The Rust Whisperer

Posted on April 14, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE. Founder of Taoism. His teachings focus on harmony with nature, patience in becoming, and the quiet power of letting life unfold in its own time.)

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

“Say whaaaaat?” someone just rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet I know that it’s seasoned.

Yet I know that it’s settled.

Yet I know that it’s not finished.

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

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

Posted on March 24, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver (1935–2019; American poet celebrated for her keen observations of nature, the human spirit, and the connection between the two. Oliver’s poetry encourages readers to engage deeply with the world around them and to embrace life’s moments with curiosity and intention.)

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to bother.”

“Come on. They only take ten minutes.”

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

“Biscuits. You always make biscuits.”

“Not tonight.”

“Come on. Just mix the dough.”

“No.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“No. I won’t.”

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

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

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

“I don’t want to bother.”

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

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m tired. I need a break.”

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

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

“I don’t want to bother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?

Posted on November 18, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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 Brentford Lee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than Brentford Lee 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.

At 76, I Fell for Breakdancing—and Here’s Why

Posted on November 11, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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 “too old,” “too late,” “not talented enough,” or “not good enough.” 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 Stories by 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 Story expressed 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’s historie 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.

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

Posted on September 23, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”
—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

What My Father Saw

Posted on June 16, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”
–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)

Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.

It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.

It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.

But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.

Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.

I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.

Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.

But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.

My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.

I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.

But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.

No doubt he saw the present.

He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.

Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.

Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.

No doubt he saw his past.

His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.

Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.

Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.

Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.

No doubt he saw his future.

Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.

Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)

He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)

One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)

Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.

Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.

Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.

“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”

He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.

That’s what my father saw.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

The Tyranny of “Right Now”

Posted on May 27, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To finish the moment, to find the journey’s end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement in the mid-19th century. The quote is from his essay “Experience.”)

Last year, as autumn’s chill set in, I stood before my peony bed, an expansive testament to thirty years of nurturing. I vowed to rejuvenate it. I like to think that my peonies are sturdy—they are. I like to think that they’re strong—they are. I like to think that they’ll live forever—they will, with proper care, including digging, lifting, dividing, and replanting the tubers every fifteen years or so.

My peonies were long overdue a re-do. Somehow, though, despite my resolve and the shared anticipation, winter arrived, masking the overgrown bed beneath a blanket of snow. “It can wait until spring,” I reassured myself, delaying the inevitable.

With the arrival of spring, of course, came the return of my senses. (Spring is not the season to dig up and replant peony tubers.) It also brought the return of reality. (Briars, weeds, and saplings survive all seasons, always returning stronger than ever.)

Additionally, my peony bed is just one of my garden beds. Yet, I am only one, tending to many. While I recognize that I am a mighty force to be reckoned with, my garden beds sometimes seem mightier. But with spring also came the return of my determination to get my peony bed in shape.

So, it came to be. In the stillness of one morning filled with unimaginable promise, I set out to “do the needful” as I like to call any odious task that must be done. Not long into my doing, I found myself wishing that I had it done, all of it. Right then. Right there. Right now. I sat there on the cold, damp ground, wishing my peony bed into the state of perfection that I dreamt of it being. Right then. Right there. Right now.

In that same wishful moment, I shook my head in disbelief. I knew that my wish was impossible. I could not, in a moment, reclaim a garden bed that had gotten away from me, moment after moment, day after day, month after month, season after season, year after year. Aside from the impossibility of achieving instantly what I knew would take time to achieve, I shook my head in disbelief, wondering why I, an avid and seasoned gardener, would even contemplate wishing to be finished with my gardening just when I had started it?

I knew the answer. “Right Now” had become my gardening tyrant. I had been lulled into the desire to have my desired outcomes without putting in the required work.

I know first-hand that as a rule in life, we get what we work for. I know first-hand that as a rule in life, if it’s worth having, it’s worth waiting for.

But I realized more than those obvious truths. To have my peony bed restored to my longed-for state of perfection instantly–in one fell swoop, if you will–would deprive me with equal speed of all the pleasures that gardening always brings.

It would deprive me of a succession of days strung out like a strand of precious pearls as I get down and dirty.

It would deprive me of letting my hands take the temperature of the soil, feeling the cool, damp earth cradled in my palms, a subtle gauge of the season’s transition.

It would deprive me of letting my eyes look skyward, watching the clouds drift and gather as I take measure of the day’s weather, or of letting them look downward, studying the intricate network of roots between my clasped fingers, each one a testament to nature’s resilience.

It would deprive me of letting my nose smell the earthy, musty, and slightly sweet scents of decaying leaves and grasses from yesteryear, a rich concoction of aromas that evoke the passage of time and the cycle of life.

It would deprive me of letting my heart pound wildly as my blacksnake slithers unexpectedly from nowhere, its cool, smooth scales brushing against the skinscape of my forearm, sending a jolt of surprise and awe as it continues its mysterious journey to somewhere.

It would deprive me of all the joy and fulfillment that comes from the process and the journey. I would miss it all, all because I wanted it all. Right then. Right there. Right now.

No doubt I could come up with other deprivations if I dug deeper. But sitting amidst my peony bed, caught between the reality of briars and saplings and the dream of blossoming flowers, I realized the insidious nature of the tyranny of “Right Now.” If we’re not careful, it can infiltrate every facet of our existence, threatening to strip away the very essence of the joy we seek.

Just as in gardening, the tryanny of “Right Now”–this desire for immediacy–can manifest itself in numerous ways and hinder our experiences in many areas of life:

● personal growth and self-improvement: rushing into self-help quick fixes.
● relationships: expecting instant gratification in love.
● career development: trying to reach the top overnight.
● health and wellness: following fad diets and workout routines.
● financial management: falling for get-rich-quick schemes.
● learning and education: wanting to earn a degree immediately.
● creativity: aspiring to become an artistic genius instantly.
● spiritual growth and mindfulness: seeking enlightenment at the click of the keyboard.
● aging and dying: not taking time to enjoy life’s final lessons.

As I reflect, I’m grateful for the lesson this gardening journey has taught me. It’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey itself—the process, the progress, the growth. Whether nurturing peonies or nurturing our own lives, it’s the patience and perseverance, the embracing of the journey, that truly enriches our souls and helps us escape the tyranny of “Right Now.”

The Wired Researcher

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

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