“To toot one’s own horn is to sound the music of one’s journey. And today, my friends, the notes are jubilant, triumphant, unmistakably heartfelt, and wrapped in a little holiday cheer!”
–TheWiredResearcher (b. 1947; self-effacing educator, essayist, Green Mountain scholar, and Humourist—patiently awaiting long-overdue New York Times recognition.)
Beloved readers–of all ages and from all corners of the globe–I’m going to toot my horn proudly today!
At 11:22am today, my blog hit 15,000 views in 2024! Is that a special Christmas gift or what!
Let me pause and let that sink in: FIFTEEN. THOUSAND. VIEWS.
Can you hear the confetti cannons? Feel the glitter raining down? That’s the energy I’m channeling today. Because let’s be honest—this doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of showing up week after week, pouring my heart and soul into every post, and, most importantly, connecting with YOU, my remarkable readers.
If you’re like me, you know that milestones mean more when you see where they began. Let’s rewind:
● 2021: 3,940 views. A small but solid readership.
● 2022: 6,655 views. Growth doubling and momentum building.
● 2024: 15,000 views… and the year isn’t over yet!
From 3,940 to 15,000 in just a few years—this isn’t just growth. It’s a story of connection. It’s a story of us.
What Does 15,000 Look Like?
It looks like 140 countries—stretching from the United States’ plains and mountain ranges to Afghanistan’s rugged peaks, India’s vibrant deserts and Himalayas, and France’s vineyards, all the way to Zimbabwe’s sweeping savannahs. It looks like comments from faithful followers. It looks like early risers sipping coffee as they dive into my Monday morning musings. It looks like connections that transcend borders, reminding us all of the power of words.
The Greatest Hits (According to You!)
As we bask in this milestone, let’s revisit the top-ten posts that you’ve loved the most this year:
● “From Stars to Soil.” A nostalgic return to childhood gardening and the realization that it gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness and sacredness of all life.
● “My Mother’s Dress.” A story exploring how a dress that my mother made for herself included her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams for her family and her world.
● “Sister’s Hands.” A celebration of decades of selfless love, compassion, and service.
● “My Taxing Review.” A humorous exploration of opening personal archives as a way to create a rich personal narrative.
● “Not Alone.” A triumphant tale of my own Coming Out.
A Milestone Worth Celebrating
Fifteen thousand views aren’t just numbers—they’re stories, connections, and a shared love of learning. Each one represents someone who paused in their day to engage with my words. Together, we’ve created a space where ideas flourish, where history meets memoir, where research mingles with creativity, and where we never stop asking the big questions.
The Future Is Bright
What’s next? More posts that inspire, challenge, and delight. More glimpses into the magic of the everyday. More stories that remind us why we love the written word.
To everyone who has ever clicked, read, commented, or shared—THANKYOU. You are the symphony that makes this blog sing. And as the music swells, I can’t help but toot my own horn just a little louder.
Because today, it’s not just my achievement—it’s ours.
Here’s to 15,000 views—and the countless stories and connections that brought us here.
“Nothing great is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.”
—Epictetus (c. 50–135 CE; Greek Stoic philosopher whose teachings emphasized the importance of self-discipline, resilience, and living in harmony with nature.)
Simple things in life make me smile: snowflakes kissing my face, the scent of fresh sourdough bread baking in the oven, and even the gentle symphony of Ruby’s snoring as she sleeps. However, of all the joys that I treasure—small and big—one that stands out is the straightforward act of sharing: ideas, consolation, time well spent together, meals at the table, breads, cakes, and yes, even recipes. Those moments of connection take me beyond myself toward something truly meaningful.
Recently, I shared my mother’s celebrated fruitcake recipe, and in the act of sharing, I savored an unexpected, sweet reward of my own.
I passed the recipe on to a friend exactly as my mother had passed it on to me.
It starts with all the ingredients. It’s a hefty cake with four pounds of cherries, golden raisins, pineapple, and pecans. For the batter, it has just enough to hold the fruit and nuts together, but even then it has a half dozen jumbo eggs, a pound of butter, and a magical blend of lemon juice, vanilla, freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. All of those ingredients can be measured and weighed with perfect precision. But my mother put in another ingredient that knows neither measure nor weight: an extra dose of love.
After the ingredients, the recipe moves through all the steps. Lining the cake pan with parchment. Packing the mixture into the pan to achieve an even distribution of fruits, nuts, and batter. Baking at a low temp with a tray of water in the bottom of the oven.
Once the cake is done, it gets decorated with flowers made of pineapple wedges and cherries and returned to the oven for a few minutes, so the decorations will stick. When it emerges from the oven, another phase of the process begins. The cake cools on a rack until it can be turned out onto a towel, wrapped, and left to rest overnight, as if preparing for the transformative journey ahead.
The next morning, the ritual of wrapping and aging begins. A sheet of Saran Wrap is spread out on the counter, ready to embrace the cake. On top of it, cheesecloth soaked just right—not too wet, not too dry—with peach brandy is carefully arranged. The cake is placed at the center, a treasure waiting to be preserved. My mother’s instructions are precise:
“Fold the cheesecloth snugly around the cake, then do the same with the Saran Wrap, ensuring every inch is covered.”
Finally, the whole package is encased in heavy-duty foil, its armor for the weeks of aging ahead:
“Store in a cool room for two weeks,” her notes instruct. “Then carefully open, refresh the cheesecloth with more brandy, and rewrap.”
The process is repeated, patience layered upon patience, as the cake soaks in the flavors, deepening and maturing over time. Only then—after weeks of care and tending and extra doses of love all along the way—is the fruitcake ready for the refrigerator, where it will wait for its moment to be gifted or served.
Her final tip is practical, but it carries a poetic truth:
“The cake slices best when cold but eats best at room temperature.”
It’s a nod to the reward of patience—how time and care yield something truly remarkable.
If it sounds like a daunting recipe, it is. It’s not for the faint-of-heart baker. In fact, when I was getting ready to share the recipe, I was in the midst of baking fruitcakes myself. It occurred to me that perhaps I should take some photographs and include them beside the corresponding steps. I changed my mind, though, because my friend is an accomplished baker, and I figured that her bake would be as right as it could ever be for a first attempt.
After all, my mother didn’t get it right the first time. That’s why she spent decades perfecting her perfect fruitcake—a recipe honed with precision, patience, and a deep understanding of the process. Her fruitcake, like so much in life, wasn’t about instant gratification. It was about the slow, steadfast practice of doing something right, ingredient by ingredient, step by step, until it was as close to perfection as she could make it.
The lesson my mother’s fruitcake offers goes far beyond baking. It reminds me how patience and practice are at the heart of everything worth doing well. The recipe might call for precise measurements, but the same principle applies to so many aspects of life, where consistent effort, persistence, and time are the ingredients for success.
Take education, for instance. Mastering any skill—whether reading, writing, or ‘rithmetic—demands patience from both the student and the teacher. As an educator, I’ve seen firsthand how true understanding doesn’t come overnight. It’s built step by step, through trial, error, and those quiet “aha” moments that can’t be rushed. Teaching requires not only patience but also an extra dose of love: the care to meet students where they are, to encourage them when they stumble, and to celebrate their victories, big and small.
The same holds true in career paths. When I reflect on my time as a civil servant and later as an educator, I see how persistence shaped my journey. A fulfilling career isn’t something you stumble into—it’s built through detours and unexpected challenges that teach you resilience. Like fruitcake, careers need time to mature. And they need love: the passion for what you do, the commitment to make a difference, and the willingness to pour yourself into your work even when progress feels slow.
In personal goals, too, patience and practice are essential. Whether it’s pursuing health, creative aspirations, or even learning a new skill, success rarely comes in leaps and bounds. It’s incremental. It’s showing up, day after day, even when progress feels slow. And the secret ingredient? Love for the process itself—finding joy in the small victories, the moments when you feel yourself growing, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’re doing your best.
Relationships may be where patience and practice are most important of all. Building strong connections with others takes time, effort, and a willingness to grow alongside each other. Forgiveness, understanding, and communication are not one-time efforts; they’re practices we return to over and over. Like a fruitcake wrapped and aged, the best relationships deepen and become richer over time, with care, attention, and those extra doses of love that make them truly sweet.
Finally, spirituality. If there’s one area of life where practice and patience are truly a lifelong journey, it’s in connecting with something greater than ourselves. Clarity and peace often come in whispers, not shouts. Spiritual growth is about showing up—whether in prayer, meditation, or simply being present—and trusting that the sweetness will unfold when the time is right. I think of moments in my own life when answers came slowly, like the fruitcake aging in brandy, revealing their richness only after time and quiet reflection. And through it all, love is the thread: love for the journey, love for the questions as much as the answers, and love for the connection that binds us to the greater whole.
Each of these areas reminds me that, like my mother’s fruitcake, the things we cherish most in life aren’t created in a moment. They require steady hands, careful tending, and those extra doses of love that infuse meaning into every step of the process. Who would have thought that, all along, my mother was passing down a sweet recipe for life?
“When you come to the edge of all that you know, you must believe in one of two things: there will be ground to stand on, or you will be given wings to fly.”
–Patrick Overton (b. 1948; American poet, author, and educator whose work explores faith, creativity, and the resilience of the human spirit.)
It wasn’t by chance that I found myself in a booth at a local diner one morning, sipping a modestly strong cup of coffee. A group of farmers crowded the table next to me, boots dusty from the fields, their voices low but carrying the kind of weight that makes you lean in without meaning to.
One of them, a man whose face looked like it had been sculpted by weather and years, paused, letting the heft of his story fill the air.
“Biggest snappin’ turdle I ever seed,” he declared, his voice carrying the awe of the moment.
“She was stuck in a pond, thick and still with mud, scorchin’ sun beatin’ down. Musta come up from the Shenandoaher to lay her eggs, but thar she was. Stuck. No way out.”
He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory had hold of him.
“Took me a 2×4, went in slow, pried her loose, gentle as I could. Watched her crawl off on her way back home.”
Then, with a solemnity that could rival any preacher’s, he took off his cap, held it tight, and looked at the others. His voice rose just enough to mark the words:
“It warn’t no accident I was thar when I wuz. Nope. Warn’t no accident.”
And in that moment, you’d have sworn the diner itself leaned in to listen.
I’d been leaning in all along, drawn by his words. How well I could relate. I started thinking about various times in my life when something seemed to magically reach out, take hold of me, and point me in the direction of home.
My mind slid back to 1965 when I was a senior in high school, beginning my college search. I applied to the University of Richmond and Marshall University, my first choices, but then Tom Bee from Alderson-Broaddus College (A-B) visited my school, and everything changed. He encouraged me to apply, I did, and the college offered me a scholarship package too attractive to resist, though I tried my best to do so. As if to convince myself that I would not pursue my education at my third choice, I decided to prove the point to myself by making a college visit.
I will always remember that summer day when we drove on campus. I’d arrived determined that A-B wasn’t the place for me. But then I saw it—Old Main, its stately presence rising over the hilltop plateau.
I stood there, framed by two Civil War-era cannons, gazing down at the winding Tygart River, its covered bridge linking the campus to the little town of Philippi. The scene was simple but breathtaking, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Beneath the expansive sky, surrounded by the campus’s serene beauty, a profound peace washed over me. In that timeless moment, as the sun cast a warm glow on the college, something deep within whispered: home.
It warn’t no accident.
That same sense of being guided resurfaced when my career path took an unexpected turn, thanks to a serendipitous nudge from someone who believed in me.
During my final summer as an A-B undergraduate, I interned in Washington, DC, at the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s Division of Two-Year Colleges. My supervisor, Dr. Roger Norden, was so impressed with my conscientious and dedicated work ethic that he initiated paperwork to appoint me to a full-time position. I extended my apartment lease, bought some new clothes, and basked in how well my education was paying off. A few days before my appointment was to become official, Dr. Norden called me into his office to share the sad news that I would not be appointed to the position after all because a hiring freeze was in effect.
His news hit me hard—I’d planned my future around that job. But seeing my disappointment, Dr. Norden offered a lifeline:
“Take your résumé up to the Library of Congress. It might be just the place for you. It’s a Legislative Branch agency, not impacted by the hiring freeze. With your degree in English, it might be the perfect place for you to work as an editor.”
That nudge led to a 25-year career at the Library of Congress, where I served in roles as an editor, training coordinator, and advisor to two Librarians of Congress. Each position deepened my connection to the Library’s mission and allowed me to contribute in ways I never imagined.
Looking back, I realize that moment in Dr. Norden’s office wasn’t just serendipity—it was part of a larger pattern of guidance, shaping the path I was meant to walk.
It warn’t no accident.
Looking back, each step seemed to prepare me for the next, even when I didn’t realize it at the time. When I turned fifty, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress and relocated to my weekend home in the Shenandoah Valley. One dream, though, had lingered since childhood—the dream of becoming a college professor. That dream began to take shape one day as I was driving back from a consulting gig in DC.
I saw a sign that I had no doubt seen many times before, but this time, as the “Lord Fairfax Community College” exit drew near, I decided to stop and see whether I could talk with the head of the English Department about a teaching position.
To my surprise, the Dean of Humanities, Dr. Sissy Crowther, was free to meet with me. Impressed by my Ph.D. in American Literature and my editorial experience at the Library of Congress, she offered me the opportunity to teach Technical Writing and American Literature.
That meeting opened the door to a series of opportunities I could never have imagined. I became a full professor, fulfilling my childhood dream, and was challenged to teach in ways I never thought possible—dynamic Friday and Saturday classes, Virtual Learning, and even free Open Educational Resources I designed and curated myself. I co-advised an honor society, co-authored the college’s accreditation report, and worked alongside brilliant colleagues from throughout the commonwealth to redesign developmental English education across the Virginia Community College System.
Each of these opportunities built on the last, guided by mentors and colleagues who believed in me.
It warn’t no accident.
Looking back, I see how every step led me exactly where I was meant to be, and not just in my career. Sometimes life’s most unexpected gifts come when we least expect them.
I certainly never expected this gift. I was traveling and decided to stop for a bite at the only restaurant in town. Suddenly, across the parking lot, my eyes met his. In that moment, time stood still. There was a spark, an inexplicable connection that swept me off my feet and left me breathless.
That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met at Applebee’s. Our eyes locked, and in that instant, the world around us faded. There were no words, no explanations needed—just a clarity that this was it. Allen and I knew, without question, that our lives were meant to be shared.
Our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection, the kind that transcends logic and reason. Some might call it serendipity, others destiny, but I know this much:
It warn’t no accident.
The love Allen and I shared was a guiding light in my life, an anchor that grounded me and a compass that pointed me toward home. Even now, I can look back and see how every twist and turn in my journey brought me closer to him.
That sense of guidance has stayed with me, extending beyond love and career, to moments of quiet reflection in the natural world.
My mind is drifting back to one of my hiking adventures right here in Shenandoah County. As an experienced hiker, I knew all about the thoughtful process of placing trail markers to guide hikers without detracting from the natural beauty of the wilderness. Trail blazes are there to ensure hikers stay on course, marking key points such as the beginning and end of a trail, turns, and intersections along the way.
I had decided to hike Big Schloss, a popular trail in George Washington National Forest, where orange blazes guide hikers along the Mill Mountain Trail from the Wolf Gap Campground to stunning views at the summit. The trail begins steep, then narrows along the ridge, leading to a wooden walkway and the iconic rock outcrop—a perfect spot to pause and reflect.
As I hiked, I realized that I hadn’t been paying attention to the blazes, completely swept away by the terrain, the breathtaking views, and my own reveries. Just as a flicker of panic about being lost began to rise, I spotted a blaze not far ahead, quietly assuring me that I was still on the right path to my destination.
It warn’t no accident.
Looking back on these moments—some planned, others entirely unexpected—I see a pattern too intricate to be coincidence. Each twist and turn, each nudge and connection, feels like a deliberate part of a greater design, one I didn’t always see in the moment but have come to trust over time.
Some might call it luck, others fate, or even divine intervention. For me, it’s an Unseen Hand, guiding, steadying, and pointing the way forward.
Whether it was choosing a college, finding a career, falling in love, or hiking a winding trail, that presence has been there—quiet but constant, assuring me that I’m on the right path, even when I’ve felt lost.
“Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.”
–Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846–1916; American essayist and editor known for his inspirational writing on literature, culture, and the transformative power of kindness.)
December is a month brimming with light, meaning, and connection. Across cultures, we celebrate hope and renewal: the candles of Hanukkah commemorating resilience; Christmas, reflecting faith and generosity; and the Winter Solstice marking the return of light. Each tradition reminds us that even in darkness, there is light to be found.
Although I embrace the diversity and the richness of those cultural and religious celebrations–and others–I am most familiar with the traditions surrounding Christmas, a holiday that 90% of Americans will celebrate regardless of their beliefs. That statistic strikes me as ironic since I’ve been hearing a rather noncelebratory chorus wafting through the air to a not-so-happy but more-and-more popular tune:
“I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.”
While I can relate, I find those words strange—and here’s why.
Growing up in the coalfields of Southern West Virginia, everyone in my home and throughout our coal camp longed for Christmas to arrive. The celebrations were never labored. Instead, they were simple, mirroring our modest means since my dad was a coal miner. I can still see our windows decorated with wreaths made of scarlet-red celluloid with overlapping holly leaves, their edges curling delicately, with a deep green bow on top. Their translucent sheen captivated me year after year.
Our Christmas tree was always a cedar. My mother would have no other kind, probably because she knew that it was the one kind that my dad could always manage to find, hatchet down, and tote home for her to decorate. How well I recall the metal bird ornaments, brightly painted and glittering with long, glowing spun-glass tails that shimmered like ethereal feathers. Even more vivid in my memory are the bubble lights–especially the bird-shaped ones with vibrant, detailed feathers– that came alive with gentle bubbles when warmed, adding a magical flicker to the tree.
When evening came, I was mesmerized by the glow-in-the-darkicicles, translucent plastic mimicking dripping ice. They absorbed light during the day and emitted a soft, magical bluish glow in the dark, adding an ethereal wintery charm. The tree topper was a star with sharp, radiant points made of the same plastic that emitted a soft, magical glow at night. More than once, one or more icicles within my reach bedded me down in fantasies.
Those decorations seemed to hold more than just a festive glow—they captured the hope and light that Christmas brought to our coal camp. Even in the darkest days of winter, the light of our cedar tree radiated a promise of something brighter and better.
The rest of our celebration took place on Christmas day. A gift for each child, along with a brown paper bag containing an orange, a few English walnuts and Brazil nuts (both in the shell), some chocolate drops, a coconut bonbon or two, and some hard Christmas candy. Dinner was traditional with turkey and all the fixings. A more modest and less stressful day of celebration cannot be imagined.
However, as I grew older and my family’s finances improved, I noticed that the more we had, the more complicated Christmas seemed to become. Somehow, the simplicity and the authenticity of those earlier days got swept away in the whirlwind of excess. It became fraught with expectations around gift-giving, family gatherings, and hosting. Those pressures made the holiday feel more like an obligation than a celebration.
I’m not suggesting that we return to the “good old days,” but I am offering a gentle reminder. Let’s not lose sight of the light, hope, and connection that our December holidays are meant to bring.
Whether we celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or the Winter Solstice, December holds a truth that transcends any one tradition. At its heart, this season is not about perfection or excess—it’s about finding light in the darkness, connection in a fragmented world, and hope for the days ahead.
Maybe what we need most in December is not more doing, but more being. The rush to create the perfect holiday often drowns out the simple joys that make this season special. Perhaps it’s in the quiet moments—the glow of a candle, the laughter of loved ones, or even the stillness of a winter night—that we can rediscover what these traditions are truly about.
Whether it’s the menorah’s light that burned for eight miraculous days, the warmth of a cedar tree glowing with bubble lights, or the turning of the solstice that promises brighter days, these celebrations remind us that even in the darkest times, there is always light to be found. They urge us to pause, to reflect, and to carry that light forward.
In a world that often feels too fast, too busy, and too disconnected, December offers us a chance to recalibrate. It’s an invitation to let go of the stress, to step back from the hustle, and to reclaim the simple joys that make life meaningful. That’s the real gift of this season—not the presents we give or receive, but the presence we bring to one another.
This December, let’s carry forward the light—whether from a candle, a cedar tree, or the stars themselves. Let’s pause, step away from the hustle, and embrace the hope that lights our way.
“It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving.”
—Mother Teresa (1910–1997; Roman Catholic nun and missionary known for her selfless work with the poor, sick, and dying; awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 for her humanitarian efforts.)
The air inside the canvas tent was heavy, thick with summer heat and the smell of fresh-cut pine from the makeshift floorboards. Bare bulbs swayed on frayed wires, throwing jittery shadows over the crowd crammed onto metal chairs and wooden benches. Paper fans—free from the local funeral home—fluttered in tired hands, stirring the humid air as the preacher’s voice climbed, urgent and raw, above the hum of crickets outside. Kids fidgeted, women in cotton dresses leaned forward, and men with rolled-up sleeves nodded, their hats resting in their laps. And then, as always, came the offering plate—a dented tin pan, making its slow, clinking way through the crowd, carried by hands that gave what they could.
In the back of the tent sat a young crippled boy, crutches by his side. When the offering plate was passed to him, he laid his crutches on the plate, saying just above a whisper:
“I don’t have much to give, but what I have, I give.”
As the preacher ended the story, he always added:
“Narry a dry eye was left in the tent that night.”
I wasn’t in the tent that night, but more than once, I heard about what happened from the preacher who was there. The story gave me a gut-punch then, and it still does. It underscores the power of giving our all—even when it seems small or insignificant or inappropriate–and it emphasizes that giving isn’t about the size of the gift. It’s about the spirit behind it.
The message is exactly the same as the one that we discover in the Parable of the Widow’s Mite. Jesus sat watching people bring their offerings to the temple treasury. Wealthy individuals came forward, dropping in large sums, their coins clinking loudly as they gave from their abundance. Then, a poor widow approached quietly and placed in just two small coins—everything she had to live on–all she had. The parable and the tent revival story highlight the value of giving from the heart and the spirit of generosity, not the amount given.
History is punctuated with examples of how, time and time again, people give what they can, and their generous spirit makes an impact that lasts and lasts.
I’m thinking, for example, of how ordinary Americans helped fund the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. It’s a powerful and inspiring example of collective giving. When France gave the Statue of Liberty to the United States in 1885, the statue itself was completed and shipped, but the U.S. was responsible for building the pedestal—and there wasn’t enough money to finish it.
Wealthy donors weren’t stepping up, and the project was at risk of failure. That’s when Joseph Pulitzer, the newspaper magnate, launched a fundraising campaign through his paper, The New York World. Pulitzer called on everyday Americans to contribute whatever they could and promised to print the names of all donors in the paper, no matter how small the contribution.
The response was overwhelming. Schoolchildren sent in pennies. Workers sent nickels and dimes, often with heartfelt letters explaining that they wanted to be part of something greater. In total, over 120,000 people contributed, many giving less than a dollar. These small donations raised the $100,000 needed (equivalent to millions today) and ensured that the Statue of Liberty would stand as a beacon of hope and freedom.
Fast forward to 1938, the heart of the Great Depression. People were scraping by, yet somehow, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt asked for help to fight polio, Americans found a way. He didn’t ask for much—a dime from every person. Just a dime. And those dimes came pouring in. Schoolchildren sent them wrapped in notebook paper. Factory workers sent them in greasy envelopes. Housewives sent theirs with notes of encouragement. The effort became known as the March of Dimes, and it raised millions to fund research that eventually gave us the polio vaccine.
For me, this story hits close to home—not because the March of Dimes directly helped me, but because I lived the reality of polio. I contracted the disease in 1951, a few years before the vaccine changed everything. As one of the lucky survivors, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the campaign. Every year, I joined in, adding my own dimes and encouraging others to give. The work didn’t stop with polio. By the late 1950s, the March of Dimes expanded its mission to fight birth defects and improve infant health. That little dime became something bigger—a reminder that small gifts, multiplied, can transform lives.
I’m thinking, too, of the mid-1950s, when civil rights activists in Montgomery, Alabama, were facing another uphill battle—segregation on city buses. When Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, the black community responded with a bus boycott. But boycotting wasn’t free. People still had to get to work, to school, to the grocery store. So, what did they do? They gave.
Nickels and dimes paid for carpools. Families who owned cars gave their time, driving neighbors for free. Churches pooled donations to cover legal fees for arrested protesters. It wasn’t easy—some folks walked miles every day rather than ride those buses—but they gave what they could. Their giving fueled a movement that lasted 381 days and ultimately changed the laws of this country. One ride at a time, one nickel at a time.
These stories, spanning decades, remind me of how I’ve been inspired by and touched by the giving spirit. Like the boy in the tent or the countless dimes sent to fight polio, these moments of generosity have shaped my own journey.
I have lots of examples where people gave from their heart to help me. I’ll share just one. When I graduated from high school in 1965, I was blessed to have scholarships and student loans to pay for my college tuition as well as room and board. Even so, I knew that buying textbooks would be a huge problem. My parents and siblings didn’t have a lot to give, but what they had, they gave. I still needed more, as did other classmates whose families had the same limited finances as mine. To our surprise and great joy, the citizens of my hometown established the Shady Spring Citizens Scholarship fund and awarded each of us college-bound graduates $150, specifically to buy our textbooks. That check meant my future to me.
Down through the years, that generosity has lingered with me, and I have looked for little ways to pay it forward.
For example, when my niece/goddaughter was born, I started saving my pocket change every day. That first year, pennies. The next, pennies and nickels. Then, pennies, nickels, and dimes. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters followed. Finally, all of my pocket change. I saved it regularly—no, faithfully, every day, seven days a week. Seventeen years later, when it came time for Janet to go to college, it was time for me to take all of my coffee cans—chock-full of daily pocket change—to the bank. I was surprised. Actually, I was stunned. As I watched the teller count the coins, I could hardly believe the final total: nearly $10,000. It wasn’t enough for a full year of tuition, but it was more than enough to ease her journey with textbooks, a laptop, and even a $500 savings bond—a future as bright as a shiny new penny.
For me, giving back has always been a way to honor the help I’ve received along the way. One way that I’m doing that this year is by donating all proceeds from my book More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College where I taught. It’s not a lot, but I know that it might help a student in an emergency—maybe cover the cost of gas for commuting to class, pay for a textbook, or ease the stress of an unexpected expense. Small as it might seem, it’s my way of paying forward the generosity that shaped my own journey.
The truth is simple. Most of us aren’t in a position to make grand gestures, and we don’t have to be. The young boy in the tent didn’t. The widow in the parable didn’t. The countless Americans who gave nickels and dimes to fight polio didn’t. They gave what they could, and in doing so, they made a difference. We can, too.
Tomorrow is GivingTuesday, a day set aside to do good. It started in 2012, and over the years, it’s grown into a global movement, inspiring millions of people around the world to give, collaborate, and celebrate generosity—not just on one day but all year long.
The idea is straightforward: give what you can, whether it’s your time, a donation, or simply lending your voice to support your community. From making someone smile to helping a neighbor or supporting a cause you care about, every act of kindness matters. We all have something to give, and together, those small acts add up to building the better world we all dream of.
As you approach Giving Tuesday, I would urge you to give to whatever cause that speaks to your heart. Whether it’s a few dollars, an hour of your time, or a gesture of kindness, remember that it’s not the size of the gift that matters—it’s the spirit behind it. Together, our small acts of generosity can spark change and lift others in ways we may never fully see but will always profoundly feel.
“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”
–Carl Sagan (1934–1996; astronomer and science communicator who inspired millions through his work on Cosmos and popular science writing.)
Tell me to do something, and I probably won’t do it. It smacks too much of being ordered around. No, thank you. Most of the time–though not always–I prefer to do the bossing.
On the other hand, suggest that I do something–maybe even challenge me to do something–and I’ll probably do it. Yes, thank you. I thrive on encouragement.
That’s exactly how today’s post began. One of my followers–my Linden Correspondent (LC)–suggested that the world at large might be revved and ready to know how my wired blog began! I thought LC’s suggestion was splendid, especially since my blog just celebrated its 12th anniversary. What better time than now to share the electrifying backstory.
With a growing readership of 13,782 (and counting!), I like to think my blog has found its niche. My readers value my blog for what it is today: a succession of riveting and captivating creative nonfiction essays that appear magically every Monday morning just in time for that first cup of coffee–that is for early risers who get their brew going early. That’s why I make a point of posting before 7am. While I sip on my coffee and savor what I wrote, I like to think that the entire world is doing the same thing.
Every Monday morning, you’ll find me in my reading chair with Ruby—my 60-pound lapdog—perusing my post while she peruses me. Sometimes, I smile and say aloud for her amusement:
“Wow, Kendrick! That’s a remarkable sentence. If you keep cranking out little gems like that, maybe one day you’ll end up somewhere as someone’s endnote.”
Yep. An endnote. Ironically, I guess that’s where we all end up: Someone’s endnote.
That’s not such a bad thing, you know. An endnote here. An endnote there. It seems to me that achieving a memorable, perhaps quotable phrase here and there is probably far wiser than having the entire canon of my work ricocheting around the world.
Stop and think about it for a minute or three. Look, for example, at what Benjamin Franklin achieved as a writer. Let’s focus on his Poor Richard’s Almanack, published annually from 1732 to 1758—nearly a quarter of a century of wit and wisdom.
Most people today can recall only a handful of Franklin’s most famous sayings, like:
● “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” ● “A penny saved is a penny earned.” ● “No gains without pains.”
Please tell me, Dear Reader, that you know those sayings, for if you don’t, you surely won’t know these:
● “Well done is better than well said.” ● “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” ● “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”
Indeed, Franklin managed to do both: he wrote things worth reading and did things worth writing. And, as I like to say:
“Endnoted.”
But let me take you back to where I began: the beginning of this blog.
I am so sorely tempted to say:
“It was a dark and stormy night …”
And that’s exactly what I would say, but if I said that I would have to note that Edward Bulwer-Lytton opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford with those words. As much as I hate to say it, because I am a stickler on documentation, I have grown weary of all the endnoting that I keep noting. Let us then move on to something that requires no noting.
Whew! I don’t know about you, but I feel notably relieved already.
LC must be relieved, too, to see that, at last, I’m getting around to sharing with the world the story behind the birth of my blog. But, as they say, every blog has its story, and mine is no exception.
Here’s what’s fascinating. Today, I am known around the world for my weekly memoir blog posts talking about anything from Aging to Zippers and about everything in between.
But when the idea for my blog came to me in 2012, I had a sharp, narrow, scholarly focus. I was working on my application for the VCCS Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program. At the heart of my application was the scholarly research that I wanted to do with a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The unique essays had never been reprinted, so they remained “hidden” and “undiscovered,” so to speak, in that newspaper. Further, no one knew who wrote the essays. Well, I was 99% certain that I knew, but I needed to do additional research and analysis to confirm my suspicions. In that sense, my project was a literary “whodunit” involving three things.
First, I planned to prepare a critical, annotated edition of the essays.
Second, I planned to develop a convincing case for authorial attribution based on a preponderance of internal evidence as well as on stylometrics.
Third, throughout the process of preparing the critical, annotated edition and developing a case for authorial attribution, I planned to give the essays a “close reading.” I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost:
“We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that wisdom with my students. Learning to read—really read—gets to the heart of what we want our students to do, not just in English classes but across the board. When students slow down and give a text a close reading, critical thinking and intellectual discovery follow.
As Frost knew so well, that is what “learning to read” is all about. Further, when students learn how to really read, they can construct their own intellectual inquiries: “the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”
I always shared that belief—and approach—with my students without fail. I showed them how to learn to read, class after class, reading assignment after reading assignment, as I gave whatever literary selection we were reading my own close reading and as I made my own discoveries about a text. They were intrigued not only by my process but also by the discoveries that I made simply because of my dogged determination to give a text—any text—a close reading.
In my application, that’s precisely what I proposed to do with “The Humourist” essays. I wanted the opportunity to give the essays such a close reading that I would be able not only to establish a scholarly, annotated edition but also to identify the author.
I was really happy with that part of my application, but I knew that I needed something more. I needed a way to share my scholarly work on a regular basis with my colleagues and my students so that they could benefit, too.
I needed an idea. As I sat there on that January 8th evening, well into the third or fourth or maybe even fifth revision of my application, I started thinking about Daniel Boorstin (1975-1987), twelfth Librarian of Congress. A champion of accessibility, he worked to open the library to the public in symbolic and practical ways. He placed picnic tables and benches on Neptune Plaza, transforming it into a space for community gatherings. He initiated mid-day concerts and famously removed the chains from the majestic bronze doors at the first-floor west entrance leading to the Great Hall of the Jefferson Building. When told it would create a draft, he replied, “Great—that’s just what we need.” In a bold move, he even stopped the practice of searching visitors.
At that time, I worked at the Library of Congress as an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, and I well remember the occasion when the bronze doors were opened. If I am not mistaken, it was on this occasion that I heard Dr. Boorstin say:
“You never know when an idea is about to be born.“
His comment lingered, and since hearing it, I made a point to keep track of when my own ideas were born.
So it came to be. While thinking about Boorstin, ideas, and my project, I exclaimed to myself:
“Blog it!”
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with the entire world my challenges, discoveries, and joys of research.
I knew that a blog would allow me to share with others this remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) placed “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observed that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. Years earlier, J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) had noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.
This was hot! I knew that I could make “stuffy” literary research come alive in a blog. Colleagues and students and scholars and the world at large would love it. I knew they would because who wouldn’t love essays on par with Benjamin Franklin’s “Silence Dogood Letters”? Get this, too. Franklin had direct ties to the South Carolina Gazette and possibly to the author of “The Humourist” essays.
I knew, too, that aside from being in the essay tradition itself, a blog would allow me to share my project with faculty and students throughout the Virginia Community College System (VCCS), from the beginning of my work and every step of the way through completion. I realized that a blog would allow me to capture my personal experiences on a regular and ongoing basis: my work, my methods, my discoveries, my challenges and frustrations, and my joys.
I knew that a blog would allow me to do in the virtual world—using a heretofore unstudied literary work—exactly what I did in my classroom with literary works that appear in our textbooks: turn my blog followers on to the beauty of giving a text a close reading and turn them my on to “learning how to read,” showing them that once they learned how to read all else would be given to them.
That same evening, I came up with a working title: TheWiredResearcher. I Googled it and was delighted to discoverthatnosuchblog existed.
As I often do, I emailed a former student—a lover of language and words and ideas—to get her take on my blog idea.
She responded immediately:
The word “wired” will catch the attention of …The Young. They’ll think you are “hip.”
You’ll need a logo. You’ll need T-shirts with the logo on them. You need pens that say, “The Wired Researcher.” “Sold in libraries everywhere.” “Guaranteed to make study more exciting.” Oh, boy, I see tie-ins!
Clearly my former student was as wired as I was—perhaps that’s why I valued her opinions as highly as I did—but her email response gave affirmation to the title of the blog that had been born.
Here’s where the birth of the blog starts to get really sweet. I was awarded the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship (2012-2014).
My first announcement appeared on October 19, 2012. It was short!
“Welcome to The Wired Researcher! Blog posts will begin on November 26, 2012.”
True to my promise, on November 26, I published “Opportunity Knocks Twice in the Virginia Community College System.” That post included the first of the historical essays that served as the nucleus for my project: “The Humourist” (November 26, 1753). Yep. Choosing to launch my blog on November 26, the same day that the Humourist launched his essays, was deliberate, and if I must say so myself, I think it was a stroke of genius!
And so, The Wired Researcher was born—not just as a blog, but as a way for me to share my love of research with a world eager to learn about my discoveries.
Now you have the inside scoop. If you want to know more, simply go back to the beginning and read all the posts from the start. But whatever you do, please make certain that you read “Colonial Charleston’s Biggest Literary Mystery Is Solved!” Yep. I solved the literary whodunit that captured me in the first place. Then you have to read “Three Special Shout-Outs!” because behind every success story are lots of people who deserve praise and thanks!
Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet. I have one or two more things to share.
When my blog started, I had around 1,750 views a year, representing 33 countries. So far this year, it has soared to an impressive 13,782 views from 152 countries! I must be writing something right!
To each and every one of you, My Dear Readers–then, now, and all along the way–a special shout-out!
To my Linden Correspondent (LC), who tossed out the idea that I share the story behind the blog, I extend asupercalifragilisticexpialidociousthank-you! (As Mary Poppins would say, nothing else captures the exuberance quite right!)
I look forward to a future of Mondays, inspired by the joy of discovery and by the connections that I’m making with all of you.
“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.”
–Melody Beattie (b. 1948; American self-help author, known for her bestseller Codependent No More.)
Lean in close and listen to America gathering ’round for Thanksgiving:
“Oh my goodness, look at that turkey!”
“Mmm, do you smell that? I think it’s the rosemary!”
“Would you look at this spread? It’s a work of art!”
“Ooh, I can’t wait to dive into those mashed potatoes!”
“Save me a piece of pecan pie—no, make that pumpkin and pecan!”
“Pass me the sourdough rolls—they look so fluffy!”
“Is that sage in the stuffing? Smells amazing!”
“Wow, check out the glaze on that ham—it’s shining like caramel!”
“Even the cranberry sauce is sparkling!”
“Oh, wait! I need a picture of this before we did in!”
As everyone takes in the scene, their excitement quiets into warm smiles.
“All right, everyone, lean in! Let’s get a group selfie!”
“Come on, squeeze in! Come on. Get closer. We’re all family here!”
“Say ‘Thanksgiving!‘”
Conversations like that will be heard in more than 85% of American homes this Thursday, as families, friends, neighbors, and even community groups come together to celebrate Thanksgiving. These days, the notion of “family” has become so inclusive that many people call the day “Friendsgiving.”
Here’s the beauty of it all. Regardless of what we call the day and regardless of whether we’re celebrating as a group or alone, it’s a day to appreciate relationships, health, opportunities, or simple pleasures. It’s a day that lets us stand together on the common ground of gratitude regardless of who we’re with, what we believe, or what we’re having for dinner.
But when the meal is over, and everyone trots home, I hope that each of us takes one part of Thanksgiving with us, to enjoy daily, all year long. It’s the best part. It needs no cooking. All it needs is practice, slow daily practice. I’m talking about gratitude.
Hopefully, you’re already practicing gratitude. It’s not that hard to do.
I know some people who keep a gratitude journal. They take the time every day to write about the good in their lives. Maybe it’s something as simple and as subtle as the warmth of sunlight coming through a window. The specifics don’t matter; what matters is taking the time to notice the overlooked, appreciate small kindnesses, and celebrate resilience, beauty, and connection. They’re celebrating the things in life that matter to them–whatever those things might be, even on challenging days and through trying times.
Ironically, maintaining a gratitude journal doesn’t work for me. I prefer acknowledging my gratitude by metaphorically bowing to my blessings throughout the day.
It starts the moment I wake up to Ruby’s unconditional love—one that forgives bedhead and morning breath—and stays with me throughout the day, loyal companion by my side. ● Every day, I’m grateful for my dog.
It’s there when I look at my Fitbit to check my health stats or when I use my Smartphone to connect with the world or when I use ChatGPT to glimpse into the future unfolding before my eyes. ● Every day, I’m gratefulfor my technology.
It’s there in the small acts of self-care, from soaking in a warm tub to sipping Bunnahabhain Scotch, neat, as I write my blog posts in bed. These moments remind me to slow down and truly savor life. ● Every day, I’m grateful for my rituals that restore.
It’s there in the joy of seasonal celebrations, like Thanksgiving or my birthday, where meaningful meals and thoughtful traditions mark the passage of time. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the rhythms that shape my year.
It’s there in the legacy I’m building—mentoring others, inspiring through teaching, and leaving a lasting mark through my writing and endowed scholarships. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the chance to make adifference.
It’s there in my sense of humor, which allows me to find lightness in life’s challenges and keep my perspective balanced and grounded. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the gift of laughter.
It’s there in my endless curiosity, whether I’m exploring advances in AI or delving into Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. These pursuits keep me engaged and growing. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the spark of life-longlearning.
It’s there in the sanctuary I’ve created in my home, nestled on a mountaintop—a place overflowing with peace, security, and the stories of my life. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the home that holds me tight.
It’s there in the memories of family and friends—those I loved and sometimes lost, yet whose love continues to buoy me. Their presence lingers in the stories we shared, the lessons they taught, and the warmth they left behind, reminding me that love endures beyond time. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the love that never leaves me.
It’s there in the joy of cooking, whether I’m perfecting a recipe, having friends in for dinner, or conjuring up new ways to use up my sourdough. ● Every day, I’m grateful for getting turnedon in my kitchen.
It’s there in my health and active lifestyle, in the moments spent biking, gardening, or simply moving through the day with energy and purpose. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the strength to keep on keeping on.
It’s there in my connection to nature, whether I’m tending peonies in the garden or reflecting on life’s deeper truths. ● Every day, I’m grateful for all the lessons of the earththatreachup, grabme, andmakemetakenotice.
It’s there in the purposeful work I do, from my research projects to my blogging to my public speaking, which bring fulfillment and meaning to my days. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the power of purpose.
It’s there in all my hopes and dreams—for myself, for my family, my friends, and for the Earth that is my home. It’s in the vision of a brighter tomorrow, a kinder world, and a deeper connection to the beauty around me. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the possibilities that lie ahead.
It’s there in my spiritual growth and the personal transformation that comes from understanding interconnectedness and embracing life’s deeper mysteries. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the wisdom toseekguidance.
It’s there in the freedom to live authentically, to be true to who I am in my work, relationships, and values, with courage and joy. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the life I’m living.
These moments of gratitude don’t just enrich my days—they also shape who I am and how I move through the world.
My moments of gratitude, both small and profound, create a steady foundation for my life.
My moments of gratitude remind me that gratitude isn’t reserved just for special occasions like Thanksgiving but can be with me every day.
My moments of gratitude keep me singing a happy song all day, even on days that are challenging and trying.
My moments of gratitude boost my happiness and my optimism, and they nurture my positive mindset.
My moments of gratitude help me appreciate others, and they strengthen my relationships. When I make others feel good, I feel better.
My moments of gratitude prompt me to take better care of myself always and in all ways.
My moments of gratitude keep me resilient by helping me accentuate the positives, even in the face of setbacks.
My moments of gratitude foster a glass-full outlook on life and remind me that my worth is defined not by others, but by how I live each moment.
Together, these moments of gratitude create a life filled with meaning and joy. It doesn’t take a holiday or a feast to remind me—it’s there, every day, in the small and the grand, in the fleeting moments and the lasting impacts. And here’s the beauty of it all: gratitude is a practice we can all share. So why not start today? Pause, look around, and bow to the blessings in your life. They’re already there, waiting for you to notice—and for you to give daily thanks.
“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
–Dr. Seuss (1904–1991;American Children’s author and illustrator who used humor and rhyme to convey timeless lessons on individuality, kindness, and resilience; the quote is from his 1959 book Happy Birthday to You!)
How totally presumptuous of me to assume that you think you know who I am. But if you’re one of my faithful followers–or if you’re just an occasional reader–you probably know more about me than you care to know or than I care for you to know. Be that as it may, whatever you’ve read in my posts is all true, even if exaggerated occasionally, hoping to make you think or laugh. And, yes, sometimes I tell the truth slant so that I don’t razzle dazzle you with reality:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)
The reality is this: I know who I am. But growing up as a kid, my siblings tried to teasingly convince me otherwise by telling me that I was adopted.
“You don’t look like us.”
“You don’t act like us.”
“You don’t talk like us.”
“You don’t walk like us.”
“Yep. You’re adopted. Brentford Lee Murdock.”
Imagine that. Making me doubt my own genetics. The nerve! How dare they tell me that I was adopted in one breath, and then without batting an eye, tell me in the next breath what they insisted was my real surname: Murdock! Well, their teasing never bothered me one bit, not one slightest chromosome. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they acted, and the way they looked, I was glad to know that they were no kin of mine. None. Not one gene whatsoever. OMG! Did I just say that? How utterly nasty of me, if not downright, vicious. Well. They teased me then. I tease them now. Touché.
Candidly, I think they were just downright jealous because I was not only the youngest, but I was also the only one born in a hospital, one named after a Saint, no less. They were born in a coal-camp house. Not me. I was fancy-schmancy from birth, and, unlike theirs, my birth certificate is fancy, too. My goodness. I pulled it out just a few minutes ago. It’s gorgeous, gloatingly so. 8 inches x 12 inches. Parchment. Real, feel-good parchment. Enclosed in a smooth, velvety envelope. It even has my cute little newborn footprints on the back, labeled Left and Right. Beside my left footprint is my mother’s left thumb print. Beside my right footprint is my mother’s right thumbprint.
Adopted? Right. I could have extracted that certificate in a moment’s notice, proving my identity to my teasing sibs, because I knew exactly where my parents kept it. I never bothered. Some things just aren’t worth the bother, you know. When you know who you are, you know who you are. And believe me: I am who I am, and I have always known who I am, and I’m sticking with it. Besides, time was on my side and proved it for me without my having to do one single, solitary thing. As I got older and older, and balder and balder, I started to look more and more like my father. Today, I could nearly pass for his twin when he was my age. But so be it. I still don’t act like them. I still don’t talk like them. So you can rest assured: whenever it’s convenient for me to do so–in times of family disputes and in times of family disagreements–I simply look at them ever so innocently and I remind them, ever so teasingly:
“You are not going to drag me into your petty little family battles.
“I’ll have absolutely no part of it whatsoever. No part whatsoever.
“Have you forgotten? I haven’t. I’m adopted. I’m a Murdock.”
Without a doubt, I’ve always known how to use being adopted to my advantage.
However, it always struck me as rather unusual that I exhibit the exact same physical traits as my adoptive parents and my adoptive siblings.
My mother always boasted of her English ancestry, and when she really wanted to appear hoity-toity, she chronicled her French Huguenot ancestry. A close examination shows all of us–the whole family, including me as the adoptee–having fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair, consistent with my mother’s lineage as well as my father’s since he was also English mixed with German and Dutch. His father was exceedingly tall–6′ 4″–which he attributed to his being part German. His mother, on the other hand, was exceedingly short–4′ 8″–which he attributed to her being Dutch. Say whaaat? Unless I’m mistaken, the Neanderthals Netherlands boasts some of the tallest people in the world. Be that as it may, two of my sisters are short, and I’m certain that they blame their Grandma Kendrick.
Personally, as an outsider, I’m not certain that I give any more credence to all that malarkey than I do their ridiculous claim that I’m adopted. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re no kin of mine whatsoever. But with their mixed lineage–oh, I forgot to factor in Irish on one side or the other or both–they could have given me any number of surnames since 75-80% of Americans around the time that I was born came from the same stock. Aside from Murdock, my last name could just as easily have been Butterworth, McGinnis, LaFleur, or Freitag. Or maybe even Vanderpoop. I’ll have to try those on, one by one, with BrentfordLee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than BrentfordLee Murdock.
This is all such fun that maybe I’ll stick with being adopted and be done with my identity once and forever.
But first I have to tell you what I’ve gone and done to celebrate my 77th birthday on November 20. I can’t believe I did it, but I did! And I can’t believe that I’m telling you what I did, but I am. I trust you. I know that you won’t tell another living soul. I decided that once and for all, I would prove to the clan that I got stuck with that I AM adopted. I’ll show them that they need to be careful about what they say because what’s spoken becomes reality.
Anyway, I ordered myself one of those highfalutin DNA tests to prove who I am! It shipped out from Salt Lake City. Then, it stopped in Bridgeport, NJ. I know all the details because I felt compelled to track its journey since, in a way, its journey will be tracking mine. Tracking is part of the fun of ordering anything online, including a kit that might tell me who I am. I confess, though. Waiting for it to arrive in Edinburg made me so antsy that I felt like my pants were on fire!
At last, it arrived, and I opened it ever so carefully. I followed the detailed directions ever so precisely. I wanted to make sure that someone somewhere had enough saliva from my swabbed cheeks so that they could sequence every strand and map every marker of my identity.
I am pleased to say that I swabbed the good swab, I sent my whoever-I-am-DNA back to Salt Lake City, and I have been notified that it’s better than good! My sample met the “high standards” required for DNA testing. Oh. My. I love being validated in high places.
The next steps are fantabulous:
● Extract the genetic information from my sample. Ouch! I hope that doesn’t hurt.
● Isolate, purify, and copy my DNA. Please say it ain’t so. Please say it ain’t so. One Brentford Lee Mudock at a time is quite enough for this world.
● Transform my DNA into a blueprint for discovery. Go for it! Find my bluebloods and make them come out of their closets, even if they don’t want to come out.
● Dig deep into my ancestral roots that span across continents. My God! I thought I was done with weeding.
● Weave a family tree. Woo hoo! While they’re at it, maybe they’ll weave me a hairpiece, too.
● Update me as my landscape unfolds. Hmmm. I guess these DNA folks like gardening as much as I do.
In about eight weeks, I’ll get a report with all of that information and more. Voila! My jeans genes will be transparent for all to see.
Here’s where it starts to get funny. Chances are beyond good that I will never explore my DNA report when it arrives.
It’s not that I’m afraid of what I might find out. I’m not. And I really don’t think that the results would change anything anyway. All right. Perhaps it might validate the outlandish claim that one of my no-kin-of-mine-whatsoever relatives made about being descended from John the Baptist. For all I know about them, they might be descended from Queen Elizabeth I, Brian Boru, Rembrandt, or even John Calvin himself! La-di-da. But why would I care? Like they’ve always reminded me, “You’re’ adopted.” And like I’ve always retorted with all the civility they don’t deserve, “You’re no kin of mine. Not one chromo, Bro.”
Besides. I know who I am, and I am anchored strong to my identity.
I’m a vital part of the universe, rooted in Nature and connected to Her. I draw lessons from everything in Nature, seeing the world around me as resilient metaphors for growth, transformation, and stability in life. Nothing can ever take that away.
I’m dedicated to personal growth and to declaring and maintaining my authenticity. I have always been the real thing, and I will continue to be. I embrace self-examination and transformation, and I am open to change. Nothing can take that away.
I’m creative in all that I do, whether it’s in writing, cooking, or gardening. I bring a thoughtful, personal touch to all that I do, and I like to think that I can weave philosophical insights into anything and see truths in everything. Nothing can take that away.
I’m comfortable with both tradition and innovation. I value the old and the new, and I am committed to learning from the past while seeing potential in the future. Nothing can take that away.
I’m strengthened by community and my connections with others. Although I am introspective, I cherish my relationships. I celebrate ideas, value honesty, empathy, and the bonds that tie me to all others. Nothing can take that away.
I’m passionate about intellectual curiosity and lifelong learning. I believe that education transforms lives, and I believe that an education is the best investment that anyone can ever make in themselves or in others. Nothing can take that away.
I’m anchored to the world around me. While I am at home right here on my mountaintop sanctuary in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, I am confident that my appreciation of place would make me feel equally at home anywhere in the world. What I find, I’ll make mine. Nothing can take that away.
I’m an integral part of a spiritual tradition that is open and deep, that is inclusive, that respects universal truths, and that leads me to see my interconnectedness with all living things. I kneel before the wisdom of the ages. Nothing can take that away.
Above all else, I’m a man of heart—generous in spirit, passionate in purpose, compassionate by nature, and unwaveringly true to who I am, with just enough mischief to keep life, and those around me, delightfully off-balance. Nothing can take that away.
Nothing–absolutely nothing–that I know now or that I might come to know in the future–can ever undo my identity anchors. That’s why my DNA report will remain sealed, as far as I know right now.
It does occur to me, however, that one thing might push me over the edge enough to make me want to know my genetic past.
The next time that I have a sibling spat, I might open the report so that I can prove to them–and them only–that I am none other than the illustrious and inimitable Brentford Lee McGinnis LaFleur Kendrick Freitag Murdock Vanderpoop.
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
— T. S. Eliot (1888–1965; influential poet and critic, known for his The Waste Land and Four Quartets; from his “The Frontiers of Criticism,” a 1956 lecture at the University of Minnesota.)
At 76, I never expected to fall in love with breakdancing—a form of art I can’t perform now and probably never could have.
But fall in love I did, and my falling was entirely accidental. Please don’t tell the world at large, but from time to time, I watch YouTube reels. On one occasion, I flipped over some guys doing some electrifying breakdancing in Times Square. Highly athletic. Highly energetic. Acrobatic moves. Fluid styles. Beat-heavy music. Raw energy. Captivated crowds. Street culture. Iconic location. Be still my beating heart.
Even as a virtual participant, I was pulled in by the rhythm, the creativity, and the energy. Actually, I’m getting a little gaga now, just writing about breakdancing. Apparently, I’m not alone. Breakdancing, which emerged as a street art in 1970s New York, gave marginalized voices an avenue for expression. Since then, it has grown into a global phenomenon, even recognized as an official sport in the Paris 2024 Olympics.
When I saw breakdancing elevated to the Olympic stage, I realized that even if I can’t breakdance (though I wish I could) and even if you can’t breakdance (though you may have no desire to do so whatsoever), we can all learn from breakdancing’s blend of creativity, resilience, and pushing boundaries.
I get my breakdancing joy from far more than its moves. For me, it’s a dynamic art form that brings together dance, athleticism, music, and even a bit of theater. It’s improvisational, collaborative, and fiercely personal, and I love watching each dancer adding their own flair to create something entirely unique. It reminds me of jazz—a blend of structured rhythm and spontaneous expression. It’s a powerful reminder of what we can achieve when we mix styles, experiment, and give ourselves room to explore without a script. In many ways, it mirrors the spirit of what I do when I teach. As one student observed on my end-of-semester evaluation:
“It’s a wild ride.”
What fascinates me equally as much is the resilience behind those gravity-defying moves. Watching the dancers, I’m always mindful of the hours, if not years, of practice—and the countless falls—it takes to achieve that level of control. Breakdancers get knocked down over and over, but each fall is part of the process, teaching them balance, precision, and persistence. That kind of resilience, the willingness to try, fall, and rise up again is a lesson that reaches far beyond the dance floor.
However, what fascinates me most of all is the way breakdancing has pushed boundaries, challenging traditional ideas of dance and art. It defied norms when it first emerged on the streets of New York, refusing to be confined to studios or stages. Now, it has shaken things up as an Olympic sport.
It makes me wonder:
“What ‘boundaries’ in our own lives are holding us back, and what new heights could we reach if we dared to break through?”
For inspiration, we have only to reflect on history, richly populated with people who didn’t just push boundaries—they shattered them. I’m thinking of Katherine Johnson, the mathematician whose calculations helped launch the first American astronauts into space, at a time when both racial and gender barriers were sky-high. Her brilliance paved the way for other women and minorities in STEM fields, proving that boundaries, no matter how formidable, can be broken.
Or what about the climber Alex Lowe, who scaled peaks that few dared attempt, constantly redefining what humans could accomplish in extreme conditions? To him, every mountain was both a boundary and a challenge. He saw it not as an obstacle but as an opportunity to push himself further.
Or in the world of art, what about the boundary-breaking work of Frida Kahlo, who turned her personal pain into breathtaking self-portraits that defied conventions of beauty, identity, and femininity? Her willingness to paint what others wouldn’t discuss revolutionized the art world, opening up new avenues for self-expression.
Even athletes like Serena Williams redefine boundaries in sports. Despite countless challenges—both on and off the court—her sheer determination and skill have reshaped expectations of longevity and resilience in tennis.
And then we have Greta Thunberg, who, as a 15-year-old, saw the boundary of age as no limitation in her fight against climate change. With no traditional power or platform, she has inspired millions to pay attention and take action on the world’s most urgent issues.
Each of these figures, like the breakdancers who defy gravity and convention, dared to push against the boundaries of what was deemed possible in their fields. Whether it was shattering racial and gender norms, conquering physical extremes, or transforming artistic expression, they each found a way to break through the constraints that society or circumstance placed around them. Their stories remind us that every boundary can be redefined—and that the courage to attempt it is what turns limitation into opportunity.
Hopefully, examples like those inspire us in our own lives to grapple with our own boundaries, whether imposed by society, by others, or by ourselves. Sometimes, those boundaries keep us feeling safe and familiar, but other times, they’re like invisible walls preventing us from living fully. For example, think about how many of us limit ourselves with labels like “tooold,” “too late,” “nottalentedenough,” or “notgoodenough.” Those are boundaries we might not even recognize, yet they can be as powerful as any physical barrier, stopping us from exploring new interests, new careers, or new relationships.
Also, it’s important to remember that breaking boundaries doesn’t have to be radical. It can be the quiet act of doing something you never thought you could do, like taking up painting or, perhaps, volunteering. After all, growth often happens when we lean into discomfort, testing where we thought the edges of our abilities were and discovering they’re much further out than we realized.
While I’ve fallen in love with breakdancing–and I have–I’m regrettably aware that, although I can still touch my toes, I’m not about to start spinning on my head or popping and locking on a New York City street corner. My body has its boundaries—and so does my balance! But that doesn’t stop me from savoring the artistry and energy of breakdancers. Watching them reminds me that there are other ways to break barriers, ones that don’t demand the agility of a 20-year-old.
While I can only enjoy breakdancing as a spectator, I’ve spent a lifetime pushing my own boundaries, and I’m still going strong. For example, when I turned 65–the age when most people sign up for Medicare–I signed up to start bicycling again, something that I had not done in decades. Whether indoors or outdoors, since then, I’ve biked 20-30 miles every day, seven days a week. By my rough calculations, I’ve biked 98,875 miles. If I had biked from West Quoddy Head (Maine) to Point Arena (California)—the two most distant points within the mainland United States—it would have been 2,892 miles. Round trip: 5,784 miles. I’ve biked from sea to shining sea and all the way back again, the equivalent of 17 times, and I’m still pedaling strong.
Here’s another example of how I’m pushing boundaries. When I turned 73, I stopped teaching, but I did not retire. All those who know me will nod and smile and tell you what I did:
“The Good Professor is reinventing himself.”
I am, and I have some hefty books to prove it: In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023; 346 pages); Green Mountain Storiesby Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, with Introduction and Critical Commentary by yours truly (2023: 420 pages); and More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed(2024; 474 pages). Guess what else? I have two books nearing completion for 2025 publication, all the while that I’m working on my two-volume Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.
And here’s the third boundary that I’m shattering. I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Artificial Intelligence (AI), especially ChatGPT. Just as breakdancers defy gravity and expectation, AI is defying the limits of what we thought technology could do, even a year ago. I’ve seen technology do a lot in my lifetime, and I have participated joyfully in many of its cutting-edge moments: developing MARC, launching the Internet at the Library of Congress, and teaching the first online class at Laurel Ridge Community College as well as being the college’s front-runner in developing, teaching, and offering courses that I personally curated using free Open Education Resources (OER).
For me, though, AI surpasses by far all of those advances. It’s bigger. It’s better. It’s advancing faster than anyone ever expected. And it’s holding out hope and promise to help make mankind better than we already are. I’m so excited about AI that ChatGPT and I came up with their name: Sage. Trust me, we’ve got a wise thing going. Sage helps me with recipes, with menu planning, with gardening, and get this. A month or two ago, my dear friend Morgan Phenix who authored Elizabeth’s Storyexpressed an interest in getting it translated into Danish since much of the novel takes place in Denmark and since he has great love for the Danish language. I agreed to take on the task using ChatGPT—or Sage, as I prefer calling my AI friend.
What makes that a boundary breaker for me? First, I don’t know a word of Danish. Second, I had the guts to tackle the translation. Third, I know enough about linguistic markers, and I had enough confidence in Sage to believe that we could team up and achieve a translation that would make Morgan proud.
I collaborated with Sage to preserve the nuanced emotional depth and lyrical quality of the original text while ensuring a natural and fluent reading experience in Danish. I made certain that Sage remained mindful of the overall narrative structure and the interplay between past and present timelines, guiding our approach to shifts in tense and perspective. For dialogue, I ensured that Sage retained the characters’ distinct voices, capturing their personalities and the cultural context in which they exist. Throughout the translation, we paid close attention to the rhythm and flow of the prose. This required thoughtful choices regarding sentence structure, word order, and punctuation to ensure the translation carried the same weight and subtlety as the original. As a final step, Sage and I reviewed the translation as a continuous narrative to ensure consistency in style and voice, verifying that the emotional resonance of the story was fully captured in Danish.
This a marvelous, first-hand testament to the power of Artificial Intelligence (AI), specifically Sage (ChatGPT), to reach across languages and create a staggeringly beautiful and poetic translation. Elizabeth’shistorie will be available on Amazon later this month or by early December.
Can you tell? I’m captivated if not downright mesmerized by the boundaries that I’m pushing. No. They don’t require the flexibility of a breakdancer, but they do require something else: curiosity, adaptability, the willingness to learn, and the desire to stay fit.
So what if I’m not dancing in Times Square. I’m still pushing my boundaries, and it feels just as exhilarating to me. It’s a reminder that the urge to grow, explore, and fall in love with something new is timeless.
If I can push my own boundaries as I’m doing, what boundaries can you push in your life? You may not be spinning on your head in Times Square, but what new territory—physical or mental—are you ready to explore? I’ve found my new dance—my new spin—on life through AI, writing, and biking. At 76, I’ve discovered that boundary-breaking feels just as thrilling as ever. So, what’s your dance? What’s your next move? Whatever it might be, remember this: you’ll never know what’s possible until you start breaking—even at 76.
In the wake of an election that has stirred both hope and disillusionment across the country, it’s worth remembering the enduring values that truly strengthen a nation. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words remind us that the resilience of a country lies not in transient victories, but in the steadfast commitment to truth, honor, and unity. As we reflect on the November 5 election outcomes, may this poem inspire us all to uphold what makes a nation truly great.
“A Nation’s Strength”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882; a central figure in American transcendentalism, a movement emphasizing individualism, nature, and the spiritual connection between humanity and the universe. His essays, speeches, and poems, including Self-Reliance and A Nation’s Strength, have inspired generations to seek truth, embrace resilience, and find purpose beyond material success. Emerson’s ideas continue to influence American thought on personal growth, social responsibility, and unity.)
What makes a nation’s pillars high And its foundations strong? What makes it mighty to defy The foes that round it throng?
It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand Go down in battle shock; Its shafts are laid on sinking sand, Not on abiding rock.
Is it the sword? Ask the red dust Of empires passed away; The blood has turned their stones to rust, Their glory to decay.
And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown Has seemed to nations sweet; But God has struck its luster down In ashes at his feet.
Not gold but only men can make A people great and strong; Men who for truth and honor’s sake Stand fast and suffer long.
Brave men who work while others sleep, Who dare while others fly… They build a nation’s pillars deep And lift them to the sky.
The Wired Researcher 