History Is Watching. Will You Take a Stand?

Posted on March 3, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards...”
–Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919; American poet known for her uplifting and socially conscious writing. Her work championed justice, personal responsibility, and the power of speaking out.)

Whether everyone owns up to it or not, America is in the throes of a Constitutional, social, and moral crisis—unlike anything in our Nation’s history. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening. We only need to look around.

It’s unfolding in real time, shaping and shaking the very foundation of our democracy. Since his second inauguration, Donald J. Trump has tested the limits of executive power, issuing sweeping orders that centralize authority, gut independent oversight, and sideline checks and balances. The rapid dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs, the mass pardoning of January 6 rioters, and the rollback of environmental protections—all justified under the banner of “restoring order”—are not isolated actions. They are a pattern, a deliberate reshaping of the country to fit a singular vision.

Already many people—immigrants, federal workers, and LGBTQ+ individuals—feel the pain through deportations, firings, and the rollback of protections. Many other people—seniors, low-income families, and those reliant on federal programs—will feel the pain yet to come through health care cuts, the cancellation of USAID programs, the discontinuation of flu vaccine updates, and threats to Medicaid and Social Security. And now, in a shocking display of authoritarian bravado, Trump humiliated Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky in the Oval Office—publicly berating a wartime ally fighting for survival against Russian aggression. His attack was not just a personal insult; it was a signal to the world that American leadership, once defined by its commitments, is now dictated by impulsive cruelty.

Now is not the time for silence. Now is the time to speak up.

Now is not the time for complacency. Now is the time to act up.

Now is not the time to be broken by divisiveness. Now is the time to come together and walk together.

Why? This crisis threatens the very essence of who we are as Americans.

Why? This crisis is unparalleled in our Nation’s history.

Why? This crisis threatens our today, our tomorrow, and our future.

I am heavy-hearted, but I find hope in looking back on those who stood up when hope seemed lost. Time and again, ordinary people have overturned what once seemed inevitable. We can learn from those ordinary Americans who took extraordinary actions. We can be extraordinary, too.

History tells us time and time again that moments like these define not just leaders but entire movements. The moral high road isn’t a scenic detour—it’s often the hardest path, requiring both conviction and courage.

Taking a Stand Means Taking Action

When faced with injustices like the unprecedented ones we’re up against now, neutrality isn’t a shield—it’s a choice. And history has been shaped by those who refused to sit back and let injustice run its course. They took a stand. They acted. I’m thinking about:

● Thomas Paine – A political writer who stoked the flames of revolution with “Common Sense” and “The American Crisis.”

● Frederick Douglass – A former slave who demanded that America reckon with its hypocrisy, forcing the nation to see itself as it was.

● Henry David Thoreau – Who refused to pay a tax that supported slavery and war, writing “Civil Disobedience” to argue that individuals must resist unjust laws.

● Susan B. Anthony – Who cast an illegal vote in 1872, knowing she’d be arrested but refusing to accept a system that denied women their rights.

● Martin Luther King Jr – Who rejected patience and appeasement, writing Letter from Birmingham Jail as a rebuke to those who claimed to be allies but urged him to wait.

● Daniel Ellsberg – Who leaked the Pentagon Papers at great personal risk, exposing government deceit about Vietnam.

These people didn’t just take the moral high ground—they fought for it, walked it, and held their ground when it mattered most.

Silence Enables Tyranny: The Lesson of Nazi Germany

If history teaches us anything, it’s that silence enables oppression. In Nazi Germany, countless people looked the other way, convincing themselves that they had no choice, that someone else would act. Their silence helped pave the way for one of the greatest atrocities in human history.

German pastor Martin Niemöller, once complicit himself, later warned against the dangers of staying quiet:

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

“Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.

“Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

People Are Taking a Stand

From city halls to concert halls, from boardrooms to town squares, Americans are refusing to be silent. People are taking a stand, and the movement taking shape in powerful ways.

Our crisis started when Trump and J. D. Vance were sworn into office on January 20. The next day, the movement started as people were brave enough and bold enough to stand up to the crisis that threatens our Nation and our Democracy.

At the inaugural prayer service at the Washington National Cathedral, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, took a stand and directly addressed the President, urging him to show compassion and mercy toward vulnerable communities. She implored, “In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on the people in our country who are scared now.” Her courageous plea highlighted the fears of LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, and refugees, calling for leadership grounded in empathy and justice.

The next month at the February 21 Governors’ Conference, the president threatened to strip Maine of its federal funding if it refused to comply with his executive order, banning transgender women from competing in women’s sports. In a tense exchange, Maine’s Democratic Governor Janet Mills took a stand and did not waver. Her response to the president? A simple: “See you in court.”

This wasn’t just a sharp retort. It was a moment of moral clarity, an assertion that principles matter more than political pressure.

Two days later, on February 23, Jane Fonda received the Lifetime Achievement Award at the SAG ceremony in Los Angeles. In her speech, she urged her fellow actors to channel the courage of those who resisted McCarthyism, reminding them of past social movements like Apartheid, Civil Rights, and Stonewall.

“Have you ever watched a documentary and wondered if you’d have been brave enough to walk the bridge or face the hoses and batons?

“We don’t have to wonder anymore—we are in our documentary moment. … And even if they’re of a different political persuasion, we need to call upon our empathy and not judge, but listen from our hearts and welcome them into our tent, because we are going to need a big tent to resist successfully what’s coming at us.”

It’s not just celebrities and politicians taking action; ordinary citizens are making their voices heard, sometimes at great personal cost. We all witnessed the legislative town hall meeting in northern Idaho descend into chaos after three plainclothes security workers forcibly removed Teresa Borrenpohl, who was heckling the speakers.

Others are taking a stand, too, against actions that threaten our nation’s core values. Their courage serves as a beacon, reminding us of the power of collective action.

I’m thinking of the recent upheaval at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the resistance performers are showing as they take a stand. Issa Rae canceled her sold-out show, Renée Fleming stepped down as artistic advisor, Shonda Rhimes resigned as treasurer, and Ben Folds relinquished his role as artistic advisor to the National Symphony Orchestra. These actions underscore the artists’ commitment to preserving the integrity of our cultural institutions.

I’m thinking of Labor Organizations and grassroots movements that are also mobilizing to voice their dissent. The People’s Union USA, founded by John Schwarz, organized a national “economic blackout” on February 28, urging Americans to halt all consumer spending for 24 hours. The boycott was a warning shot—a demonstration that ordinary citizens can disrupt the economic status quo when corporations and policymakers ignore their voices. Early reports suggest widespread participation—major retailers and businesses have already reported noticeable dips in sales. And this is just the beginning. More boycotts are planned in the coming months, targeting corporations that fuel inequality, suppress wages, or remain complicit in policies that threaten democracy. This movement is a reminder that collective economic action has long been a tool for social change, from the Montgomery Bus Boycott to the anti-Apartheid divestments. If history is any guide, the pressure will only build.

I’m thinking of the citizens of Mad River Valley, Vermont who protested Vance’s ski trip just this past weekend. One poster said it all:

“Vermonters don’t bend the knee to wannabe KINGS.”

These contemporary examples of moral leadership echo history, where individuals refused to remain neutral in the face of injustice.

History doesn’t look kindly on those who stand on the sidelines. And we don’t get to tell ourselves we would have acted differently then, if we refuse to act now.

Every Act of Resistance Matters

For the first time in my life, I’m feeling powerless. I imagine that you are, too. At the same time, so did many of the people we now call heroes—before they took action.

● Thomas Paine was just a pamphleteer.

● Susan B. Anthony was just one woman with a ballot.

● Martin Luther King Jr. was just a preacher.

● Daniel Ellsberg was just a government analyst.

● Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde was just a faith leader.

● Jane Fonda was just an actress.

● Governor Janet Mills was just a politician.

They weren’t waiting for permission to do the right thing. They just did it. And because they did it in the past, our country changed. And because people are standing up and acting now, our country can “course correct” again.

Will You Stand When It Counts?

Taking a stand doesn’t require grand gestures. It can be as simple as:

● Participating in economic boycotts as a way of doing something.

● Calling out injustice, rather than letting it slide.

● Supporting those fighting for equality, rather than assuming someone else will.

● Refusing to comply with policies that erode human rights.

● Voting for leaders who put principles above politics.

The moral high road isn’t for the comfortable. It’s for the brave—for those who refuse to look away, for those who understand that silence is complicity.

This is one of those moments. It’s a moment that history won’t forget.

What will you do? Will you take a stand? History is watching.

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

Posted on February 24, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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

Posted on February 10, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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

Posted on February 3, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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

Posted on January 27, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

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

Posted on January 20, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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?

In Defense of Memoir Writers

Posted on January 13, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The universal does not attract us until housed in an individual.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century. Known for his influential essays including Self-Reliance and The Over-Soul.)

Memoir~~ists~~ writers are shamelessly self-centered, and I ought to know. I’m one of ’em. And of course, I know that you really want to know why I used ’em instead of them.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, this is where things start to get dicey, because I’m going to tell you anyway.

I chose ’em instead of them because the former seemed more casual and playful and, in my mind, it makes me feel comfortable bashing the hell out of ’em since I’m bashing the hell out of myself at the same time. Now you know.

Aren’t you glad that I told you? You’re not?

No problem. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now that I’ve cleared the air about that one teensy-weensy word choice–it was a choice, of course, though I’m not sure ’em should count as a word–let me tell you how the title of today’s post bullied its way to the top.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming next. You’re right. I’m going to tell you anyway. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Originally, today’s post was titled “An Apologia for Memoirists.” Clever, no? I thought so, too, despite the way the word apologia looks. It may look like an apology, but it is not an apology at all. Au contraire. It is a staunch defense of something.

Let me give you an example of an old and famous apologia. I’m thinking of Plato’s Apologia Socratis, the legal self-defense that Socrates spoke at his own trial for impiety and corruption. He was defending himself against the charges of corrupting the youth and of not believing in acknowledged and accepted gods.

After thinking about that example, I decided that apologia was a poor word choice for inclusion in the title of today’s post. As I have just demonstrated, its meaning is easily misconstrued. Beyond that, its pronunciation is not easy either.

Is it “a–puh-low-jee–uh?”

Is it “a–puh–low-jee-uh?”

Damned if I know. And if I don’t know how to pronounce a word, I’ll be damned if I’m going to use it.

So, in a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through An ~~Apologia~~ and replaced it with two words that are easily pronounced and readily understood: In Defense.

There. I’ve straightened out Apologia. Now, let me explain why I scrapped Memoirists. I suppose any reader who knows what a memoir is would know–or quickly deduce– that a memoirist is “a person who writes memoirs.” Don’t you detest circular definitions like that? I do. But you can’t blame me for it! Blame dictionary.com. That’s where the definition came from, and that’s why I put it in quotes. I may go ’round in circles, but I would never give you a circular definition. I’d spit it out exactly as it is. A memoirist is someone like me who takes the raw material of their life—its triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments—and shapes it into a narrative that not only reflects their truth but connects with the truths of others.

That definition is mine, and I like it. However, I scrapped Memoirists for an entirely different reason. If you think pronouncing Memoir is an exercise in tongue-mouth calisthenics, try pronouncing Memoirists:

● mem-wahr-ists

● mem-wawr-ists

Well, maybe it rolls off your tongue just fine, but it gets stuck to the roof of my mouth. And, I don’t know about you, but when something sticks to the roof of my mouth, I get rid of it as quickly as possible.

That’s just what I did with Memoirists. I got rid of it. Quickly. In just a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through part of Memoir~~ists~~ and replaced it with Memoir Writers. I know. Two words instead of one. Fine. What I lost in word count, I gained in mouth feel.

It took a while, but now you know–even if you had no desire in knowing–everything you never wanted to know about the origin of the title In Defense of Memoir Writers. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now, I’m certain that you want to know why I feel the need to defend myself and other memoir writers. You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming …

Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered. Right? I mean, after all, we share all of the intimate details of our lives with the entire world as if they give a rat’s ass about our world. But we do it anyway. Is that self-centered or what?

Take me, for example. I may have one-upped Anne Sexton who commented, “I tell so much truth in my poetry that I’m a fool if I say more.” I don’t know how many words are in her canon–she does have a canon, you know, though I shudder at the thought–but since 2021 when my blog shifted focus from research to memoir, I’ve spewed out nearly 300,000 words. My God. I’m taken aback. How is it possible that I have shared so much about me, especially when I tell writers that there’s no me in memoir. If they looked closely, they would see for themselves that there is a me in the word, and, like I’ve said all along, memoir writers like me are shamelessly self-centered. This post proves it. After all that I’ve written who would think that I could write more, but here I am, dragging you along to somewhere I think you might want to be for a few minutes–perhaps leading you to somewhere you might even want to stay a while to rest, perhaps to heal.

I shudder at the things that I have shared with you. I do. You know as much about me as I know about myself, and if you don’t know it off the top of your head–and that’s how certain I am that I matter to you–you can find it by foolin’ around in my blog. Let me zing you with a few things, and as I do, I wonder–I just wonder–whether you would put yourself out there for all the world to know.

You know that I’m so full of myself that I fully believe that I helped my Mother give me birth so that I could start charting new territories in my brand-new world.

You know that as my mother preached I wiped away the tears that fell from women’s eyes, some of them slain in the Spirit and hopping from the back of one pew to the next, all the way up to the front of the church and then all the way back again, never missing a jump and never suffering a fall.

You know that when I hold out my right hand to you, you’re grasping the hand that my Father held tight after he nearly cut it off accidentally while butchering a chicken.

You know the challenges that I faced as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, trying my best to stay true to my authentic self.

You know that I chase dreams and never let go, even if it takes me 50 years as it took me to become an English professor.

You know that the praying hands my Mother and I witnessed in the lid of my Father’s coffin took us both by surprise with the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again,” holding for me, and me alone, a lasting message.

You know that after my Mother’s burial, I took my hands–strong from the strength of hers–and released from their cage three white doves, flying upward, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

You know that when I wrote my late partner’s obituary, it was as if angel wings brushed across the page, just as magically as Allen brushed across and touched our life together.

Equally important, you know that I sometimes ignore dust bunnies and cobwebs; that I get ideas for writing everywhere, even when biking or weeding; that I notice smells like dill and black snakes; and that when I’m not having real guests, I’m conjuring up imaginary ones.

You know all these things and so much more about me because of one thing that I keep on doing right here in my blog post. Week after week after week, I take my bony index finger, hook the side of my metaphorical homespun curtains, and pull them back gently so that you can see through the fragile glass pane and catch glimpses of my world–past, present, and future. Creation. Faith. Survival. Authenticity. Perseverance. Grace. Transcendence. Love. Imagination.

From that perspective, it occurs to me that maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish after all. Maybe we take our triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments and try to shape them into a narrative that not only reflects our truths as we know them but also connects with your own truths as you glimpse into your world–past, present, and future.

Maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish at all. Instead, maybe, just maybe, we’re shamelessly selfless—willing to sacrifice our private selves so that something universal can emerge from the personal. Even if the greater good is one solitary soul, needing an oar to stay afloat, it’s in the act of revealing our individual stories that we reflect something far larger than ourselves.

Maybe that’s our truest calling—not selfishness, but selflessness. And perhaps that’s the best defense I can offer for memoir writers like me.

Page 415 of 415: The Power of Showing Up (Even in Bed)

Posted on January 6, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.”
—Ovid (43 BCE – 17/18 CE; Roman poet best known for his works Metamorphoses and The Art of Love. his works shaped Western literature and narratives of perseverance.)

Voila! As I finished uploading the last essay into my MS Word document, I glanced at the upper-right corner and smiled:

● Page 415 of 415

Wow! That’s a lot of pages.

And when I looked down at the lower-left corner, my smile stretched from ear to ear:

● 100,740 words

Wow! That’s a lot of words.

Yet, the more that I thought about it, the more I realized that it’s really not a big deal.

Here’s why. I write in bed every night. Every single night. Got it? It has nothing to do with being in the mood. Nothing to do with being inspired. It has everything to do with showing up. Everything to do with showing up as a “writer in bed,” 365 nights a year. From that perspective, if I look at the total word count, I’m writing around 276 words a night. That’s not a lot.

But here’s the thing—once I set the goal, I follow through. Same time. Same place. Night after night. A fierce determination to write until I’m sleepy.

The payoff? Immense.

● A blog post, every week.

● A 415-page manuscript, totaling 100,740 words.

It gets better. As a result of showing up–as a result of follow-through–those words and those pages are now in the hands of my publisher, and my third collection of essays will be out this spring. The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed.

Now you know. My writing secret is out.

I show up. I’m present. I write.

Then I follow through. I carry my writing intent forward, determined to have a blog post ready every Monday morning. Determined to have a collection of 52 or so creative nonfiction essays ready at the end of the year.

There’s a beautiful simplicity in what I’m doing that points to something true. Much of success, growth, and connection in life happens because we keep showing up and following through. Even if we’re not perfect, that steady presence builds momentum.

As we enter the first full week of 2025, we can all benefit from that truth especially as we tackle our New Year’s resolutions, even if we made just one.

One resolution is the lump sum of how many I made! It has nothing to do with my nighttime writing. Instead, it has to do with my morning biking routine, something I’ve done indoors for decades. Every day, without fail, I mount my faithful Schwinn and aim to hit at least 15 miles daily, most days 20. I’m attentive. I pedal 20-23 miles per hour, always exceeding Fitbit’s Zone minutes, customized just for me.

Several weeks ago, however, Fitbit launched a Cardio Load feature that intrigued me. It’s similar to Training Load metrics seen in high-end fitness watches (like Garmin or Polar), but Fitbit simplifies it for everyday users like me to easily track and interpret their progress. It measures the strain that my cardiovascular system experiences during physical activity. It reflects the cumulative impact of my workouts over time, helping me understand how hard my heart is working and whether I’m training too much, too little, or just right.

As might be expected, my biking routine had pedaled me perfectly into the cardiovascular sweet spot of excellence. But guess what? When it comes to Cardio Load, it’s not sweet at all. The first day that I tried it–biking the same way I’ve biked forever and a day–I discovered that I didn’t hit my recommended Cardio Load at all. Damn!

I knew at once what my resolution would be. Keep on biking with a goal of hitting my daily Cardio Load recommendations. It’s not easy. I have to pedal at least 23-24 miles per hour, plus I have to bike in longer stints to achieve intensity. I can tell when I get into my zone: it’s like crossing into fire—my legs pumping molten steel and my lungs drinking in the heat. My skin hums, sweat rolls in rivulets, but beneath it all, I feel power—sharp and alive, burning just right.

Easy? Hell no. But I am resolved to show up every day and follow through with the Cardio Load that Fitbit recommends for me. I know fully well that my body will face a learning curve, but I’m committed to biking my way to improved endurance and fitness. Every day, I’ll be hopping on my Schwinn, fiercely determined to chase down my Cardio Load and crush it!

Fitness and health resolutions are probably at the top of your list, too—exercising more, losing weight, meditating, or maybe just getting better sleep. Whatever your goal, it’s not about overhauling your life overnight. It’s about showing up—one walk, one salad, one deep breath at a time. Small shifts add up, and before you know it, you’ve walked hundreds of miles or made it through January without stress-eating half your pantry.

Or maybe you’ve decided to focus on personal growth and education. Maybe you resolved to read more books, to learn a new skill or hobby, to take a class, to continue your formal education, or to journal regularly. Whatever your goal, it’s not about mastering everything at once. It’s about showing up—one chapter, one class, one messy journal entry at a time. Growth isn’t loud and immediate; it’s quiet and steady, and those small steps lead to bigger shifts before you even realize it.

Chances are good that many of you made resolutions aimed at strengthening your relationships and social life. Maybe you resolved to communicate more effectively, spend more quality time with family and friends, meet new people and expand your social circles, or strengthen your romantic relationships. Whatever your goal, it’s not about grand gestures. It’s about showing up—one call, one coffee date, one honest conversation at a time. Relationships grow in the quiet spaces we choose to fill with presence and care.

Even if you didn’t make it a formal resolution—though I’m betting you did—we can all work on improving our mindset and perspective. Maybe this year you want to let go of grudges, worry less, stop sweating the small stuff, or practice gratitude. Perhaps you just want to be more present in the moment. Whatever your goal, it’s not about perfecting your outlook overnight. It’s about showing up—one deep breath, one pause, one small shift in focus at a time. The mind, like anything else, grows stronger with steady attention and care.

And what about your determination this year to give back and engage more with your community? Maybe you want to volunteer regularly, take part in local initiatives, or donate to causes close to your heart. Whatever your goal, it’s not about making startling, sweeping changes. It’s about showing up—one hour, one act of kindness, one moment of service at a time. The smallest efforts ripple outward, and before you know it, you’re part of something larger than yourself.

Maybe at the top of your list are spiritual and inner growth resolutions. Perhaps you’re looking to deepen your practice through meditation, prayer, or daily reflection. Maybe you want to live with more intention—focusing on mindfulness and being present. Or you might feel drawn to reconnect with nature, simplifying life by clearing distractions and grounding yourself in what truly matters. Maybe, just maybe, you’re leaning in—trusting the process of living, embracing faith, patience, and the unknown.

Whatever your goal, it’s not about achieving enlightenment overnight. It’s about showing up—one quiet moment, one breath, one step toward stillness at a time. The soul, like anything else, finds its way forward through presence and gentle persistence.

Of course, plenty of other resolutions might top your list this year—ones I won’t dive into but are just as worthy of your focus. Maybe you’re aiming to advance your career, start a new project, or finally wrangle your calendar into submission. Perhaps finances are front and center—saving more, paying down debt, or planning for the future. Or maybe this is the year you let loose, travel more, dive into creative passions, and rediscover what brings you joy.

Whatever your goal, the same truth applies. It’s not about conquering everything in one fell swoop. It’s about showing up—one task, one small win, one brushstroke at a time. Progress happens quietly, and before long, those little moments stack up into something bigger than you imagined.

Here we are—the first full week of the New Year—riding high on resolutions we’ve made but probably won’t keep. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Life isn’t about whims or midnight promises made in a champagne haze. Real change doesn’t happen because the clock strikes twelve. It happens when we show up the next morning—and the one after that—and follow through.

The stroke of midnight might spark the idea, but it’s the steady steps after that turn resolutions into something real. That’s how I ended up with 415 pages, 100,740 words, and another book in the works—one sleepy night at a time.

“Stop Looking, So You Can See Where You’re Going.”

Posted on December 30, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
—Stephen Covey (1932–2012; leadership expert and author of the bestselling book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.)

All couples have a courtship phase, I suppose, and Allen and I were no exception. At one point, he was a traveling surgical technologist in upstate New York. We connected midway in Hazelton, PA, for long weekends together. One stands out in my memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. We were exploring Ricketts Glen State Park, home to the Glens Natural Area, a designated National Natural Landmark. Our plan was to follow the Falls Trail System so that we could take in the glens, where a series of untamed, free-flowing waterfalls tumble through rocky chasms carved into the hillside. Towering old-growth trees and a variety of wildlife enhance the natural beauty of the area. The crisp autumn air carried the faint roar of distant waterfalls, hinting at the adventure ahead.

The rumble of my two-door Jeep Wrangler echoed through the park as I navigated the winding roads, though “navigated” might be too generous a term. My hands rested lightly on the wheel, but my eyes were far from the road ahead. I was preoccupied by everything around me—the way the sunlight pierced through the canopy, dappling the ground with shifting patterns; the flash of a deer darting between the trees; the ripple of a stream running parallel to the road.

Every turn seemed to unveil something new—a stand of old-growth timber with gnarled branches twisting skyward, a cluster of huge rocks that looked like they’d been placed there deliberately, and the ever-present cascade of waterfalls, their spray catching the light like shards of glass. I felt my gaze wander again and again, lingering on the sights rather than the road. It wasn’t long before I realized that I wasn’t looking. I was losing track of where I was going, as if the Jeep were steering itself, and I was merely along for the ride.

I turned to Allen and exclaimed:

“I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going!”

“Say whaaat?”

“Yes. I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going! You look at the sights. I’ll focus on the road.”

Allen thought my comment was the funniest–and most ridiculous–thing that I had ever said. Throughout our twenty years together, he would look for any and every opportunity to teasingly remind me whenever I got distracted:

“Maybe you need to stop looking so you can see where you’re going.”

I laughed along with him, but over the years, I’ve come to realize that moment held more truth than I understood back then. That moment in the Jeep was more than a funny memory with Allen. It’s become a metaphor for how I approach life, especially at this time of year. The end of the year is like the winding road ahead of us, a time to pause, take stock of where we are, and decide how we want to navigate the twists and turns of the coming year. It’s easy to get distracted by everything around us, to try to take in too much at once. But clarity and focus—learning to “stop looking so we can see”—are the keys to achieving the goals that matter most. With clarity, we can set intentions that range from simple joys to profound transformations.

Let’s start with the simple goals, the ones that remind us to savor life’s small pleasures. These might seem minor in the grand scheme, but they ground us in the present moment and remind us of what it feels like to truly enjoy living. For me, this might mean experimenting with my sourdough pizza recipe to get that perfect balance of crisp and chew or revisiting my recipe for Sourdough Double Chip Crunch Cookies to enhance their texture. These pursuits are not about achieving perfection; they’re about immersing myself in the process, enjoying the creativity, and sharing the results with others.

Another source of joy for me is my garden. Whether it’s marveling at the tenacity of roots as I rework my peony bed or taking a step back to admire how my Koi Pond complements the Japanese-inspired landscaping, these moments of connection with nature remind me to slow down. Clarity here means carving out time for what nourishes the spirit—no matter how small or ordinary it may seem. These lighthearted goals are about reminding ourselves that life is rich with opportunities to pause and appreciate beauty.

Moving deeper, we come to goals that ask for more of us—those tied to our relationships, community, and self-care. These require intentionality, balance, and, most importantly, focus. For me, that might mean thoughtfully cultivating connections, such as inviting a neighbor to join me for dinner or reaching out to a friend to share a memory, a laugh, or a little gratitude. It’s about being present for others and making sure they feel valued.

At the same time, balance is key. I’m reminded of my online dating journey this year—how my profile reflects my true self while staying open to the possibilities ahead. It’s about embracing vulnerability while maintaining authenticity. Goals like this require clarity about what we value most in our relationships, whether it’s empathy, honesty, or simply the joy of shared experiences.

Self-care is another aspect of connection—this time with ourselves. It’s not just about routines but about listening to what we need to recharge. For me, it might be my daily biking to clear my head or listening to Black Gospel to feed my soul. Clarity here means recognizing that we can’t pour from an empty cup. These goals challenge us to strike the delicate balance between giving to others and nurturing ourselves.

And then there are the serious goals—the ones that stretch us, challenge us, and ultimately transform us. These require a willingness to dig deep and reflect on what truly matters. For me, this might involve continuing my exploration of “roots”—how the unseen foundations in our lives anchor us through uncertainty. This year, that theme surfaced in my writing and my gardening, reminding me that superficial fixes rarely work; it’s the deep work, often unseen, that brings lasting growth.

Another area of transformation is spirituality. Whether it’s reflecting on my Judeo-Christian principles or universal truths, I find that clarity in this realm often comes from leaning into questions rather than rushing to answers. I think, too, of the DNA test I took this year and how it invites me to explore not just where I’ve been but where I’m going. The results remind me of the rich identity that we each carry, and they prompt me to think about how we honor and build upon that in our daily lives.

Serious goals like these demand that we stop looking in every direction at once. They ask for stillness, focus, and trust. They require us to let go of distractions and be fully present with the questions, uncertainties, and hopes that guide us toward becoming our truest selves.

No matter the scope of the goal—whether it’s perfecting a recipe, strengthening a relationship, or embracing personal transformation—clarity of focus is what makes it possible. In the Jeep all those years ago, I realized that I couldn’t take in everything around me and still stay on the road. The same holds true as we navigate our lives. At times, we need to pause, set our sights on what truly matters, and let go of distractions to see the path before us.

As we stand at the threshold of a new year, I find myself reflecting on the power of clarity. It’s not about seeing everything—it’s about seeing clearly. So, as we step into 2025, I invite you to join me in setting goals that align with what matters most. Let’s stop looking in every direction and focus on where we’re going, one thoughtful, intentional step at a time.

Here’s to clearer roads, steady hands on the wheel, and the courage to keep moving forward. Happy New Year!

The Wired Researcher

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

Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick