Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick

The Gospel of Biscuits. Or, I Don’t Want to Bother.

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“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver (1935–2019; American poet celebrated for her keen observations of nature, the human spirit, and the connection between the two. Oliver’s poetry encourages readers to engage deeply with the world around them and to embrace life’s moments with curiosity and intention.)

Crunchy fried chicken, its golden-brown crust crackling with every bite. Check. Pimento cheese potato salad, creamy and tangy, with just enough bite to earn nods of approval. Check. Green beans simmered long and slow, tender and rich with the deep, smoky whisper of a ham hock. Check. Sliced tomatoes, their sun-ripened juices glistening under a light sprinkle of salt. Check. Peach pie cooling on the counter, its buttery crust cradling syrupy, sun-warmed fruit, promising the perfect sweet finish. Check.

Dinner was falling into shape, as country as country could be—homey, solid, the kind of meal that settles deep and satisfies. Except I hadn’t made my sourdough biscuits. And it’s those damned biscuits that caused the problem.

Easy peasy. Sourdough discard. Flour. Butter. Milk. Salt. It’s hard to imagine that such a modest assemblage could rise up to become so flaky and tender, hundreds of layers as light and lofty as billowy clouds. But that always happens, in record time.

Get this. I had all the ingredients lined up, waiting for the gentle touch of my deft hands to spring into action. But with my measure mid-air, I stopped in a heated exchange of self-talk:

“I don’t want to bother.”

“Come on. They only take ten minutes.”

“But everything else is done. Why mess up the kitchen now?”

“Biscuits. You always make biscuits.”

“Not tonight.”

“Come on. Just mix the dough.”

“No.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“No. I won’t.”

I set the measuring cup down, exhaled hard, walked away, and floured one up to “I don’t want to bother.”

I’d like to think that ended my self-talk on that topic. It did, for a while. After all, with a meal that was a culinary triumph by anyone’s standards, who needs biscuits?

But here’s the thing. The next day, those biscuits got on my case. In reality, it wasn’t the biscuits. It couldn’t have been since I didn’t make them. It was the underlying reason for not making them that started eating away at me:

“I don’t want to bother.”

I mean, let’s face it. I could have said any number of things:

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m tired. I need a break.”

“With a spread like that, who needs biscuits?”

I didn’t say any of those things because they just weren’t true. My truth was what I had told myself:

“I don’t want to bother.”

Bother. That’s the word that stuck in my craw. Bother—a term that’s been around since at least 1842, when someone first wrote, “We can’t do it at all, we can’t be bothered.” And here I was, almost two centuries later, falling into the same trap.

Realistically, one single utterance should be no cause for alarm. Right? I’m not so certain.

What if it moved from biscuits to other areas of my life?

What about brushing Ruby, my best dog ever? It would be easier to let it slide.

What about publishing my blog posts, week after week after week? It would be a lot easier to skip a week here, there, forever.

What about pushing through with my daily biking routine? It would be a lot easier to bike fewer miles every day or to skip a day now and then.

What about finishing a major research project? It would be a lot easier to put it aside.

Luckily, I haven’t allowed “I don’t want to bother” to prevail. And look at the results.

I have a well-groomed faithful companion, Ruby. I have a blog with a track record for being published every Monday morning before seven just as regularly as clockwork. I bike 15-20 miles every day, seven days a week, knowing that it never gets easier. I just solved one of America’s greatest literary mysteries–Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina. The Humourist’s incisive voice will now be heard once more.

I hope, especially as I age, that I will never let “I don’t want to bother” prevail. Here’s why.

It seems to me that the more we avoid doing things, the smaller our world becomes. What starts as skipping small inconveniences—like making biscuits or brushing the dog—can gradually turn into avoiding new experiences, opportunities, and relationships. The mindset can shift from “I don’t want to bother” to the even more passive “I can’t be bothered.”

It seems to me that the best experiences in life often require an extra push—whether in personal growth, relationships, or creativity. Habitual avoidance means fewer “What if?” moments that lead to breakthroughs or unexpected joys. Sometimes we find ourselves in a rut, not because we lack talent, intelligence, or resources, but simply because we repeatedly choose the path of least resistance.

It seems to me that friendships and family connections need tending. If “I don’t want to bother” becomes the default, relationships slowly fade through neglect. This can lead to isolation, where we wake up one day and realize we haven’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks or months.

It seems to me that small decisions accumulate. If we regularly skip writing, gardening, dating, or learning new things, we might later look back and wonder, “What did I do with all that time?”

It seems to me that the difference between people who feel satisfied with life and those who feel unfulfilled often comes down to these small moments of effort—choosing to bother when it counts.

Believe me. The next time I serve up a meal like that—or any meal, for that matter—I won’t hesitate. I’ll bother.

The Art of Eating Crow

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“A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.”

–Alexander Pope (1688–1744; English poet and satirist, one of the most influential poets of the 18th century, whose wit and keen moral reflections in works like “The Rape of the Lock” and “An Essay on Man” secured his literary legacy.)

Eating crow is never easy. In fact, it’s downright tough, so much so that it takes a lot of willpower and gumption.

Oh, I’m not talking about eating crow as in the genus Corvus, those glossy black birds found in most parts of the world. I’ve never eaten one of them.

I’m talking about eating the kind of crow that we sometimes have to eat when we discover that we’re wrong. That’s a hard discovery to make. Let’s face it: it’s hard to fess up when we’re wrong. But let’s own up to it—sometimes the best thing to do is just eat crow and be done with it.

Take the stubborn husband who swore up and down he could fix the plumbing himself, despite his wife’s warnings. A few YouTube tutorials, a flooded bathroom, and an emergency call to the plumber later, he’s standing there, soaking wet, eating a big plate of crow.

Or the manager who brushed off an employee’s suggestion, only to watch the competition roll out the same idea—successfully. There’s no easy way to walk that one back, but let’s hope the manager at least had the sense to admit, “I should’ve listened.”

Then there’s the friend who mocked TikTok, Wordle, or Air Fryers, scoffing at the hype—until they tried it. And now? They’re sending out their Wordle scores every morning, scrolling TikTok before bed, and raving about how crispy their Brussels sprouts get. Yep. Crow. Served hot and fresh.

People have been “eating crow” since the dawn of human interaction so the list could go on and on, ranging from professional to personal and from funny to frustrating, but I don’t need to continue. Every item in the list captures the same universal realization: Oops … I was wrong. I didn’t understand.

Even though we’ve been eating crow for a long, long time, the phrase itself is surprisingly modern. It first appeared in 1885 in the Magazine of American History:

“‘To eat crow’ means to recant, or to humiliate oneself.”

By 1930, the phrase had taken on a more serious tone:

“I should merely be making an ass of myself if I accused someone and then had to eat crow” (E. Queen, French Powder Mystery).

By 1970, “eating crow” was used in a way that is close to what we all hope for when we use the phrase today:

“I was going to apologize, eat crow, offer to kiss and make up” (New Yorker)

Yep! Sometimes, eating crow comes with extra benefits.

These days, eating crow is firmly on the menu for anyone caught in the wrong. Actually, it was on my menu last week. Two servings of crow. That’s right. Two servings. Mind you, I haven’t been caught in the wrong because I haven’t done anything wrong other than having had some lingering thoughts down through the years about two Mary E. Wilkins Freeman scholars. I’ve now come to realize that I was wrong, or, more accurately, I’ve come to realize that I didn’t understand.

And since I’ve always believed that eating crow is most beneficial if done in public, let me lift the cloche and reveal my double portion.

My first portion is because of thoughts that I’ve had about Thomas Shuler Shaw, a librarian at the Library of Congress, who embarked on an ambitious project to write what would have been the first biography of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. His goal was to illuminate the life and literary contributions of this remarkable author who had died in 1930.

However, fate had other plans. Shaw’s 1931 biography, A Nineteenth Century Puritan, faced rejection from prominent publishers such as Harper & Brothers, Ladies’ Home Journal, and The Saturday Evening Post. I’ve always credited Shaw for persevering, at least enough to find a home for his meticulously curated scrapbooks and the typescript of his unpublished biography in the Rare Book & Special Collections Division at the Library of Congress. Those artifacts provide a rich tapestry of insights into Freeman’s life and work, and they certainly helped me with my edition of The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (Scarecrow, 1985).

Nonetheless, I wondered then as I do now: why didn’t Shaw continue his efforts to find a publisher? His book would have distinguished itself as the first Freeman biography. What impact might it have had on her literary reputation if the details of her life had been accessible to readers of the 1930s and 1940s?

My second portion of crow relates to another scholar working on a Freeman biography around the same time. Edward Foster wrote his Mary E. Wilkins Freeman: A Biographical and Critical Study in 1934 as his thesis when he was a candidate for the Doctor of Philosophy degree at Harvard University. The university accepted his thesis, but Foster didn’t complete his Harvard degree. He put aside his Freeman work until 1956 when he revised and published it as Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (Hendricks House).

Foster was direct when he explained the delay:

My thesis was accepted […] also for subsidized publication by Harvard Press. Lacking funds for subsidy and failing to get trade publication, I forgot the thing for nearly twenty years. MWF is only a small part of my career. (Foster to Brent L. Kendrick, ALS, October 24, 1973)

Nonetheless, I wondered then as I do now: why didn’t Foster try to find a publisher sooner than he did? What impact might it have had on her literary reputation if Foster’s details of her life had been accessible to readers of the 1930s and 1940s.

There. I’ve done it. I’ve eaten my two portions of crow. However, I have to do one more thing to help you understand the art of eating crow. To turn eating crow into an art requires divulging what prompted, in my case, not just one portion of crow but two in a single serving. That’s the source of the catharsis. That’s the confession, without which eating crow can never be an art.

Here’s mine.

Yesterday, I uploaded the manuscript of my forthcoming book Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina. My book definitively establishes Gordon (c. 1692–1754)—antiquarian, Egyptologist, scholar, singer, and later Clerk of His Majesty’s Council of South Carolina—as the author of The Humourist essays, restoring his rightful place in literary history.

I hesitate to say this, but the book is a significant scholarly work. It’s meticulously researched, not only unearthing a forgotten literary voice but also redefining our understanding of colonial American literature. While it’s structured with rigor, it remains highly engaging, making complex historical and literary analysis accessible without oversimplification. It’s not just a literary recovery; it’s a reframing of Charleston’s intellectual life, the role of satire in the colonies, and the transatlantic literary tradition. That’s no small feat.

To say that I am ecstatic is an understatement. I am.

But get this. I’ve been working on this book since 1973, when Professor Calhoun Winton of the University of South Carolina suggested that I try to solve this literary mystery. Published in the South-Carolina Gazette, the essays had been largely forgotten, and the identity of their author remained unknown.

At the time, I recognized their brilliance and used them as the foundation for a graduate paper. Then I put the project aside where it remained in my mental storehouse of “one-day, some-day” ideas, waiting for the right time.

Decades later, the Virginia Community College System (VCCS) gave me an extraordinary opportunity to return to that project, to bring these essays into the light, and to finally answer the question that had remained unanswered for centuries: Who wrote them?

As a VCCS Chancellor’s Professor (2012-2014), I answered that question and shared the essays and my ongoing findings with my blog readers right here. Actually, that’s when TheWiredResearcher had its beginning.

Ironically, I delayed publishing my watershed Unmasking The Humourist until now.

You may be wondering about my delays, just as I wondered about Foster’s delays and Shaw’s delays.

I’ve been wondering about my delays, too, and that’s why I’m eating crow.

I could toss out many reasons:

● The Humourist essays seemed too short for a book and too long for a scholarly article.

● I wanted to make certain that my evidence for claiming Alexander Gordon as the author was as compelling as my discussion.

● I wanted to do further research so that my headnotes and endnotes for the essays were comprehensive.

All of those reasons are true.

I won’t toss into that mix other scholarly pursuits that came my way.

I won’t toss into that mix my early career advances as a federal employee or my second career advances as an educator.

I won’t toss into that mix caring for aging parents.

Actually, I won’t toss into that mix anything else because what became obvious to me when I uploaded Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina was something seriously simple. We all lead complex, complicated, and convoluted lives.

● I know that truth firsthand.

● You likely do as well.

● So, too, did Edward Foster.

● So, too, did Thomas Shuler Shaw.

Wondering about their delays caused no harm, but I now see there was no need to wonder at all. I might simply have acknowledged what I’ve come to recognize in my own self-talk about The Humourist:

Life is rich, robust, and mysterious, and it rarely marches forward on a straight path.

As I move forward on my path, I’ll keep that truth in mind as I interact with others—and with myself. And with that heightened awareness, perhaps I really will have mastered the art of eating crow.

When the Well Runs Dry: Writers’ Fears about Running Out of Ideas

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“A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.”

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900–1944; French writer, aviator, and philosopher, best known for The Little Prince. His works explore themes of human connection, imagination, and the search for meaning.)

Knife raised in the air, just a few inches or so above the kitchen counter, I stood there nearly motionless. I’d like to say that it was one of my better knives, maybe my Shun or my Wüsthof. But it wasn’t. I’d like to say that it was about to land on one of my better cutting boards, maybe my Boos or my Ironwood. But it wasn’t. And I’d like to say that I was about to execute some fancy-schmancy cut, maybe Chiffonade or Julienne. But I wasn’t.

I was just standing there with ordinary carrots, celery, and onions arranged on an ordinary cutting board as I minced them with my ordinary paring knife for an ordinary pasta sauce.

But as I stood there, something extraordinary happened in that ordinary moment.

Just as my knife was coming down, Billy Collins’ “I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of ‘Three Blind Mice'” seemed to shimmer across the blade. Maybe that was to be expected. I love Billy Collins’ poetry, and, after all, there I stood chopping, and in Collins’ poem, there he stands chopping parsley and dicing onions.

But get this. As he wields his knife, he’s not at all concerned about how or why, in the nursery rhyme—the supposed thrust of his bluesy poetic mirepoix—the mice managed to be in the direct path of the farmer’s wife’s blade. Of course, he’s not. We all know how that story ends. But at that moment, standing in my own kitchen, I had no idea how mine would.

But Collins does something I’ve never seen anyone else do. Instead of focusing on how the mice lost their tails, which we know already, he sets up his own minor tragedy filled with blues and tears by raising questions about their blindness:

Was it congenital?

Was it a common accident?

Did each come to blindness separately,

How did they manage to find one another?

After posing those weighty questions–ones that I dare say most of us have never even vaguely contemplated–Collins gets emotional as he thinks about the mice without eyes and without tails running through moist grass or slipping around a baseboard corner.

Actually, he’s brought to tears, but don’t worry. He has two good covers:

By now I am on to dicing an onion
which might account for wet stinging,
in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s
mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”
which happens to be the next cut,
cannot be said to be making matters any better.

There you have it. Just as the end of Collins’ poem trailed across the blade, my knife landed once more on the veggies, and I remembered what I had been thinking before Billy Collins had the nerve to drag the farmer’s wife’s mice and Art Blakey’s music into my kitchen uninvited.

I was recalling Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, best known for her A Humble Romance and Other Stories as well as A New England Nun and Other Stories. At the start of her acclaimed literary career that spanned nearly a half century, she commented:

I wonder if there is such a thing as working a vein so long that the gold ceases to be gold. There is no use in worrying, for another vein might open.

Despite her concerns, her literary canon powerfully demonstrates that more than one gold vein opened for her. She went on to write 3 plays, 14 novels, 3 volumes of poetry, 22 volumes of short stories, over 50 uncollected short stories and prose essays, and 1 motion picture play.

Freeman’s literary output never ceases to amaze me. As soon as her fears and successes bubbled up in my mind, it seemed that every time I lifted my knife to continue chopping, I thought of other writers and their fears about running out of ideas.

As a writer myself, and especially as a former Creative Writing professor, I’ve always paid attention to the ways writers wrestle with their fears. I always managed to sprinkle writers’ fears and their successes throughout my classes, and these days, I try sprinkling the same reminders throughout my own days of doubt.

What about Stephen King, one of the most prolific and celebrated writers of our time, who has openly feared creative depletion? He once admitted:

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ve already written my best book. And if I have, I’m all done.”

But King’s fears didn’t stop him. He continued to write, producing novels across multiple decades, from Misery to The Green Mile, 11/22/63, and Billy Summers, proving that the well of creativity runs deeper than we sometimes believe.

What about Margaret Atwood, best known for The Handmaid’s Tale, who has openly acknowledged her anxiety about running out of ideas? She once said:

“I live in fear of running out of ideas. I tell my subconscious to keep the pipeline full.”

But Atwood’s fears didn’t stop her. She has continued to produce groundbreaking fiction, essays, and poetry well into her later years, including The Testaments, which won the Booker Prize decades after her first major successes.

What about Isaac Asimov, the visionary mind behind Foundation and I, Robot, who, despite his prolific output, still feared creative emptiness? He once asked:

“What if suddenly I can’t think of anything? What if the words stop coming?”

But Asimov’s fears didn’t stop him. He went on to publish over 500 books across multiple genres—science fiction, history, and even chemistry—proving that creativity is not finite but ever-expanding.

What about Louisa May Alcott, best known for Little Women, who felt the pressure of creative exhaustion, particularly because she wrote at a relentless pace to support her family? She once confessed in her journal:

“I can only wander and wait, wishing I could rush into a new book with the old eagerness.”

But Alcott’s fears didn’t stop her. Despite her anxieties, she went on to write Little Men and Jo’s Boys, along with numerous other novels, short stories, and essays that secured her place in literary history.

What about Neil Gaiman, the imaginative force behind American Gods and Coraline, who has openly admitted that the idea of creative depletion haunts him? He once said:

“People ask me where I get my ideas from, and I feel like they should be asking, ‘How do you keep from running out of ideas?’ Because that’s what terrifies me.”

But Gaiman’s fears didn’t stop him. He has continued crafting captivating stories across novels, graphic novels, and television, proving that creativity is a muscle that strengthens with use, not one that simply wears out.

What about Maya Angelou, the legendary poet and memoirist, who feared that one day her words might simply stop? She once admitted:

“I have written eleven books, but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’”

But Angelou’s fears didn’t stop her. She continued to write, speak, and inspire, producing Even the Stars Look Lonesome, Letter to My Daughter, and numerous volumes of poetry that touched lives around the world.

And what about Christopher Isherwood, best known for The Berlin Stories (which inspired Cabaret), who worried about creative stagnation, especially as he aged. He once wrote:

“I kept asking myself: What am I really doing? Do I have anything left to say?”

But Isherwood’s fears didn’t stop him. He went on to write A Single Man, one of the most important gay novels of the 20th century, as well as an acclaimed series of autobiographical works well into his later years.

My reveries into literary fears and successes could have lasted forever. But just as I finished with Isherwood, I looked down at my ordinary carrots, celery, and onions arranged on an ordinary cutting board, and I realized that I had finished mincing them with my ordinary paring knife.

In that moment, I remembered that my reverie had not started with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Billy Collins at all. It had commenced with me standing there, wondering: What would I do if I ran out of ideas? What would I do if I worked my literary vein so much that whatever little gold it might have ceased to be gold?

But I can’t worry about that right now. I have a few book titles to my own credit, with two more to be added this year. For now, I’ll continue to contemplate the ordinary truths that surround me in my ordinary world.

Who knows. Maybe one day, history will add my name to the list of writers who feared running out of ideas—but never actually did.

A Forgotten Voice, A Solved Mystery—And Soon, A Book

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“What is research but a blind date with knowledge?”
— Will Harvey (b. 1963; computer scientist and entrepreneur known for his contribution to the field of interactive entertainment.)

“The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”
— Samuel Johnson (1709-1784; poet, essayist, moralist, and lexicographer, best known for compiling A Dictionary of the English Language, 1755.)

Years ago, I solved one of the greatest literary mysteries in early American history. The Humourist—a sharp-witted, enigmatic essayist whose work graced the front page of The South-Carolina Gazette in 1753 and 1754—had been lost to time, his identity obscured by history.

Through meticulous research—poring over newspapers, historical records, forgotten manuscripts, and overlooked clues—I solved the mystery, uncovering the man behind the words—his identity, his world, and the forces that led to his disappearance.

I shared my discovery with the world through my copyrighted blog, laying bare the identity of The Humourist. But there was more to be done. Solving the mystery was only the beginning.

Now, after years of refining my research, the book I’ve long envisioned is finally becoming a reality. Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina, will be a available in September. It’s a definitive edition that not only reveals The Humourist’s true identity but also presents his essays in full, with critical commentary, historical context, and meticulous annotations. This is not just a rediscovery; it is a restoration of one of the most significant but overlooked literary voices of Colonial America.

Why This Book Matters

This is more than just the story of an anonymous writer. It’s about:

● Colonial America’s literary landscape and its connections to the great essay traditions of England.

● The power of satire in shaping public discourse—even in a bustling port city like Charleston.

● The intersection of literature, politics, and history, as seen through the eyes of a writer who was both an observer and an insider.

For the first time, The Humourist’s essays will step out of the yellowed pages of The South Carolina Gazette and into the full light of historical and literary analysis.

The Book Will Arrive This Fall

This carefully curated edition will include:
● All of The Humourist’s essays, fully annotated.
● A critical introduction that explores his identity, influences, and legacy.
● A deep dive into the historical and literary significance of his work.
● A call for further scholarly research into this long-forgotten but pivotal writer.

Stay Tuned!

Over the coming months, I’ll be sharing exclusive glimpses into the book’s publication journey, including its official launch. Follow my blog for exclusive updates—you won’t want to miss what’s next!

I solved the mystery years ago. Now—early this fall—the book that brings #The Humourist back to life will be available not only on Amazon but also in a bookstore near you!

A Culinary Heist in Broad Daylight

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“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”

–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom.

Rare is the occasion that finds me speechless, but this may be one of them. I h ave come up with an idea whose brilliance is beyond brilliant, and the only way that I know how to share it is in the context of a comment that Oscar Wilde may have made on January 3, 1882. When he disembarked from the ship that brought him to New York and went to the Customs House, government agents asked their standard question: 

“Do you have anything to declare?“

Wilde supposedly answered: 

“I have nothing to declare except my genius.”

I realize, of course, that I must tweak Wilde’s quote if it is to serve my purpose, and I will do so. I think there’s nothing wrong with doing that. Actually, I think it’s fine and dandy since I have given him credit, though I don’t see why that’s really necessary since the attribution to Wilde is more than likely erroneous. But I will err on the side of my integrity by retaining the probable misattribution. I have changed the quote by one word, albeit a significant one, thereby making it my own. Henceforth, it will be mine. All mine.

“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”

Many of you–my Dear Readers–know about my culinary genius already, because I have hinted at it from time to time. However, my FB followers know about it far better because with them, I know no shame. I post frequent photos of my culinary masterpieces. Truthfully, I like to think of them as Food Porn. Only a few days ago, I shared my unabashed celebration of culinary desire, where a crackling sourdough Margherita pizza stole the spotlight. It had a blistered crust, air pockets rose like tiny golden mountains, bubbling mozzarella stretched into molten strands, and fresh basil leaves fluttered atop like green confetti. And get this. My photo showed it being served up before a roaring kitchen fireplace. It was more than just a meal. It was a hearthside seduction, a slow dance of flavors and flickering flames, teasing all the senses and leaving anyone looking utterly and deliciously captivated.

Inevitably, when I share those food porn photos, at least one person–usually more than one–comments:

“You need to publish a cookbook.”

I decline, demurely.

After all, I have so many other books in the fire that tackling a cookbook has always struck me as more than I can swallow. But things changed just the other day when I took a hankering for some Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs. I love them, and they’re not that difficult to make. I Googled a recipe, and one by NYT Cooking popped up! Hot damn! I decided that I’d go with it. Then I discovered that in order to see the full recipe, I’d have to subscribe, and these days with the price of eggs going up and up and up, I just can’t afford to subscribe to recipes.

I just kept right on Googling, and before long, I discovered the same recipe splattered everywhere. That set me to thinking about Copyright infringements. Not to worry! Did you know that you can’t get a copyright or a patent on a recipe?

“Say whaat?”

It’s true. I won’t get into the (legal) weed(s), but recipes themselves can’t be copyrighted. However, if the recipe involves a unique step or process or if it takes on a literary twist, then it can be.

Unique literary twist???

OMG! Am I literary and twisted or what? I know how to fool around with words. This is super sweet. I’ll play around with one recipe–the NYT Cooking recipe for Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs that I found verbatim on multiple websites without a crumb of credit given on any.

Give me a minute or five. I swear it won’t take long. I’m good with foolin’ around. BRB.

See. That didn’t take long at all. I just came up with a razzle-dazzle literary narrative to go with the recipe:

“I remember the first time I had them—golden, fragrant, and suspiciously addictive. A close acquaintance, let’s call him ‘Brentford Lee’ (because that’s his real name), swore he had perfected the recipe himself. ‘A dash of this, a pinch of that,’ he said, waving his hand like some sorcerer of Southeast Asian flavors. I nodded, politely chewing, my palate deciphering the unmistakable signature of a recipe I’d seen before. Somewhere.

“Of course, it didn’t take much sleuthing to confirm my hunch. The same ratios, the same sequence—right down to the crushed Ritz crackers binding it all together. A carbon copy of a certain prestigious publication’s recipe, passed off as Brentford Lee’s divine inspiration. But could I call him out? No, no. We live in the Age of No Credit, where recipes are pilfered like unattended bicycles and reposted without so much as a footnote.

“So I let him bask in his culinary genius, even as I swirled my meatball in a bit of nuoc cham and smiled. ‘Brilliant, Brentford Lee. Just brilliant.’ Meanwhile, I tucked the recipe into my mental vault—because in this lawless land of recipe anarchy, the only rule is to steal it back.”

I had no sooner drafted that dazzling literary narrative than I realized I was on to something. I could do an entire cookbook, stealing recipes from the world’s most renowned chefs, dress them all up in my literary garb–the recipes, not the chefs though that’s (food) porn for thought, too–compile them into a newfangled cookbook arranged by food categories like Appetizers, Salads, Soups, Mains, and Desserts, publish the book, and file my Copyright.

And just to bring this heist full circle, I’ve decided to submit my proposal to NYT Cooking. I figure, if they’re going to make me pay for recipes, they might as well pay me for the privilege of publishing my stolen ones first. A fair trade, don’t you think?

“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”

Let’s see, I think you, my Dear Readers, deserve a modest tasting menu of what my extraordinarily extraordinary cookbook will be like so that I can pleasure your palate.

APPETIZERS: A PRELUDE TO LARCENY

“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”

–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom

Every great heist starts small. A lifted truffle from a posh soirée. A swiped canapé from a silver tray when the host isn’t looking. A recipe, pilfered in broad daylight, then draped in literary velvet until it’s unrecognizable from its humble origins.

This section is the opening act, the whispered promise of what’s to come. Here, I present to you the stolen first bites—the small, seductive preludes to full-blown culinary mischief. Grab a plate. No one’s watching.

SALADS: LEAFY DECEPTION

“A salad is merely a plate of stolen ingredients pretending to be virtuous.”

—Me, again, because who’s stopping me?

Salads are the original confidence tricksters of the culinary world. They lure you in with the promise of health and innocence, then smother you in cheese, nuts, crispy bits, and a dressing so rich it might as well be dessert. They are gilded greenery, whispered excess, a balancing act between penance and indulgence.

And so, in keeping with the Age of No Credit, I present a selection of salads—each one an outright theft, draped in just enough literary flourish to make it legally mine. Grab your fork. Justice is dressed and ready to serve.

SOUPS: LIQUID LARCENY

“A good soup is like a well-told lie—it simmers, deepens, and by the time you taste it, you don’t even care where it came from.”

—A philosopher (probably). Or me (definitely).

Soup is the ultimate culinary illusion—a cauldron of borrowed flavors, a slow-simmered scam where even the simplest broth has a backstory so tangled in history, no one really knows who made it first. And that’s exactly why it belongs in this book.

Ladle deep, my Dear Readers, into the warm, uncharted waters of plagiarism, where the spoons are heavy, the bowls are bottomless, and the only thing hotter than the bisque is the lack of attribution.

MAINS: GRAND THEFT ENTREE

“Behind every great main course is a chef who swiped the idea from someone else first.”

–Not Escoffier, but could have been.

This is where the stakes get serious. The main event. The crown jewel of culinary heists. A place where time-honored traditions meet a well-timed Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.

Here, I serve up lavishly pilfered plates—steaks seared with someone else’s technique, roasts glazed in repurposed brilliance, pastas dressed in the creativity of long-forgotten hands. And yet, because I have woven them into my own dazzling narrative, they are now mine. All mine.

Bon appétit, legally speaking.

DESSERTS: SWEET, SWEET PLUNDER

“The best things in life are stolen. Ask anyone who’s ever ‘borrowed’ a cookie recipe and never returned it.”

—A confectionery thief with no regrets.

Dessert is the final seduction, the last laugh of the larcenous chef. Here, sugar and butter conspire in broad daylight, drizzled in caramelized deceit, dusted with the powdered sugar of plausible deniability.

From towering cakes to pies with scandalous backstories, I offer you this sticky-fingered collection of confections—every one taken, tweaked, and rebranded with just enough literary flourish to make it legally binding.

Because in the Age of No Credit, the only sin greater than theft is not licking the spoon.

_____________________

Voila! I have just uncloched the sections of my forthcoming cookbook. Maybe I’ll title it Cooking with Oscar. Or how about Culinary Heists of a Wilde Chef? I’ll keep thinking, but here’s the great part. What I’ve disrobed right here in front of you is protected by Copyright already because my blog is Copyrighted. All that remains for me to do is continue scouring the Internet. Whenever I find a recipe worthy of stealing in broad daylight, I shall do so. Then I shall dress it up–or down–in literary flamboyance and insert it into the proper section of my culinary opus in progress.

Food has never tasted this good, and, to think, it all began with my honest effort to find a Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatball recipe. I guess it just goes to prove that a good recipe is not hard to find.

Finding Love Later in Life—Baggage and All

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“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862; American philosopher, naturalist, and writer whose reflections on love, like his views on life, emphasize depth, authenticity, and resilience.)

Trust me: I can’t sing. I can’t hit the high notes. I can’t hit the low notes. Honestly, I’m not even sure I recognize the notes. But that doesn’t stop me from trying, and when my vocal efforts disappoint even me, I just switch to humming and keep right on going.

I’ve been doing that a lot for the last few days, I guess because February is the month of love, and, at 77, I have a large repertoire of love songs filed away mentally in my jukebox of melodies, most from the 1960s when my teenage head was full of love notions.

I’m thinking of songs like Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me,” The Crystals’ “Then He Kissed Me,” The Beatles’ “And I Love Him,” Sonny & Cher’s “I Got You Babe,” and The Bee Gees’ “To Love Somebody.”

I could croon on and on with those golden oldies. But right now, I’m thinking of one that was released on November 21, 1961, the day after I turned fourteen. It’s Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love”:

Wise men say
Only fools, only fools rush in
Oh, but I, but I, I can’t help falling in love with you

[…]

Take my hand
Take my whole life too
For I can’t help falling in love with you
For I can’t help falling in love with you

Those lyrics capture a truth about love that we’ve all experienced and know first-hand. When Cupid shoots his arrow, you’re filled with uncontrollable desire. You just can’t help yourself. You’re a goner.

Here’s another thing to consider.  Cupid strikes at times when you least expect it and in places where you’d never dream. Remember Manfred Mann’s “Do Wah Diddy Diddy”?

There he was just a-walkin’ down the street, singin’
“Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do”
Snappin’ his fingers and shufflin’ his feet, singin’
“Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do”
He looked good (Looked good)
He looked fine (Looked fine)
He looked good, he looked fine
And I nearly lost my mind

Lord knows he looked mighty fine to me. Lord knows, too, that I lost my mind, many a time, in those days. When nothing came of my uncontrollable desires, I just hummed another classic love song, “Some Day My Prince Will Come”:

Some day my prince will come
Some day I’ll find my love
And how thrilling that moment will be
When the prince of my dreams comes to me
He’ll whisper, I love you
And steal a kiss or two
Though he’s far away
I’ll find my love some day

All of those lyrics are spot on, and you know why as well as I do.

When you’re young, you’re convinced that your prince will come.

When you’re young, you fully believe that he’ll come a-walkin’ down the street, right toward you. When he passes, he’ll look back to see if you’re looking back to see.

When you’re young, you’re so full of yourself that you’re not about to listen to all the wisdom in the world pleading with you not to rush into love, telling you that only fools are brazen enough to do so.

When you’re young, you’re certain that you’re ready to love, ready to find your soulmate, and ready to offer up your whole life. Why not? Your whole life lies ahead of you as you lie in bed, dreaming about how sweet it will be when “I” becomes “We.” You create little mantras each beginning with We Can:

● buy our first home together, pick out furniture, argue over paint colors, and plant roots.

● build careers together, support each other’s ambitions, and figure out work-life balance.

● start a family (or not), decide whether to have children, get a pet, and shape a shared future.

● travel together, dream about Sedona and Scotland, and road-trip just because.

● make traditions, holidays, Sunday morning pancakes, little rituals that become “ours.”

● grow old together idyllically, just as English poet Robert Browning would have everyone do:

Grow old along with me!
 The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.

All of these things feel right when you’re young because time is on your side. Love feels like an open road. And it is. More lies ahead than behind.

Trust me. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. The love I shared with Allen was like a twenty-year fairy tale, even if it did come along later in life than I expected. But love doesn’t always last a lifetime. Sometimes, death claims it, as it did mine. Other times, it’s cut short by separation or divorce. And for some, it never arrives at all—not for lack of wanting, but because life has a way of unfolding differently than we imagined.

Now here’s where you have to work with me, especially if you’re an older person like me looking for love once more to round out life’s final act.

When you’re older, things are a little different. You’ve already bought your first home together, built careers together, started a family (or not) together, traveled together, made traditions together, and grown old together.

You get it, I’m sure. When you’re older, you’ve already done all of the We Can’s that you dreamt of when you were young. Those love feats shaped you, molded you, and will be with you forever. It’s your baggage, and even if you wanted to get rid of it you couldn’t. When you’re looking for love later in life, you realize that in all likelihood more lies behind you that ahead of you. No problem. Longevity is not guaranteed to anyone, not even the young. So, be bold and be willing to step into a bright new tomorrow with a brand-new lover, but as you do, be ready to reconcile the past, yours and his.

It is possible to do that, you know. I’m thinking of a famous American short story where the protagonist is able to reconcile four past lives that ironically come together in ways that cannot be avoided. In Edith Wharton’s “The Other Two” (1904), it happens with an almost comedic inevitability.

Waythorn, a successful businessman in his late 30s, has just married Alice, a poised and pragmatic woman in her mid-to-late 30s, twice divorced with a 12-year-old daughter. He assumes her past is neatly behind her—until it isn’t. First, he finds himself dealing with Haskett, Alice’s first husband, a quiet, working-class man likely in his late 40s or 50s, who remains involved in their daughter’s life. Then comes Varick, Alice’s second husband, a smooth and socially active businessman in his 40s, who reappears through business dealings.

Before long, all three men find themselves in the same room, sipping tea like old acquaintances, their lives inextricably linked by Alice. What should be unsettling instead becomes an exercise in adaptation. Waythorn comes to accept that Alice isn’t burdened by her past—she’s shaped by it. Indeed, she has baggage—but baggage is just another word for experience, and experience, he realizes, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Waythorn may not have married an untouched ideal, but he has married a woman seasoned by life—poised, pragmatic, and undeniably her own person.

I’m thinking, too, of a more recent literary work where the protagonists must reconcile their pasts as they navigate love later in life. In Elizabeth Strout’s Olive, Again (2019), it happens with an almost startling inevitability.

Olive Kitteridge, in her 70s, has spent a lifetime being sharp, independent, and sometimes difficult. She’s lost her husband, Henry, and has settled into widowhood, resigned to a future of solitude. Then along comes Jack Kennison, a retired Harvard professor, also in his 70s, widowed, stubborn, and carrying regrets of his own. They meet hesitantly, two people who never expected to find companionship again, both acutely aware that their pasts don’t just vanish with a new beginning.

Their baggage doesn’t disappear; it sits beside them at the table. Olive and Jack don’t have the luxury of youthful romance, where love is a blank slate. Instead, love at their age requires a different kind of bravery. Not the reckless kind of “jump in and build something new,” but the quiet courage of “I accept you, scars and all. Can we walk forward together?” And somehow, despite everything that came before, they do.

Isn’t that something? Love can come even later in life—maybe even for me. I’ll carry my baggage with me, including Allen’s love that can never be replaced. And let’s face it: if the man I fall in love with as we write our final chapters together is the right fit for me, he knows that Allen can’t be replaced. He accepts it because he has his own past loves, too, and I will accept them. More importantly, he knows that he and I can have a brand-new love, unique and special, unlike any love that either of us has ever enjoyed in the past.

For now, I just can’t help myself. I’m in a Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy place in my life—hopeful, open, humming along. And why not? Love has found its way to others, even when it seemed unlikely. I am confident that my prince will come.

Maybe love won’t come the way it did when I was young, but I know this: the heart doesn’t close with age, and mine is still wide open as I keep reminding myself that love is all about:

● knowing the past is always present—but choosing to love anyway.

● making space at the table, even if there are ghosts.

● finding someone whose baggage complements my own.

● laughing over dinner, even if we’ve both told the same old stories before.

● realizing that February isn’t just for the young.

● looking ahead, even when there’s more behind.

Perhaps, most important of all is this: believing that it’s still possible to find love later in life–baggage and all.

Too Big to Handle

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“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass but about learning to dance in the rain.”

—Vivian Greene (American author and motivational speaker who focuses on themes of personal growth, resilience, and embracing life’s challenges.)

Winter settled in early here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Its chill, chillier. Its still, stiller. With night temps below zero and day temps hovering in the teens and twenties, my mountain road became ice layer upon ice layer. Snow still blankets the Great North Mountain Range across the valley, ridgelines shadowed, deep furrows of gray wrinkles defining sharp and rugged terrain lulled into surrender.

As I bring my glance closer to home, I see my wrap-around, snow-covered deck, and in the midst of the floating whiteness is a fire-engine-red hand cart.

I smile as it transports me to last year when my deck, always my above-ground oasis, became a special summer escape. I spent weeks getting down and dirty, scraping off years of deck paint and putting on new primer and new paint. It looked so beautiful that I decided to make it even more special than usual. I married lush greens and artful design, allowing nature and human craftsmanship to merge mid-air. The solid presence of four Adirondack chairs and matching lounger–rich burgundy slats with jet black frames–offered a ready invitation to sit, glide, recline, and be. The rugs defining the sitting areas–bursts of Oriental color and abstract design with blues, pinks, and golds–grounded the whole deck.

I won’t even blush by telling you that my plants last summer stole the show. My tall, stately night-blooming Cereus stretched upward as if trying to touch the sky, while elephant ears fanned outward, their broad, green leaves catching the light just so. The royal purple Musa banana plants, their wide leaves giving off a tropical vibe, reminded me daily that tropical life can flourish for a season, right here on my mountaintop deck. Tucked betwixt and between, smaller pots cradled succulents and geraniums and ferns, almost spilling into the space, their feathery fronds adding softness to the more structured, towering greens. For me, it all felt perfectly placed yet organic, as if my deck had become one with the natural world that surrounds it.

It’s my summer space to unwind, reflect, and listen to the rustle of the breeze, framed by the valley and mountains beyond. It always seems perpetually forever.

Yet, I always know that when fall arrives, my deck morphs into a transition space, caught between seasons. I always move the houseplants indoors, leaving behind scattered soil, stray leaves, and colorful rugs peppered with dirt—a stark contrast to the vibrant life that flourished there just a few days before the march indoors began.

I’ve always loved this parade of plants. I loved it more when I was younger, and my muscles could handle the massive ceramic pots and even larger plants that were a gardener’s eye candy. This past year, the plants seemed lusher, the pots seemed larger, and everything seemed heavier.

I realized that in order to keep the parade moving, I needed a hand cart to help with what had become too big to handle. The cart worked beautifully. Together, we moved the pots so that I could roll up the rugs and ready the deck for its long winter sleep.

When I finished, I left the fire-engine-red hand cart on the deck, right where it made its final lift. I wanted it to stand out, bold and purposeful, a conscious and constant reminder of the options I had when I discovered that the pots and plants on my deck were too big for me to handle.

In that moment, I could have decided that too big to handle was fate’s way of telling me to give up–to stop doing what I’ve spent decades doing; to stop enjoying what I’ve spent decades enjoying. I do not believe the season will ever come when I’ll sigh:

“Enough. I’m done.”

But if that season should arrive, I like to think that I will celebrate it triumphantly with all the notes my feeble gardener’s voice can warble.

Then again, I could have decided that too big to handle was a subtle nudge to scale back, to embrace smaller pots and smaller plants. I know that season may come when I’ll answer the call of the bonsai.

Standing there, however, I realized that too big to handle was not a defeat, but instead, it was an opportunity for me to get the job done differently.

You might be wondering why I didn’t decide to hire someone to move the pots and plants for me. If they’d been in the yard, I might have. To me, the deck is personal, even sacred. It’s me, myself, reaching out to touch the forest beyond and the sky above. The sky and forest reach back, their touch completing the connection. Somehow, the deck is me–one with the universe.

For now–and now is all that matters–I have my fire-engine-red hand cart, my ready ally, poised to see me into a new season and all that might seem too big to handle.

Co-Scripting the Postscript

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Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses — past the headlands —
Into deep Eternity —

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

–Emily Dickinson (1830–1886; pioneering American poet who explored themes of death, immortality, and nature with unmatched depth.)

Frank is dead, yet he liveth. I have proof. Well, it’s proof enough to satisfy me. I’ll share it with you so you can decide for yourself, as we all must do in the end.

Frank is my friend. My use of the present tense is deliberate. Remember: though he be dead, he liveth.

We became fast friends decades ago in the 1980s when we worked together at the Library of Congress. Frank was an attorney in the General Counsel’s Office; I, Special Assistant for Human Resources. From the start, wordplay cemented our friendship. Frank loved words as much as I, and when it came to verbal banter, Frank outdistanced me often, if not always. He was the perpetual prankster as well. I remember one occasion when his twin visited, and they switched roles. John became the attorney. Frank, the visitor. They duped all of us until well past noon, when Frank decided it was time to fess up, showing everyone the fun of being identical twins.

Beyond his pranks and his verbal banter, Frank commanded trust, and it was the kind of trust that went beyond attorney-client privilege. It was trust forged from seeing moral fiber in action. Frank was no stranger to walking the high road. He and I often walked it together.

Ironically, during those years, Frank and I weren’t friends outside of work. But that didn’t matter. Friends are friends. I will forever remember my last day at work when I took an early retirement. Frank came to my office wearing a deep burgundy casual shirt, one that I had admired time and time again. He smiled, pointed to his shirt, and turned around several times:

“You want it?”

“Of course, I do.”

With all the theatrics he could muster, he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, twirled it around in the air, and tossed it to me.

“It’s all yours. Enjoy!”

I enjoyed it until its beauty was threadbare. Friends really do that sort of thing, literally and metaphorically. They take the shirt right off their backs and give it to you. Frank was that kind of friend.

Our friendship survived my move to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and, in many ways, it became stronger. We didn’t see one another as often, but our connections seemed deeper and more meaningful because they were more planned and more deliberate.

I remember several special get-togethers that strengthened our already strong bond.

The first was a visit here to my mountaintop when my home was still the weekend cabin that I purchased initially. Frank came up so that he could see what I saw living up here, but he ended up helping me transplant several large Leyland Cypress. One still stands in my lower yard, towering over the landscape. Friends, like trees, stand tall.

The next was a weekend when Frank visited me in Front Royal, where I lived while juggling a teaching schedule across two campuses. I’ll always remember the unexpected snow that started falling while we were out for an evening stroll that seemed to last for hours. Eventually, we stepped inside for a late-night dinner. We were the only diners in a restaurant reminiscent of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, with its large glass windows and warm light casting an inviting glow against the stark, quiet night outside. Friends make unexpected joys more joyful.

Fast forward to more recent times. Frank and I decided to meet for lunch from time to time in historic Middleburg, VA, midway between his home in Springfield and mine in Edinburg. Before long, our occasional lunches became monthly rituals, always at the King Street Oyster Bar, always sipping Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, and always sharing several dozen briny oysters on the half shell. When Frank’s wife Barbara joined us for the first time, it was as if I had known her as long as I had known Frank. Friends like that are rare.

Betwixt and between our lunches and our frequent texting were several special celebrations. Thanksgiving of 2022 comes to mind most readily. Frank, Barbara, and their friend James joined me for the day, and I served up a modest feast, including the one thing that Frank had requested: store-bought jellied cranberry sauce. Friends have quirks.

The next spring, Frank and Barbara flew to Burlington, Vermont, for the publisher’s launch of my book Green Mountain Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, just to make sure that someone came to the event. Friends look out for friends.

In 2024, the Washington Area Group for Print Culture Studies (WAGPCS) invited me to speak at one of their monthly meetings in the Rare Book and Special Collections Division at the Library of Congress. Barbara was instrumental in orchestrating it all. When she first asked me whether I’d be willing to come back and talk, Frank commented that it would be like circling back home. Indeed, it was. I started my career at the Library of Congress in 1969, and it was there that Frank and I engraved our friendship. I loved Frank’s observation so much that I incorporated it into the title of my April 4th talk: “Circling Back Home: Thomas Shuler Shaw, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and the Library of Congress.” Frank and Barbara were there for the talk and for dinner afterward. Friends keep friends in their circle.

Frank and I were well aware that our friendship was special. I suppose that’s why every time we met and then parted to go our separate ways, we always turned around, in sync it seemed, to smile and wave goodbye at least once, sometimes twice, as if that goodbye might be forever. Friends know that one day, forever comes.

The last time that Frank and I carried out our turn-around-and-wave-goodbye ritual was last September when we lunched at the King Street Oyster Bar, with John joining us. Frank seemed strong despite having some health issues that his doctors thought might be related to his liver. Within a month or so, Frank was given the grim news that he was in liver failure, with perhaps four months or so to live. He called to tell me. Friends share tragedy, even through tears.

The details of our interactions since then are of little consequence except for my proof that though Frank be dead, he liveth. Here’s how I know.

During one of our conversations, Frank wanted to talk about dying. Conversations about death and dying are so important, yet so many people aren’t comfortable grappling with the topic. Frank knew that I was. We didn’t talk about the art of dying. Instead, we talked about the mystery of the Great Beyond. What awaits us when we are freed from our mortal selves?

We both talked. We both listened. Frank is Catholic. I’m Protestant. We talked about the Christian notion of the Afterlife as a divine manuscript of salvation or separation, with Heaven and Hell serving as eternal footnotes to a life well (or poorly) lived. Barbara is Jewish. We talked about Judaism often leaving the notion of the afterlife intentionally open-ended, a poetic ellipsis, focusing more on righteous living than on what comes after. We talked about the fact that while different world religions script the afterlife differently, each crafts a unique but converging narrative that points toward some form of existence beyond death.

We both agreed that death is not the end. We both agreed that religions, in their diverse and poetic ways, reassure us that the story carries on, that the postscript—whatever its shape—awaits. We reminded one another of the universal longing for connection—across faiths, lives, and time.

I jokingly suggested to Frank that if he died first, which seemed likely, that he should reach out to me somehow and let me know whatever he could let me know. He agreed. Friends reach out to one another, always.

And here’s where proof marches in.

Frank died peacefully on January 13th, at 10:04pm. I didn’t get Barbara’s text message until the next morning.

As I tried to process the weight of Frank’s passing, I turned to one of the things that always brings me solace—Gospel music. I have dozens and dozens of Gospel songs on my playlist, never knowing which song will play first.

“Alexa, shuffle my playlist Gospel.”

The song that started playing gave me goosebumps from head to toe. It was Ralph Stanley, the acclaimed King of Mountain Music, triumphantly singing “When I Wake Up to Sleep No More”:

What a glad thought some wonderful morning
Just to hear Gabriel’s trumpet sound
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

Rising to meet my blessed Redeemer
With a glad shout I’ll leave the ground
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

When I wake up (on some glad morning)
To sleep no more (jewels adorning)
Happy I’ll be (over in glory)
On Heaven’s bright shore (telling the story)
With the redeemed of all the ages
Praising the One whom I adore
When I wake up (when I wake up)
To sleep no more

I chuckled, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Frank had just paid me a visit.

True to his word, Frank kept his part of our agreement, and, in listening and believing, I kept mine. Together, we co-scripted the postscript—a reminder that the stories we write with those we love don’t end.

§  §  §

Frank Mack

December 13, 1952 – January 13, 2025

Invisible, yet alive—

Whispers. Touches. Sings.

Handshakes from the Universe

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“The universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself; everything that you want, you already are.”

–Rumi (1207–1273; Persian poet, scholar, and mystic whose timeless works explore themes of love, spirituality, and the interconnectedness of all things.)

I don’t have a farm, and I’ve never had one. But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald himself. Patterns surround us, after all—sometimes playful and sometimes profound—and lately, the rhythm of that old nursery rhyme keeps echoing in my mind:

Old MacDonald had a farm
Ee i ee i o
And on his farm he had some cows
Ee i ee i oh
With a moo-moo here
And a moo-moo there
Here a moo, there a moo
Everywhere a moo-moo

By the time I listen to the cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, and all the other animals that have wandered into the song since it started in 1706, I’m always left wondering what animal sound I’ll hear next.

But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald not because of the animals I don’t have but because of the numbers I do. They’re everywhere—so much so that my version of the rhyme might go like this:

Old Man Kendrick saw some numbers
Ee i ee i o
And in those numbers, he found great calm
Ee i ee i oh
With a one-one here
And a two-two there
Everywhere a three-three

Those numbers aren’t just any numbers. They’re palindromes–they remain the same when reversed, like 121. We all see them, and usually, it’s not anything to write home about. However, I wrote about them once in “Take Three | Living With a Writer: Owning Up to My Own Eccentricities.” In that post, I mentioned my fascination with palindromes.

Some of you might be saying:

“They’re just numbers. After all, the brain is wired to notice patterns.”

Some days I’m saying the same thing.

Or some of you might be thinking:

“What you’re experiencing with those numbers is synchronicity–the universe lining things up in a way that you can’t ignore. So, sit up and take notice.”

Some days, I’m thinking the same thing because I’m a big believer in synchronicity. I could point to endless examples in literature. Surely, you’ll remember that moment in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” when the narrator perceives an external presence—seraphim swinging a censer—as he grieves and longs for his deceased Lenore:

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.   

The seraphim seem to offer grace and comfort—a chance to shift perspective. Yet instead of accepting it, the narrator clings to despair, choosing to fixate on the raven’s ominous “Nevermore.”

Or consider Sarty in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning.” His inner conflict aligns with external signs and moments. The flickering fires, the repeated moral choices, and the final break from his father feel like synchronistic echoes guiding him toward a moral path, despite his family’s destructive tendencies.

And in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral,” the narrator’s transformation during the drawing of the cathedral feels like a moment of deep synchronicity. His inability to “see” spiritually aligns with the blindness of the visitor. As they draw the cathedral together, there is a sense that the universe orchestrates this connection to lead the narrator toward personal growth.

These moments in literature remind me that synchronicity often acts as a mirror, reflecting back a truth we’re ready to see. They resonate because, like the seraphim in “The Raven” or the blind visitor in “Cathedral,” I’ve experienced moments where something beyond myself seemed to nudge me toward clarity.

But what’s happening with the palindromic numbers that have taken up residence with me is different. This feels deeper and more personal. This feels gentle, steady, like footsteps in alignment with my own, affirming my path.

It all started back in November when I reached my palindromic birthday of 77. I chuckled when I saw it coming—it wasn’t my first palindromic birthday, of course, but something about 77 felt especially auspicious. Since then, palindromic patterns haven’t just appeared occasionally; they’ve settled in, becoming a quiet rhythm in my days.

It’s not just the random glance at the clock showing 3:33 or the odd receipt totaling $22.22. These numbers have become more consistent, almost as if they’ve found a permanent rhythm in my life. The day after I made a tough decision, the clock read 12:21—a subtle nudge from something beyond myself. Later, after a longer-than-usual bike ride, I checked the dash: 22.2 miles. By then, I was already tuned in.

They’re not asking me to figure something out, nor are they pointing to some hidden treasure or cosmic secret. Instead, they light up the small corners of my day, asking only to be noticed and appreciated. License plates, receipts, random book pages—they all flicker with symmetry, mirroring something steady and affirming.

Last week, the numbers seemed to crescendo, appearing almost everywhere in one single, solitary day: 444, 717, 505, 808, 919, 404, 414, 555, 88 1111, 404, 111, 212, 414, 444, 555, 77, 44, 212, 515. It felt like a boisterous celebration, arranged by the universe—not for my analysis, but simply for my acknowledgment.

These patterns aren’t luring me toward some great revelation. Instead, the numbers feel still—like standing in the center of a room, with mirrors reflecting me from every angle, reflecting where I stand.

And in that reflection, I feel something that I wasn’t seeking and hadn’t expected—affirmation.

I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing after answers, but this feels like the opposite. The palindromes don’t feel like questions at all. They feel like handshakes from the universe, soft and steady, offering no demands—just quiet reassurance. They’re not saying, “Keep going,” or “Turn around.” They’re saying quite simply, “You’re already here. And it’s enough. All is well.”

I might not have cows or chickens, but I have these numbers. They’re mine, and they’re here, there, and everywhere—soft reminders that I’m two-stepping with the universe. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my handshakes from the universe for all the moo-moos in the world. These quiet handshakes remind me that I’m exactly where I need to be. And isn’t that enough?