of perennials have flourished there, mainly hardy bananas and lilies. But this past winter, I decided that small, evergreen patches would soften the stones and brighten the landscape year-round.

I expected putting in the Little Missy boxwoods to be straightforward. Position in place. Dig the holes. Tease the tangled root balls. Cover with topsoil. Water. Mulch. Those expectations defined my day, making me confident that I would move on to reclaiming the peony bed in the lower yard by early afternoon.

And so it would have been, I suspect, had I not decided to adjust a rock here and there with an eye toward little more than leveling them as they once were. I knew from the start that leveling one rock would lead to three to five and on and on. But what I didn’t expect was that the rocks would become my focus—not as a distraction from planting, but as a quiet joy, inviting me to sit and let them show me where they wanted to be. As I moved the rocks, the soil spoke to a past that I had created down through the years, with a fierce determination to turn mountain clay into fertile loam.

And there I sat with nowhere that I had to go and with nothing that I had to do other than sit right there, centered in nothing yet in everything.

I glanced at my Fitbit and realized that I would be a 1pm peony-bed no-show. But that didn’t matter. I had spaced my boxwoods exactly where I wanted them to begin with, but now they were framed by rocks whose voice I had heeded. I knew in that moment that this is the way to plant boxwoods.

I could brush this aside just as readily as I cradled the soil carefully around each boxwood.

But I won’t—because this wasn’t just a moment in the garden. It was a quiet revelation.

The stillness of that moment—just me, the rocks, the soil, and the Little Missy boxwoods—stirred something I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of another time I resisted the urge to rush. A time when I could have taken the more efficient path, but chose instead the one that felt truer, even if slower.

Years ago, colleagues and friends encouraged me to publish a selected edition of letters by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. “It’ll be faster,” they said. “Get it out there. Choose the best, the most representative.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to curate a highlight reel. I wanted to listen to her whole voice—every quiet, overlooked, handwritten and typed syllable of it. “If not me, who? If not now, when?”–I mused.

And so, I kept going. Year after year. Archives and attics. Libraries and ledgers. It took a decade, but in the end, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman bore an honest title and held honest content. Collected. 585 letters. All. No stone unturned.

What mattered as much as the scholarship was the joy of the journey. The small discoveries. The forgotten details. The moments when her voice, long quiet, seemed to rise again from the page, breathing life into a history nearly lost. Just like those rocks, just like that soil—I had to be still, to listen, to let her show me where she wanted to be.

Years later, my students came along. In my online classes, I interacted with each class as a whole, and with each student as they turned in their work. But I always made it a point to reach out to students who didn’t submit an assignment or who seemed to be slipping away. My messages weren’t elaborate—just a quick, casual “checking in with you.” I never knew where those simple interventions might lead.

More than once, a student replied to say they were struggling—juggling work, family, illness, or grief—and that my short note had stopped them from dropping the course altogether. From giving up.

Those became some of my most memorable teaching moments. I hadn’t said anything profound. I had simply shown up. And somehow, I had rolled away a small stone of darkness and doubt so that a student could glimpse light—and maybe even hope.

In each of these moments, I was doing what didn’t have to be done. No one would have faulted me for skipping a few rocks, publishing a selection of letters, or letting a silent student drift away. But something in me paused. Listened. Chose the slower path. Not because I had to—but because I could. If not me, who? If not now, when?

Maybe that’s the deeper truth. Not every action we take has to change the world. But every time we pause and ask If not me, who? If not now, when?—when we do the thing that doesn’t have to be done—we create the conditions where light can get in. Where roots can reach deeper. Where someone, or something, can grow.

It could be something as simple as picking up the phone to call someone who’s been on your mind. Or checking in on a neighbor whose curtains haven’t opened in days. It might be stopping to thank the cashier who’s clearly having a rough shift. Or finally taking the time to write that note of encouragement, apology, or love.

It could mean speaking up when a voice needs backing. Or standing back to let someone else shine. It might be mentoring a colleague, even when your plate is full. Or walking away from a quick fix to do something the right way, even if no one will notice.

It could be choosing kindness when sarcasm’s easier. Planting hope where cynicism wants to take root. Offering presence when no solution is in sight.

These aren’t dramatic acts. They’re just pauses. Moments when we choose to show up with care. To ask ourselves, If not me, who? If not now, when? And then to listen for the answer.

It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. Trusting that presence—not perfection—is what carries us forward. And knowing that when we show up, even quietly, the outcome will almost always be better, more beautiful, and far more rewarding.

A Glimpse Beneath the Covers (Book Covers, That Is)

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“Embrace the glorious mess that you are.”

–Elizabeth Gilbert (b. 1969. American author best known for her memoir Eat, Pray, Love, which became a global bestseller and cultural phenomenon. Her work blends introspection, humor, and an embrace of life’s messiness—much like the spirit behind my modest The Third Time’s the Charm.)

Guess what arrived in the mail today?

(Hint: it isn’t another gardening catalog—though those are always welcome at my house.)

It’s the printed proof of my next book, The Third Time’s the Charm. At 440 pages, it’s a whopper! This brand-new collection of personal essays is drawn from my The Wired Researcher Series. Today, I’m delighted to share the cover art with you. Once again, the art is by acclaimed caricaturist Mike Caplanis. Although he was inspired by the essay “What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?”, the book’s cover captures the spirit of this collection perfectly—thoughtful, mischievous, and comfortably tucked between the sheets.

This book is close to my heart. It’s a gathering of essays written—yes, literally, as you know already—in bed, where I do my most creative thinking and, often, my most honest writing. I hope these pieces reflect a voice that’s warm, a little witty, deeply rooted in everyday life, and shaped by the rhythms of memory, nature, and reflection.

William Faulkner once referred to his childhood landscape as “a postage stamp of native soil,” and in this collection, I’ve claimed one of my own. These essays rise from the soil that grounds me—Appalachian roots, coal camp memories, gardening, grief, and joy—and reach toward readers everywhere. I hope these pieces help you discover something true in your own story, too.

The book will be available very soon—just a few weeks away. For now, consider this a soft unveiling and a warm invitation. I’ll share more details soon, including where and how to get your copy. Until then, feel free to admire the cover, fluff your pillows, and prepare to join me—in spirit and in story—In Bed.

P.S. If you’d like to be among the first to know when the book is available, keep an eye here—or better yet, follow me if you’re not doing so already.