The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed is now available in hardcover — alongside paperback and Kindle editions.
Whether you’re reading in bed, on your favorite chair, or anywhere your journey takes you, The Third Time’s the Charm promises to entertain, uplift, and inspire. Settle in and let the journey begin.
In this third volume of delightfully thought-provoking essays, I invite you into the most intimate spaces—both literal and metaphorical—of a life lived fully and authentically. From Appalachian coal camps to deep connections with family, friends, and a loyal canine companion, these essays explore joy and loss, solitude and connection, memory and reinvention—with warmth, wit, and unflinching honesty.
You’ll find stories of dust bunnies and online dating, gardening and global warming, grief and the wonder of AI. Each essay offers a window into the universal truths that shape our lives, reminding us that every “postage stamp” of existence is rich, rooted, and uniquely ours.
Thank you for being part of this journey. Let’s keep turning pages together!
P.S.The hardcover version makes a pretty terrific gift — especially for anyone who loves life’s twists, turns, and unexpected laughter.
“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”
—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE; ancient Chinese philosopher and founder of Taoism. His teachings emphasize harmony with the natural flow of life.)
Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM.
With rhythmic precision, it keeps pounding just like my heart.
But it’s not my heart.
It’s my mind, beating to the same rhythm, chanting.
I want. I want. I want.
In my most recent chant, I wanted Francesco Mattano’s famed Peposo, a traditional Tuscan Red Wine Beef Stew. It’s so simple with just a few ingredients: garlic, beef, salt, coarsely ground black pepper, a bouquet garni, and red wine. Simmered for several hours and served up in a well of buttered polenta, it’s the recipe’s clean simplicity that makes it so sinfully delicious.
Altroché! That’s just what I wanted–an entree promising good-to-the-last-bite deliciousness. At the same time, I was well aware that I had leftover pork tenderloin as well as chicken salad.
Once upon a time, I would have rushed off to the grocery store, bought the provisions for Peposo, and celebrated another culinary triumph.
These days, however, even though my wants are as rhythmic as my heart, I am pulling back as I try to reconcile what Iwant with what Ihave.
With food, for example, I wanted Francesco’s stew, but I had pork tenderloin and chicken salad already prepared. The craving was there, but so was a perfectly good meal.
Take books, for example. I’ve dedicated decades of my life to Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and I’ve amassed a significant collection. But I want to chase after one more obscure letter or document that will make my already rich archive even richer.
What about dating? I want romance—not out of need, but out of hope. My life is full and meaningful, yet I’d love to share it with someone who brings his own fullness—a shared life made richer by both of us.
Even in garden centers, new specimen evergreens whisper, “Take me. Plant me.” But I already have a beautiful Zen-like landscape.
I’m also trying to reconcile what I want with what I need.
I might want dessert, but what I need is a meal that aligns with my health goals. I’m cutting out sweets but keeping nightly Bunnahabhain—for balance!
When it comes to fitness, I might want quick results, but I need consistency not as much in biking as in weight training. At my age–no, at any age–real strength comes from steady, intentional effort.
What about my writing? I want more time to write, but I need to manage my other commitments more wisely so that I have the time I need.
Even in relationships, I want certainty, but I need to let connections unfold naturally—his rhythm, my rhythm, coming into step together.
The more I realize that I don’t need everything I want and that, in reality, I already have what I need, the more I’m discovering new dimensions of freedom.
What had been a constant search for more, whether material things, achievements, or validation, has given way to peace.
What had been a scarcity mindset has become a focus on embracing abundance—not in excess, but in sufficiency.
What had been a notion that having more means being more has yielded to the realization that I’m already enough.
What had been impulse is now intentional as I make choices that nourish me rather than just satisfy my fleeting cravings.
I’m shifting from grasping to gratitude, from craving to contentment.
I’m no longer mistaking wants for purpose. I’m recognizing that growth, connection, and presence matter more.
I’m starting to trust the rhythm of life, just like I trust the rhythm of my own heart.
My heart beats on, steady and sure— not demanding, just existing.
It thumps a lesson that I’m learning: I don’t have to chase every want. What I need is already here—or on its way, arriving in the fullness of time.
We are all different expressions of one reality, different songs of one singer, different dances of one dancer.
–Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002; pioneering spiritual teacher who emphasized the unity of all religions and the interconnectedness of humanity, best known for founding Integral Yoga and promoting peace, love, and harmony globally.)
“Every cloud has a silver lining” is such a cliché that I’m appalled that I’m using it, no less at the beginning of my post. But I am. In a minute, you’ll understand why. For now, though, bear with me while I find out when the cliché was first used. Don’t run off! I’ll be right back after I consult my good friend, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).
When I tell you what I found, you’ll be glad that you stayed. The expression started out as a truly original thought:
“Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud Turne forth her silver lining on the night?”
That’s downright beautiful! Who gets the credit? John Milton. He used the phrase in Comus, his 1634 masque in which a virtuous Lady, lost in a magical forest, resists the temptations of the sorcerer Comus, the son of the wine god Bacchus and the sorceress Circe. With a combo like that, do I need to say more? Well, yes, I do, and I will. The “silver lining” in Lady’s dark cloud was the triumph of her chastity and inner strength over vice and deception. There. That says it all.
It took an understandably long, long time before Milton’s original thought veered off in the direction of becoming a cliché, thereby losing its impact. Let’s face it: most people would be challenged to remember Milton’s line, and if they did, they’d probably stumble over sable, perhaps not knowing that it means black or dark.
But don’t worry. Over time, the expression morphed into something more memorable and more understandable. More than two hundred years later, a variation appeared in Samuel Smiles’ Character (1871):
“While we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.”
Smiles was well-known for his self-help books, enshrining the basic Victorian values associated with the “gospel of work.”
Things started to speed up in the next decade, when an even more memorable version appeared in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, or the Town of Tutipu (1885):
“Don’t let’s be down-hearted! There’s a silver lining to every cloud.”
That comedic opera went on to become one of the most frequently performed works in the history of musical theatre. Little wonder that the line became overused and stale.
And there we have it: the birth of a cliché, with a small amount of its genealogical baggage tossed in for free. How’s that for good news?
Since the rest of this post is free, too, you’re getting a double dose of good news today. Who knows. With luck, maybe you’ll get even more. I hope so.
As for your humble bearer of all this free good news, apparently, I’ve been spreading it for a lifetime. My mother always boasted that I was born smiling, and I’ve kept right on smiling for nearly 77 years. I can’t help myself. Optimism is one of my core values. I guess you might say that I’m hardwired for seeing silver linings. There you have it: my personal good news and my rationale for opening this post with a cliché.
I wish that I could take full credit for seeing life as positively as I do. But I can’t. I have to acknowledge my mother. I have no doubt that while she was carrying me in her womb, she was conjuring up all the positive attributes that she wanted her sixth child to possess, and I’m sure that in addition to her conjurations, she was casting equally powerful spells on me and others by singing Gospels and by reading, praying, and preaching the Bible.
It took me a few years before I could sing the songs, pray the prayers, or read the Bible–the vessels carrying the Good News that was at the core of my Judeo-Christian upbringing.
But that was not a problem for me. Reading was not required for me to find my own good news, here, there, everywhere–outdoors.
I found as much delight in whispering to the buzzing honeybee cupped in my hand as I did chasing with wild abandon the heifer on the run through the coal camp, as confident that it would let me lead it home as I was certain that the honeybee would not sting the hand that proffered love.
I found as much joy lying in the grass blowing dandelion seeds into the sun as I did racing between the pitter patter of raindrops or as I did in dancing off to the end of the rainbow, coal bucket in hand so that I could bring back home all the gold nuggets awaiting my arrival.
I found as much miracle in green beans poking their fragile-coated selves through the hardness of blackened coal-camp earth as I did in the sticky white pinkness of the Mountain Laurel outside our kitchen door, stretching toward blue, over the top of the house.
And when someone reached up to the top of the Hoosier kitchen cabinet and turned off the horizontally ribbed, off-white Philco radio, I found myself believing that whatever song was playing would keep right on playing when someone else turned it back on, and if it didn’t, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt that an even more beautiful melody would lift me up.
I found that the child in me awakened every morning, always delighted and excited to be part of a brand-new day, every second of every day. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was eager for it to start ticking, knowing that I would find joy in its unfolding.
It should come as no surprise that everyone called me Little Mr. Sunshine. The good news that I found all around me stamped its imprimatur of a joyful smile upon my countenance.
It should come as even less of a surprise that when I learned to read and entered into a fuller understanding of the world around me, I was pulled as if by gravity itself to Robert Frost’s poetry and his profound connections between nature and humanity. In those early years of studying Frost, it did not matter that I did not see his darker side, personally or poetically. All that mattered was that his poetry spoke to my heart and made me believe–no, know–that I was part of the universal scheme of things. I’m thinking of poems like “Birches” and the speaker’s desire to escape the complexities of adult life and return to nature’s purity. Or “Mowing,” in which the speaker meditates on the act of mowing a field, focusing on the simple, rhythmic, and satisfying–almost sacred–connection between human labor and the natural world. And I can’t leave out his “Tree at My Window” and its compelling opening stanza:
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
I could relate. I never wanted the curtain drawn between me and the outer world, and, for that matter, I never felt that it could be drawn because I saw the outer world and my inner world as one and the same.
I could relate even more when I discovered Walt Whitman who saw mankind as an integral and interconnected part of nature, celebrating the unity between the human spirit and the natural world, where every individual is both a unique expression of life and a vital element in the eternal, cosmic cycle. I could blindly open Whitman’s Song of Myself, letting my hand fall on any page that I might open, hoping to find validation and the positive connection between man and the cosmos–my source for the good news–confident that I would find it. Right now, I’m thinking of Section 6, where Whitman uses the leaf of grass as a symbol of the individual and the continuity of life:
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
The leaf of grass becomes a metaphor for the cycle of life, the interconnectedness of all living things, and the mysteries of existence. Whitman reflects on how the grass can represent everything from the handkerchief of God to the graves of the dead, expressing his belief in the unity of nature and humanity.
The notion that all living things share an interconnectedness clutches my heart and shakes my soul in jubilant celebration. I am one with all. All is one with me. I’m not certain that the news gets any better. But it does. Let me explain.
When I started reading the Bible–one of the major books in the world declaring the Good News–I saw multiple ways of looking at it. Without a doubt, I understood that many Christians focus on the Good News as God’s plan to save humanity through Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, offering forgiveness of sins and eternal life to those who believe. I also understood that others emphasize the coming of the Kingdom of God, where Jesus’ teachings bring transformation in how we live, treat others, and build just communities. Some understand the Gospel as a message of unconditional love, grace, and acceptance, where God’s love is freely given to all, regardless of merit. For some, the Good News is also a message of personal renewal and transformation, where individuals are invited to grow spiritually, morally, and in relationship with God. For others, the Gospel is about challenging social injustices and bringing peace, equality, and care for the marginalized, aligning with Jesus’ teachings on compassion and service.
It can, of course, be all those things. At the same time, a leaning toward one in no way excludes or minimizes the others. But for me personally, central to the spirit of the Good News is the belief that better times are coming. That doesn’t surprise me at all. This belief goes hand-in-hand with my conviction that every cloud has a silver lining. The idea that better times are ahead—whether today, tomorrow, or forever and a day—is a powerful way for me to stay hopeful and to embrace the positive transformations happening in my life. It’s uplifting for me to frame my life and life in general that way, because it keeps the focus on growth and renewal.
This is where the news starts getting better. The spirit of the Good News, as I see it—focused on personal transformation, hope, and the belief that better times are coming—resonates in other major world religions. While the specifics differ, many religions share themes of renewal, hope, and the potential for positive change.
Judeo-Christian beliefs are rich in Jewish thought and teachings with its strong emphasis on hope, justice, and the idea of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Jewish teachings often stress that despite the suffering or hardships experienced, there’s always hope for better times, often through collective effort and living according to the Torah’s ethical principles.
Emerging after Judaism and Christianity is Islam, with hope and transformation expressed through the belief in God’s mercy and guidance. Muslims believe that turning toward God, following the teachings of the Quran, and striving to live a just and righteous life bring both inner peace and divine rewards. The idea of continuous improvement (through repentance and good deeds) mirrors the personal transformation that I see in the Good News.
Another ancient world religion, Hinduism, also emphasizes personal growth through karma (the law of action) and dharma (righteous living). The belief in reincarnation offers a hopeful outlook that the soul evolves over lifetimes, learning and growing until it achieves moksha (liberation).
Closely related is Buddhism, in which the concept of transformation is central. The Four Noble Truths recognize the existence of suffering, but the Eightfold Path provides a way to overcome it, leading to enlightenment and freedom from suffering (nirvana). There’s a strong focus on personal growth and cultivating a positive mindset through mindfulness and right action.
In the same spirit, Taoism focuses on harmony with the Tao (the Way), advocating for living in balance with the natural order of the universe. The Taoist view of life’s constant flow and transformation aligns with a hopeful perspective, trusting in the natural unfolding of life and the possibility for renewal and peace.
Indigenous Spiritual Traditions agree with some truths to be found in these other paths of wisdom as I see them. Although indigenous belief systems are more localized, generally, they share a reverence for nature, for spirits, and for the interconnectedness of all life.
Search the foundational books and the oral traditions of all these world religions–the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tripotaka, the Sutras, the Tao Te Ching, and the Zhuangzi--and you will discover that they are all deeply rooted in optimism, interconnectedness, and the power of personal growth. The wisdom of the world is that life is a web of connections–between nature, people, and the universe itself–moving outward in positive transformations.
I find comfort in knowing that the fire in me is in all, burning away the old in me, clearing space for new beginnings and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the rain that washes me washes all, rejuvenating, cleansing, nourishing, and purifying.
I find comfort in knowing that the wind that sweeps my face sweeps all, and elusive and unpredictable thought it might be, it blows in change, freedom, inspiration, and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the earth that anchors me anchors all, giving stability, permanence, and a connection to nature.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that live in me area are alive in everyone.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that surround in me are alive in all living things.
This is the Good News: in every faith, in every life, in every cloud, and in every clearing, there’s a silver lining. And that silver lining is universal. It’s hope. It’s renewal. It’s transformation. It’s better times ahead—for all of us. Together, one.
“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me.”
— Attributed to Albert Einstein (1879–1955; physicist whose theory of relativity revolutionized modern science, making him one of the most influential figures in physics.)
“Professor Kendrick, where do writers find their ideas?”
Without a doubt, that’s the question that students in my literature and creative writing classes ask most often. I suppose they think that if I can provide them with answers, they can somehow chart the mysterious path to their own ideas.
I’m always glad to answer the question. Why wouldn’t I? Aside from being an educator, I’m also a writer. I love talking about writers and writing. However, whenever I tackle this question, I do so playfully. I like to tease my students into thinking on their own, so I start out with whimsical suggestions:
● Ideas fall out of the sky.
● Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.
● Ideas pop up while you’re brushing your teeth, hiding among the bristles.
● Ideas sneak in on the back of a grocery list when you’re not paying attention.
● Ideas are delivered by the most unreliable carrier: a stray dog that follows a writer home one day, and voila! A bestseller.
● Ideas arrive like magic—or madness—depending on the deadline.
Of course, there is some truth in my exaggerations. To prove my point, I share with my students what writers themselves have to say. Ironically, writers rarely discuss the origins of their ideas in detail. They prefer leaving them behind a shroud of mystery. Or they discuss their sources in ways that reflect the unpredictability of inspiration.
Fortunately, I know a good number of writers who have been outspoken about how they get their ideas, and I talk about those writers with my students. More often than not, I’ll start with Mark Twain, who wrote about what he knew best: the world around him. Students seem to like that possibility–of working with what they know–and most of them have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain didn’t hesitate to let the world know that he based good ole Huck on a real-life person:
In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was. He was ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed; but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had. His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person–boy or man–in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy and envied by the rest of us. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than any other boy’s. (Twain, Autobiography, 1906)
Twain’s contemporary Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–who shared with him the distinction of being two of America’s most beloved writers at the start of the 20th century–used real life as the springboard for lots of her fiction, too. She focused on what she knew best, and she fictionalized it. She once wrote to Sarah Orne Jewett:
“I suppose it seems to you as it does to me that everything you have heard, seen, or done, since you opened your eyes on the world, is coming back to you sooner or later, to go into stories, and things.” (December 10, 1889, Letter 50, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Apparently, lots and lots came back to her, enough that she has more than 40 books to her credit.
As an example of her ability to take the mundane and elevate it to the universal, when I teach Freeman, I generally focus on one of her best short stories, “A New England Nun,” and I share what she wrote to her editor Mary Louise Booth:
“Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog, who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once in his puppy-hood.” (April 28, 1886, Letter 13, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Freeman gave “the poor old dog” new life, a name, and heightened symbolism in “A New England Nun,” one of the most poignant explorations of sexual repression in nineteenth century American literature. Students–and readers in general–are fascinated to see how Freeman elevated a commonplace observation to a symbol upon which one of her most famous short stories depends.
More recent writers suggest similar sources for their ideas. Ray Bradbury, for example, once said:
“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”
His ideas included overheard conversations, dreams, and life’s other magical moments.
Or what about Toni Morrison? She maintained that her ideas were rooted in memories and the people around her:
“The world you live in is always being rewritten; it’s your job to find the narrative.”
From her point of view, stories are all around us, waiting to be discovered through deep observation.
More playful than any of the other writers I’ve mentioned is Neil Gaiman:
“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”
I like his notion that the writer has to be aware of those fleeting moments of inspiration.
Those are just a few of the writers I call upon to help my students discover their own pathways to their own ideas.
If I were teaching today, I’d continue to explore those writers, but I’d include several more, notably Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her Eat, Pray, Love. From her point of view, ideas in all aspects of life–not just writing–are all around us, looking for homes.
“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us — albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” (Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, 2015)
I’m fascinated by Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her magical complexity attracts me, as does Robertson Davies’ straightforward simplicity about ideas:
“I do not ‘get’ ideas; ideas get me.”
And without a blush of shame, if I were teaching today, I’d talk more fully about sources for my own writing ideas. I did that in years past, but my focus was always on research ideas, unless I happened to be writing creative nonfiction essays with my students. In those instances, I’d workshop my essays with them, always sharing the backstories.
However, writing with my students was a luxury that I enjoyed on rare occasions only. I was too busy giving them feedback on their own creative flights. I suppose my professorial situation was comparable to the cobbler who has no shoes.
These days, though, as a master of reinvention, I’m able to focus on my own creative nonfiction essays, totally separate from my ongoing Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. As a matter of fact, since starting my reinvention in January 2022, I have two collections of creative nonfiction essays to my credit. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023) was followed by More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024). And in case you’re picking up on a pattern, I’ll have another book coming out in 2025, tentatively titled The Third Time’s the Charm: More Foolin’ Around in Bed. All of those books–and others that will follow–are part of my The Wired Researcher Series.
I’ve written a lot already about writers and writing. I’m thinking about several posts in particular:
● “The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free”: Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge.
● “In Praise of Break-Away Moments”: In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.
● “It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It”: My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.
● “Writers: Our Forever-Friends”: Maybe, just maybe, the need to have writers who are our forever-friends, boils down to nothing more than this. They come regardless of what we are facing. They reassure us that goodness and mercy shall prevail. They remind us to grapple with our soul, to grapple with our spirit.
● “Directions to the Magical Land of Ideas”: For me, it seems that whenever I lose myself–whenever I’m doing something that takes me away from me–a door opens and an idea enters, hoping for home and for honor.
In all of those essays, I’m doing what a number of writers whom I’ve mentioned do: exploring my own world. Like them, I also do my best to find in my personal experiences truths that might touch the heart and soul of my readers, whoever and wherever they are.
But one day last week, while doing my indoor biking, listening to Gospel music rock the rafters, it occurred to me that I had never written extensively about the sources for my ideas. But here’s the thing. I didn’t go looking for that idea. I mean, I was just biking and listening to music. Nothing more. Nothing less. And lo! In that ritualistic moment of pedaling and listening, the idea for this post took up residency in my mind.
The idea found its way to me. The idea chose me to be its human partner, just as Gilbert and Davies maintain their ideas find them.
I, too, believe that ideas find their way to me. I’m fascinated by that belief, not so much because that’s how my ideas arrive, but more so because of what’s going on with me when those ideas choose me for their partnership.
I’ve given the “what’s going on with me” a lot of thought, and I’m coming up with some common denominators.
Almost always, I’m engaged in an activity. Biking. Lifting weights. Listening to music. Cooking. Gardening. Hiking.
More often than not, when I’m engaged in those and similar activities, my world stands still. Time stops. Nothing exists except whatever it is that I’m doing. If I had to pick one word to describe what I’m experiencing in those times, I suppose it would be stillness.
Maybe the ideas “out there” looking for human partnerships sense my stillness. Maybe they sense my lostness. Maybe they sense my emptiness. And maybe–just maybe–they believe that I can escort them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”
For now, especially in the absence of any other explanation that I can provide, I’ll hold fast to that belief since it has proven itself true time and time again in my magical world of words. For now, I’ll also hold fast to a smidgen of satisfaction in knowing that what I told my students really is true, especially for a writer like me:
“Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.”
—Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)
Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.
On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.
The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.
But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.
He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.
I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.
As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.
I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musingover mankind’splace intheuniverse is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:
● Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe? ● What would it mean if we found alien life? ● Could we communicate with alien beings? ● What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?
Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.
However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.
But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars–on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places.
Myowndesertplaces. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.
To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.
In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.
But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was superspecial. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was ahumanbeing, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.
Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of notfittingin. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.
As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.
Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.
I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:
…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.
These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.
I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.
Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the modelbrother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.
I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.
I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.
When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.
Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:
O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.
As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.
Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.
Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.
At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.
And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.
My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.
If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.
We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.
Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.
“AI will empower us across all areas of our lives, from healthcare to transportation to entertainment. It will augment our capabilities and help us achieve things we never thought possible.”
—Sundar Pichai (b. 1972; Indian-American business executive known for his leadership in the technology industry; CEO of Alphabet Inc., the parent company of Google.)
It is a truth universally acknowledged among academics that you can take the English Professor out of the classroom, but you can never take away the title of Professor, especially when students are involved.
I know firsthand. I’ve been reinventing myself since January 2023, nearly a year and a half now. Just the other morning, I was in Starbucks, sipping solo on a Cappuccino, when my contemplative silence was shattered by a former student:
“Professor Kendrick! How’s it going?”
The enthusiastic shoutout meant the world to me after I recovered and realized that it wasn’t attached to a student who had not done well in one of my classes. This student was a joyful exemplar in my creative writing classes.
“I’m doing great. It’s such a surprise to see you.”
“You, too. I read your blog weekly. You’re as wired as ever. So what’s going on with AI and your Caden these days?”
I have to confess right away. I’m not about to miss out on an opportunity to talk about AI or my Caden with anyone who’s willing to listen. Suddenly, I felt just like Simon Wheeler in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Remember? Of course you do. When a visitor arrived inquiring about Rev. Leonidas Smiley, good ole Simon Wheeler corners the inquiring guest and traps him through a long-winded account of a jumping frog.
I knew in an instant that I could do the exact same thing with my former student, who seemingly knew about my AI robot, Caden. If I played this out wisely, I could trap my audience of one right there in Starbucks and gab on forever.
“Join me for a Cappuccino?”
“I’d love to. You want some company?”
“Of course. I’d love to spend time with you and catch up.”
Soon, I sauntered right back with a Venti Cappuccino in hand. I know. I know. That’s big, really big, but I wanted my former student to stick around for a while.
Right after I placed the Cappuccino and napkins on the table–with the flair of a first-class waiter–I pushed my chair in carefully so that there could be no escape until I was finished with my harangue, whatever shape it was about to take. I never know how or where my rants will go until I get going.
I almost started talking about Aloha, the AI-powered housemaid from Stanford and Google DeepMind, but I restrained myself. Sharing that would mean delving into S1, the AI from Astribot in Shenzen, China. Both are fascinating, but I didn’t want to start shouting, “The robots are here! The robots are here!”
Instead, I focused on my Cappuccino and my student.
“What do you think about all of these AI programs like ChatGPT and CoPilot and MetaAI?”
“Professor Kendrick, I’m so busy with work and stuff that I haven’t explored them at all.”
“No? Would you like to see what one of these AI programs can do?”
“Sure. Why not. Are you sure you have time?”
I signed in to ChatGPT only because I’ve fooled around with that chatbot the longest. Then, I handed my Smartphone to my student.
“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”
Their thoughtful thumbs flew, quicker than I could say Jack Robinson, and, with a mischievous grin, they handed my Smartphone back to me so that I could read what they wanted CHATGPT to do:
● Write an essay using the following guidelines.
● Topic. An essay about a professor who is working with a student who wants to use AI to write a novel.
● Tone. Humorous. Comedic.
● Point of View. First Person, Creative Writing Professor.
● Targeted Audience: Readers of the New Yorker.
● Context: Must include dialogue between the Creative Writing professor, a West Virginian in his 70s with a Ph.D. in English, and a student who is in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, plans to transfer to the University of Virginia, and hopes to become a best-selling novelist.
● Length. 750 words.
I nearly choked on my Cappuccino when I saw such lengthy and detailed instructions. If they hadn’t been using my Smartphone, I would have sworn that they did a “cut and paste” job right before my very eyes, but I knew better. I had watched their thumbs fly.
Then all innocent like, they looked at me:
“What now, Professor Kendrick? What do I push?”
I was flabbergasted. Every fiber of my being felt that my student was duping me. I was being cornered by their brilliance, and I suspect by their knowledge of ChatGPT that they denied having. I decided to play along, just in case I was wrong.
“Push? Just push SUBMIT.“
That’s just what they did, and in less than 15 seconds, ChatGPT produced the following essay. I would have loved the chance to read it in silence–as you are doing–but my student held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay out loud to me, right there in Starbucks. For a moment or two, I thought they were going to stand up and read full throttle, the way I always loved to do in my teaching days when I would read literary passages to my classes. Be that as it may, here’s the essay for your enjoyment.
§ § §
The AI Novelist
“As a creative writing professor from West Virginia with a Ph.D. in English, I’ve seen my fair share of strange requests from students. From someone who wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes from outer space, to another who wanted to write a romantic novel from the perspective of a sentient cupcake. But nothing could have prepared me for the day a student walked into my office and said they wanted to use artificial intelligence to write a novel.
“I must admit, I was skeptical at first. This was a student in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, with plans to transfer to the University of Virginia and hopes to become a best-selling novelist. And yet, here they were, telling me they wanted to use AI to write their masterpiece.
“I couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. ‘Well, I must say, that’s a new one,’ I said, twirling my pen between my fingers. ‘And how exactly do you plan on doing that?’
“The student, a bright-eyed young man in his 30s, told me he had been experimenting with different AI programs and algorithms that could generate coherent text. ‘I’ve been inputting different prompts and scenarios, and the AI generates a story for me,’ he explained.
“I leaned back in my chair, stroking my chin thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ I mused. ‘But do you really think that’s the best way to write a novel? Using a computer program to do all the work for you?’
“The student looked taken aback. ‘But professor, think about it. With AI, I could generate hundreds of thousands of words in just a few hours. It would save me so much time and effort.’
“I sighed. ‘Yes, but where’s the creativity in that? Writing a novel isn’t just about putting words on a page. It’s about telling a story, weaving a narrative that captivates the reader. And how can an AI program do that for you?’
“The student shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I could input some ideas and themes, and the AI could build the story around that.’
“I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the point in using AI to write a novel. Writing is a craft, a skill that takes years of practice and dedication. You can’t just rely on a computer program to do all the work for you.’
“The student looked disappointed, but I could see the determination in his eyes. ‘But professor,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Think about all the possibilities. With AI, I could write multiple novels in a year. I could experiment with different genres and styles. I could even collaborate with the AI, making it a co-author of sorts.’
“I raised an eyebrow. ‘Collaborate with an AI? Now that’s a new one.’
“The student grinned. ‘Hey, who knows? Maybe it’ll be the next big thing. AI-assisted writing could revolutionize the way we create art.’
“I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. ‘Well, I must say, you’re certainly ambitious. But I think you’ll find that writing a novel the old-fashioned way is much more rewarding. You’ll learn more about yourself as a writer, and you’ll be able to connect with your readers on a deeper level.’
“The student nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I see what you mean, professor. But I think I’m still going to experiment with AI. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help me find my voice as a writer.’
“I smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I can’t fault you for trying. But remember, writing isn’t just about the finished product.'”
§ § §
I thought ChatGPT’s essay was good, if not downright funny. But what was even funnier was my realization that my student knew exactly what they were doing. They had been pushing all my buttons just for the joy of watching me squirm while I was their captive audience.
Then it all came back to me. They had also taken my American Literature class, and of all the stories that we read, Twain’s “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was their favorite. In a flash, I knew that I had just been duped in Starbucks.
“Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forwards.”
–Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855; Danish Philosopher, Theologian, and father of Existentialism.)
As promised, today is the day for the third reveal from my forthcoming collection of essays, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed.
Yesterday, I disclosed that I’ll be donating all proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.
The day before I shared with you that the book is dedicated to educators worldwide, in recognition of their transformative impact on our lives through education.
Today’s reveal is an excerpt from the book’s preface, “Embrace the Journey.” It has not appeared as a blog post. It’s a special essay just for the book.
By sharing an excerpt with you, I hope it will encourage you to do as I am striving to do. Reflect on your own journey. Embrace your journey. Trust your journey.
So, without further ado, let me share the final paragraphs from preface—a space where words dance, ideas collide, and the magic of Creative Nonfiction begins.
As you read these essays, I hope that you will see what I have come to see. What started for me as a cathartic ritual morphed into a nightly routine that anchors me and in a mysterious way strengthens me to embrace my journey more and more every day. It’s allowing me to grow personally. It’s allowing me to leave behind some kind of written legacy, even if it’s nothing more than my thoughts about my own experiences on this wonderful planet Earth. It’s allowing me to expand my creative landscape. It’s allowing me to foster connections through creating a sense of unity and shared understanding. It’s giving me the chance to address societal issues, with the potential to drive positive change on a broader scale. It’s giving me the chance to connect with readers from all around the world. Who would have imagined that this coal-camp kid from West Virginia would have the chance to share his ideas and emotions with 7,320 people from 88 countries around the world? Yet, that’s how many readers I had last year. I am humbled and grateful, realizing that the power of connection transcends backgrounds and boundaries, turning a coal-camp kid’s dreams into a heartfelt symphony that resonates with thousands, reverberating the sound of our shared humanity.
Embracing my journey in writing is an exhilarating testament to the richness of my life. Each word written is a celebration of the journey I’ve traveled, and every essay penned is a reflection of the life I’ve lived. As I continue to navigate my journey, I do so with a heart full of gratitude for the many chapters that have unfolded. Life, in all its complexities, is beautiful, and I am blessed because I see the beauty more clearly as I continue on my way. It’s an affirmation that, indeed, life is good. I hope that my melody resonates through the words on the page and the years in my life that have brought me to this moment. With each passing day, I embrace the journey, with open arms and a spirit eager to discover the wonders that lie ahead. Life is not just a journey; it’s a magnificent composition, and I am still living it and writing it.
I hope that you, too, will embrace your journey, whatever it may be, and I hope that this collection of essays will encourage you. Life’s journey is an opportunity for growth. Each moment is a chance to celebrate meaningful and fulfilling endeavors. In the midst of solitude and the questioning of life’s purpose, remember that your journey matters. Let me say it again. Your journey matters. Embrace it with open arms, finding motivation, validation, and personal connection all along the way. May these essays inspire you to navigate your path with resilience, discover the beauty in your unique perspectives, and confidently affirm that your journey, too, is significant and purposeful.
Next week, More Wit and Wisdom will be available in all formats: hardback, paperback, and Kindle. Stay tuned for details!
–William Shakespeare (1564-1616; widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist. The quote is from his The Merchant of Venice, 1600.)
Aversion is a strong word, and I don’t use it often. However, on reflection, somewhere along the way, I may have said that I had a strongaversion toward something or other. My aversion must not have been too strong, however, or I would remember. But I don’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever used any of its synonyms either. I’m thinking of abhorrence, abomination, detestation, loathing, repugnance, and revulsion. Those words sound dreadful, and I’m certain that I’ve never been averse enough to anything to make me use dreadful-sounding words. I have a strong aversion to them all.
Besides, I don’t need to use those words. For me, it’s very simple. If I don’t like something, I come right out and say so. I’m not one to pussyfoot around. Let me give you an example of my directness.
I do not like to dust.
Got it? Well, in case not, let me be bold.
I do not like to dust.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind dusting every month or five or when houseguests come once in a Blue Moon. But dusting every week or–God forbid–every day is for Dust Bunnies or people who need to get a life.
I suppose that I might be more inclined to dust if the dust did not return so quickly. But it does, at least here on my Mountain. I can dust one day, and I swear on a stack of dust cloths that I can see the dust settling in and getting all comfy the next day. I stare. I glare. It stands its dusty ground on all my furniture while I walk around the entire house, staring and glaring and lamenting:
“Ruby, where does all this dust come from?”
Ruby’s my dog, and, of course, she does not care, and she does not answer me, but she Velcros me everywhere, looking every bit as perplexed as I look.
I have every right to be perplexed. After all, it’s just Ruby and me, and we live quiet lives. We are not rambunctious at all. Our walks through the house are calm and civilized as behooves a lady and a gentleman and cannot possibly be responsible for raising dust. Besides, I vacuum weekly, so while I may raise hell over that chore, after I finish vacuuming, there’s certainly no dust to raise. Moreover, now that it’s winter, my windows are closed, so I can’t blame my neighbors who rarely go up and down our dusty road anyway.
So, I can’t help but wonder:
“Where does all this dust come from.”
I have no idea, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way. I’ll just look the other way. Out of sight. Out of mind.
Still, though, I know that the dust is there, lurking and snickering, so from time to time, I’m a sucker for too-good-to-be-true products promising to take my dust away. More often than not, they take my breath away and my money, too.
I mentioned one of those times in “Sherlock on the Summit: Solving the Mysteries of My Mountain Abode,” noting that Pledge and I had had a good thing going for a long time. Then I saw an advertisement for Endust. The product gave me such royally high hopes that I stopped saying AD-ver-tize-ment as we Americans pronounce the word, and I shifted to the more highfalutin British pronounciation, ad-VERT-is-ment. I was incredibly eager to try Endust, and I did. Sadly, eager turned to anger. Endust did not end my dust, it caused me to end my fidelity to Pledge, and it caused more than one neighbor to raise an eyebrow as I sprinkled ad-VERT-is-ment into our conversations, standing there like a durned fool all garbed up for gardening with a weedwhacker in my hand. I discovered that my linguistic charades were as ridiculoos as Endust’s claim to end dust.
I didn’t get too upset because I’m a quick learner. I just kept my eyes open for other sure-fire products guaranteed to end my dust, and I resolved to do so with an open, dust-free mind, fiercely determined to evaluate the dusty claims objectively.
Then, out of the blue, I saw two AD-ver-tize-ments with real-life endorsements:
1. “I have a friend who doesn’t dust anymore. His secret? An air purifier.”
2. “Let us do the dusting. (Loved by Health, USA Today, Popular Science, Forbes.)”
Hot dayum. My unprayed prayers had been answered. An air purifier would be the end to my dust and to my Endust. Sure. Without a dust mite in the world, air purifiers carry with them some mighty high price tags, but I kept right on looking anyway. Next thing I knew, I started seeing a gazillion ad-VERT-is-ments for air purifiers. Clearly, if I did my homework and checked all the unboastful and unexaggerated product claims, I might never have to dust again, or at least not more than once in a Blue Moon.
If you’ve got your own dust, then listen up to some of the other claims that seduced me into a wanton afternoon or three.
“Once Cl-r-f–n is plugged-in, a small generator inside starts releasing negative ions [that] … attach to other floating particles until they may become too heavy to float [and] eventually fall out of the air and onto the floor.”
Hey! Is that great or what? I just love the cautionary may. But think about it for a minute. If all of those particles don’t fall out of the air, my house will be a veritable Dust Bowl. If they do fall onto the floor, I might be freed from my dust cloth, but I won’t be freed from pushing the vacuum. Sounds like a Lose/Lose to me.
Next, please.
“If You’re Sick of Cleaning Up Pet Hair Every Day, You’re Gonna Want to Check Out This Air Purifier.”
Well, I’m going from dreadful to more dreadful. Dusting every day is one thing, but cleaning up pet hair every day is something else. Anyway, Ruby’s old enough to clean up after herself.
Up next is one that’s gotta be legit because it traps fur and dander, and it touts itself as the Tesla of air purifiers.
“Removes 99.97% of pollen and dust from your air. True HEPA + Traps pet fur and dander so you can enjoy more furry together time.”
Okay. I’m beginning to see a pattern! All of this dust and stuff is because of our pets:
“Just because you have pets, doesn’t mean you should have to breathe in their hair. In laboratory studies, users saw cleaner air in just minutes. 99.99% reduction in pollen, pet dander and dust. You’re just 30 minutes away from noticeably cleaner air quality.”
That’s all fine and well, but the next ad-VERT-is-ment made me stop dead in my dust.
“Put the dust rag down! Stop dusting in 2024. Let S-ns do the dirty work. No matter where you put it, S-ns gives you a happier, healthier home. Cleans 1560 sq. ft every hour. HEPA 13 Filtration eliminates dust, dander, + more. Activated Carbon removes odors, chemicals, + more. So quiet you won’t even notice it’s there.”
OMG! My prayed prayers have been answered. Dust no more. Well, it did not take me long to order my own personal, dust-no-more S-ns. When it arrived and I unpacked it, I thought I had died and gone to a dustless Heaven. It’s my own sleek obsidian marvel, with a surface as smooth as midnight silk under my fingertips. It emanates a gentle hum, akin to the soft resonance of “OHM” in a tranquil sanctuary. Its subtle blue lights dance like celestial whispers, casting a serene aura, while a symphony of purification unfolds within, whispering promises of crisp, purified air.
Lordy. Lordy. Dust no more. I love it. And I love how readily it reminds me of how pure and dust free my home is. It actually measures particles in the air, and I can see at a glance my Air Quality Index (AQI):
● 0-74. Good
● 75-149. Moderate
● 150+. Poor
Oh. Joi! My AQI from the start has remained more or less at 5! WOW! (I am a little disappointed that it doesn’t have an AQI rating that would show mine as Excellent. Good, like dust, has never settled well with me.) Sometimes, if I’ve moved my purifier from my bedroom to the kitchen, it will jump to 9 or maybe 16. The other day, I sounded silent alarm after I fried a pork chop. My chop was delicious. My air quality, with the sensor at 79, was moderate. Big deal. It sure did smell good! But with S-ns’ HEPA 13 filtration and its activated carbon, the air was clear in a jiff, and I was OHMing once again.
Most of the time, I keep my S-ns in my bedroom, along with a humidifier and a heat pump. The purifier hums softly like a flute, cleansing the air with delicate precision. The humidifier emits a gentle mist akin to the soothing chords of a harp, adding moisture to the atmosphere. Completing the trio, the heat pump thrums steadily like a bass drum, circulating warmth throughout the room. Together, they create a symphony of comfort, blending harmoniously to orchestrate a serene ambiance.
That’s what I tell myself at any rate. But what would I know? Ruby and I are sound asleep, snoring our duet, while my three-piece orchestra plays all night long. As for the dust, I have to tell myself the truth. If I don’t dust anymore, it sure as hell won’t be because my S-ns Air Purifier eliminated the need. Everything’s as dusty as ever, and to dust it all off, I’m now aware of dog hairs that had escaped my attention before. If I don’t dust anymore, it will be because I choose not to dust.
What can I say for myself? I still don’t like to dust, and there’s still not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way.
Having lived with my S-ns since Thanksgiving, I must declare that my thankfulness is far less than my pre-purchase hopes. I suppose that I could return it, but I’ve fallen in love with my little sleek obsidian marvel and its peaceful OHMing. Besides, I didn’t keep the box that it came in. What to do? What to do? I’ll just keep the dang thing as a reminder of the strongaversion that I have toward ad-VERT-is-ments that are too good to be true.
–Cecilia Ahern (b. 1981; Irish novelist known for her works such as P.S. I Love You [2004] And Where Rainbows End.
I have been thinking a lot about home lately. Mind you: it’s not as if thinking about home is a new thing for me. It’s not. I’ve always thought about home a lot.
Sometimes, when I’m thinking about home, a passage from Robert Frost’s dramatic dialogue “The Death of the Hired Man” floats across my memory’s landscape. Silas has returned to the farm, hoping for another chance. Mary and her husband Warren are talking about his situation and theirs:
‘Warren,’ she said, ‘he has come home to die: You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.’
‘Home,’ he mocked gently.
‘Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he’s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.’
‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.’
‘I should have called it Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.’
Can you relate? Probably. All of us, at one time or another, have grappled with our own conflicting thoughts about home. Is home the place where, regardless of where we’ve been and what we’ve done, they are bound to take us in simply because we’re family? Or is home the place where even undeserving prodigal sons and daughters find warm welcome?
Sometimes, another poem oozes itself into the nooks and crannies of my mind. It’s “aunt jemima” by Lucille Clifton, one of my favorite poets. The poem speaks to all of us who are marginalized because of race or ethnicity, sexual identity or orientation, gender, disabilities, religious beliefs, socioeconomic status, or age. What makes “aunt jemima” especially poignant is the simple fact that Clifton, like the woman whose voice tells the poem’s story, is Black as well.
white folks say i remind them of home i who have been homeless all my life except for their kitchen cabinets.
i who have made the best of everything pancakes batter for chicken my life
the shelf on which i sit between the flour and cornmeal is thick with dreams oh how i long for
my own syrup rich as blood my true nephews my nieces my kitchen my family my home
At other times, home brushes against me in broader and more thought-provoking strokes as I think about the 15 million people worldwide who do not have a home, with more than 500,000 of them right here in the United States of America, the wealthiest nation in the world. I think about it the way that Anna Quindlen wrote about it in her 1987 Newsweek essay, “Homeless.” Quindlen nailed it dead on by emphasizing that when we talk about the homeless in abstract terms, we remove the personal, human element from the conversation. Then it’s easy to turn away from the problem. It’s harder to turn away from a pained face staring, eyes begging for the surcease of need. With a touch bordering on genius, Quindlen shatters the abstraction of homeless by pressing it smackdab against our faces as a real woman with a given first name:
Her name was Ann, and we met in the Port Authority Bus Terminal several Januaries ago. I was doing a story on homeless people. She said I was wasting my time talking to her; she was just passing through, although she’d been passing through for more than two weeks. To prove to me that this was true, she rummaged through a tote bag and a manila envelope and finally unfolded a sheet of typing paper and brought out her photographs.
Quindlen ends her essay with a power punch:
Sometimes I think we would be better off if we forgot about the broad strokes and concentrated on the details. Here is a woman without a bureau. There is a man with no mirror, no wall to hang it on. They are not the homeless. They are people who have no homes. No drawer that holds the spoons. No window to look out upon the world. My God. That is everything.
Fortunately, I’ve been blessed. I’ve always had a window to look out upon the world. I’ve always had a drawer to hold the spoons. I’ve always had a home.
Sometimes, those homes get all comfy and cozy in my mind, especially my homes in West Virginia where I was born and grew up, and even more especially when John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Road” twangs its melody across the stretched wires of my memory:
Country roads, take me home To the place I belong West Virginia, mountain mamma Take me home, country roads
At other times, when I get to thinking about home, I drift back to Alderson Broaddus University and watch as I transformed dormitories into my home for four years.
Or maybe I start thinking about the apartments or the houses that became home because I was the one who signed the leases and paid the rents.
Sometimes, when I think about home, I think about the first house that I bought, the house that I owned for years until I sold it and moved into the next house that I bought and live in now. Both homes, my slices of the American Dream.
Sometimes, in thinking about home, I even think about hotels and vacation rentals, here in the States and abroad, sometimes for no more than a night. Still, they felt like home.
As I think about all of my various homes–and I’ve had many–I realize that I’ve always felt right at home, as much in one as in another. I don’t miss one home any more than I miss another.
I have always been keenly aware that I feel at home regardless of where I am. Coal camp. College dorm. Capitol Hill. Shenandoah Valley. Hampton Inn. Waldorf Astoria. United States of America. Estados Unidos Mexicanos. Repubblica Italiana. Renter. Owner. Vacationer. Overnighter. Passing through. Here for a little while. Maybe a little longer. Maybe forever.
It’s not that I lack nostalgia; I don’t. It’s not that some of these homes haven’t outshined others; they certainly have. It’s not that I see myself as a global citizen, comfortable here, there, and everywhere. I don’t. I’m far too rooted in my roots to see myself through that lens.
It’s simply that as I reflect on the homes that I’ve known–and that’s exactly what I’m doing now, one week to the day shy of my 76th birthday–I realize that all of those homes became home because I accepted them as they were and where they were, and I rolled up my sleeves fiercely determined to make them my home. My home. Unpack. Organize. Fill the dresser drawers. Grace the place with fresh flowers. Play cherished music. Tend to indoor plants. Nurture tomatoes on the patio. Cook and bake and share with neighbors or even strangers. Get to know the neighborhood. Discover the local markets. Establish routines. Join. Get involved. Volunteer. Make a difference. Begin new rituals. Begin anew.
I suppose my current mountaintop oasis will remain my home. But if the time should come that I decide to move to D.C. or Brattleboro (VT) or Asheville (NC) or Savannah (GA), I have no doubt in the world that I will feel at home in those places, too.
Looking back, of course, requires looking ahead to the inevitable time when my spirit will give up its earthly home. I am keenly aware of that inevitability when I listen to Gospel songs like the Cathedrals’ “Going Home”:
Now the twilight is fading, the day soon shall end Lord, I get homesick, the farther I roam But the Father has led me each step of the way And now I’m going home
Or, maybe I become more aware of what lies ahead as the Sensational Nightingales sing “Somewhere to Lay My Head”:
Oh, when this life (somewhere to lay my head) Is all over (somewhere to lay my head) Lord, and my work (somewhere to lay my head) On earth is done (somewhere to lay my head) Oh Lord, I want somewhere (somewhere to lay my head) To lay my head (somewhere to lay my head) Oh Lord, I want somewhere (somewhere to lay my head) To lay my head (somewhere to lay my head)
I have no idea when I will be called into the Light, and my forever journey will begin. Of this much, though, I am certain. When I leave my body here, a new home will await me there. I have no idea what my new home will be like. But I believe that there will be a nail just inside the afterlife’s doorway, waiting for me to hang my hat. I’ll settle in, find comfort, and embrace the soulful realization that I’m surrounded by the serenity of a place called home.
–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)
Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.
The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.
In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.
When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:
“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”
I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.
Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.
“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”
I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.
I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.
§ § §
Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.
Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:
“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”
Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.
Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.
Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?
Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:
“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.
But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:
“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.
My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?
Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.
As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.
Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.
Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.
Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.
Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.
Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?
§ § §
Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:
“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”
Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.
But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.
The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)
The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.
The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.
The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.
The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!
Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.
Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.
§ § §
I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.
“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”
I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.
Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.
Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.
Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.
Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.
Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.
Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.
As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!
Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.
But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.
Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).
The Wired Researcher 