You, When Others Wouldn’t

“If you light a lamp for someone, it will also brighten your own path.”

— Buddha (Siddhārtha Gautama, c. 563–483 BCE). One of history’s most influential spiritual teachers.

Lost once again. The map was blurred, the faces were turned away, and even my voice felt foreign in my own mouth. I asked for help—and the world, polite but indifferent, kept walking past me.

Then, from the corner of the dream, they came: a quiet order of nuns, habits brushing against the air like whispered prayers. They didn’t question, didn’t doubt, didn’t ask why I’d lost my way. They simply pointed, walked beside me, and led me back—not home, but to shelter.

The next day, in a hall filled with strangers, I stood and wept. A litany rose unbidden from somewhere deep inside my soul:

“You, when others wouldn’t.
You who stopped.
You who listened.
You who saw.
You who guided.”

Even in dreams, grace has its own coordinates. It finds the weary traveler and teaches him again how to say thank you.

If we can rise to that level of grace in our dreams, surely, we can do the same in our waking worlds, not only as we approach tomorrow’s Giving Tuesday but also for the days and dreams following.

I’m always moved by Giving Tuesday, but here’s what touches me most about all giving on any day. It’s rarely the grand gesture that changes a life. It’s the small one. The held door. The unexpected kindness. The “you, when others wouldn’t.”

History is full of moments when the world pivoted because someone chose to act quietly.

A schoolteacher once told a shy seamstress she had worth. Rosa Parks carried that worth onto a bus—and stayed seated. One small affirmation. One historic refusal to rise.

A girl in a noisy cafeteria slid her tray beside the classmate no one chose. Temple Grandin steadied. And the world gained a scientist who would reshape our understanding of animal behavior with a mind sharpened by that single act of belonging.

A janitor, keys jangling at his side, unlocked a door he technically wasn’t supposed to open. Katherine Johnson stepped through that doorway and, years later, calculated trajectories that sent astronauts safely around the earth and back again. A quiet gesture. A giant leap.

A grieving orphan found milk bottles on her doorstep each morning—paid for by a neighbor who refused to let her go without. Eleanor Roosevelt drank that kindness into her bones and later poured it back into a nation hungry for courage and compassion.

A librarian in rural Arkansas bent one small rule and whispered, “Take as many as you can carry.” Maya Angelou carried the world home in her arms. One book. One voice saved.

A neighbor left warm pies on the porch of a lonely, sick boy. Fred Rogers tasted gentleness—and spent his life serving that same gentleness back to millions.

And once, in a coal camp tucked into the hills of West Virginia, there was a boy with more dreams than dollars. Family scraped together what they could. Hometown folks established a scholarship for books. And a benefactor he never met—a woman with a soft spot for sons of coal miners—left a scholarship in her will. A small legacy. A single key. It opened the doors of Alderson–Broaddus, and he walked through. One quiet kindness at a time, my whole life unfolded.

Giving Tuesday began the same way—a small act against a noisy world.

In 2012, while Black Friday and Cyber Monday shouted for our wallets, one community center in New York whispered a different idea: What if we set aside a day to give instead of grab? No marching band. No corporate roar. Just a fragile invitation to generosity.

From that whisper came a wave.

By 2013, national organizations amplified the call, and tiny local charities set $1,000 goals for school supplies—and met them.

By 2017, corporations began matching donations in the millions, while families sent $10 to local food pantries so children could eat over the weekend.

In 2020, during the hardest months of the pandemic, Giving Tuesday saw its greatest surge—global giving and neighborhood kindness flowing side by side, from billion-dollar pledges to collected change for an elderly couple’s grocery delivery.

By 2023, U.S. donors gave over $3.1 billion, even as small wildlife refuges and shelters used single matching gifts to exceed their modest goals.

And 2024 reached new heights: an estimated $3.6 billion donated nationwide. But alongside those vast totals was a tiny nonprofit raising just over $5,000 from 37 supporters—enough to keep its doors open one more year.

Big gestures.
Small gestures.
All pointing the way.

The nuns in my dream offered direction, compassion, a hand on my elbow saying, “This way.” They changed everything by simply choosing to care. The nuns in my dream led me to shelter.

This Giving Tuesday, maybe we can do the same—for someone still searching for the way back.

“I Don’t Have Much to Give, but What I Have, I Give.”

“It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving.”

Mother Teresa (1910–1997; Roman Catholic nun and missionary known for her selfless work with the poor, sick, and dying; awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 for her humanitarian efforts.)

The air inside the canvas tent was heavy, thick with summer heat and the smell of fresh-cut pine from the makeshift floorboards. Bare bulbs swayed on frayed wires, throwing jittery shadows over the crowd crammed onto metal chairs and wooden benches. Paper fans—free from the local funeral home—fluttered in tired hands, stirring the humid air as the preacher’s voice climbed, urgent and raw, above the hum of crickets outside. Kids fidgeted, women in cotton dresses leaned forward, and men with rolled-up sleeves nodded, their hats resting in their laps. And then, as always, came the offering plate—a dented tin pan, making its slow, clinking way through the crowd, carried by hands that gave what they could.

In the back of the tent sat a young crippled boy, crutches by his side. When the offering plate was passed to him, he laid his crutches on the plate, saying just above a whisper:

“I don’t have much to give, but what I have, I give.”

As the preacher ended the story, he always added:

“Narry a dry eye was left in the tent that night.”

I wasn’t in the tent that night, but more than once, I heard about what happened from the preacher who was there. The story gave me a gut-punch then, and it still does. It underscores the power of giving our all—even when it seems small or insignificant or inappropriate–and it emphasizes that giving isn’t about the size of the gift. It’s about the spirit behind it.

The message is exactly the same as the one that we discover in the Parable of the Widow’s Mite. Jesus sat watching people bring their offerings to the temple treasury. Wealthy individuals came forward, dropping in large sums, their coins clinking loudly as they gave from their abundance. Then, a poor widow approached quietly and placed in just two small coins—everything she had to live on–all she had. The parable and the tent revival story highlight the value of giving from the heart and the spirit of generosity, not the amount given.

History is punctuated with examples of how, time and time again, people give what they can, and their generous spirit makes an impact that lasts and lasts.

I’m thinking, for example, of how ordinary Americans helped fund the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. It’s a powerful and inspiring example of collective giving. When France gave the Statue of Liberty to the United States in 1885, the statue itself was completed and shipped, but the U.S. was responsible for building the pedestal—and there wasn’t enough money to finish it.

Wealthy donors weren’t stepping up, and the project was at risk of failure. That’s when Joseph Pulitzer, the newspaper magnate, launched a fundraising campaign through his paper, The New York World. Pulitzer called on everyday Americans to contribute whatever they could and promised to print the names of all donors in the paper, no matter how small the contribution.

The response was overwhelming. Schoolchildren sent in pennies. Workers sent nickels and dimes, often with heartfelt letters explaining that they wanted to be part of something greater. In total, over 120,000 people contributed, many giving less than a dollar. These small donations raised the $100,000 needed (equivalent to millions today) and ensured that the Statue of Liberty would stand as a beacon of hope and freedom.

Fast forward to 1938, the heart of the Great Depression. People were scraping by, yet somehow, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt asked for help to fight polio, Americans found a way. He didn’t ask for much—a dime from every person. Just a dime. And those dimes came pouring in. Schoolchildren sent them wrapped in notebook paper. Factory workers sent them in greasy envelopes. Housewives sent theirs with notes of encouragement. The effort became known as the March of Dimes, and it raised millions to fund research that eventually gave us the polio vaccine.

For me, this story hits close to home—not because the March of Dimes directly helped me, but because I lived the reality of polio. I contracted the disease in 1951, a few years before the vaccine changed everything. As one of the lucky survivors, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the campaign. Every year, I joined in, adding my own dimes and encouraging others to give. The work didn’t stop with polio. By the late 1950s, the March of Dimes expanded its mission to fight birth defects and improve infant health. That little dime became something bigger—a reminder that small gifts, multiplied, can transform lives.

I’m thinking, too, of the mid-1950s, when civil rights activists in Montgomery, Alabama, were facing another uphill battle—segregation on city buses. When Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, the black community responded with a bus boycott. But boycotting wasn’t free. People still had to get to work, to school, to the grocery store. So, what did they do? They gave.

Nickels and dimes paid for carpools. Families who owned cars gave their time, driving neighbors for free. Churches pooled donations to cover legal fees for arrested protesters.
It wasn’t easy—some folks walked miles every day rather than ride those buses—but they gave what they could. Their giving fueled a movement that lasted 381 days and ultimately changed the laws of this country. One ride at a time, one nickel at a time.

These stories, spanning decades, remind me of how I’ve been inspired by and touched by the giving spirit. Like the boy in the tent or the countless dimes sent to fight polio, these moments of generosity have shaped my own journey.

I have lots of examples where people gave from their heart to help me. I’ll share just one. When I graduated from high school in 1965, I was blessed to have scholarships and student loans to pay for my college tuition as well as room and board. Even so, I knew that buying textbooks would be a huge problem. My parents and siblings didn’t have a lot to give, but what they had, they gave. I still needed more, as did other classmates whose families had the same limited finances as mine. To our surprise and great joy, the citizens of my hometown established the Shady Spring Citizens Scholarship fund and awarded each of us college-bound graduates $150, specifically to buy our textbooks. That check meant my future to me.

Down through the years, that generosity has lingered with me, and I have looked for little ways to pay it forward.

For example, when my niece/goddaughter was born, I started saving my pocket change every day. That first year, pennies. The next, pennies and nickels. Then, pennies, nickels, and dimes. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters followed. Finally, all of my pocket change. I saved it regularly—no, faithfully, every day, seven days a week. Seventeen years later, when it came time for Janet to go to college, it was time for me to take all of my coffee cans—chock-full of daily pocket change—to the bank. I was surprised. Actually, I was stunned. As I watched the teller count the coins, I could hardly believe the final total: nearly $10,000. It wasn’t enough for a full year of tuition, but it was more than enough to ease her journey with textbooks, a laptop, and even a $500 savings bond—a future as bright as a shiny new penny.

For me, giving back has always been a way to honor the help I’ve received along the way. One way that I’m doing that this year is by donating all proceeds from my book More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College where I taught. It’s not a lot, but I know that it might help a student in an emergency—maybe cover the cost of gas for commuting to class, pay for a textbook, or ease the stress of an unexpected expense. Small as it might seem, it’s my way of paying forward the generosity that shaped my own journey.

The truth is simple. Most of us aren’t in a position to make grand gestures, and we don’t have to be. The young boy in the tent didn’t. The widow in the parable didn’t. The countless Americans who gave nickels and dimes to fight polio didn’t. They gave what they could, and in doing so, they made a difference. We can, too.

Tomorrow is Giving Tuesday, a day set aside to do good. It started in 2012, and over the years, it’s grown into a global movement, inspiring millions of people around the world to give, collaborate, and celebrate generosity—not just on one day but all year long.

The idea is straightforward: give what you can, whether it’s your time, a donation, or simply lending your voice to support your community. From making someone smile to helping a neighbor or supporting a cause you care about, every act of kindness matters. We all have something to give, and together, those small acts add up to building the better world we all dream of.

As you approach Giving Tuesday, I would urge you to give to whatever cause that speaks to your heart. Whether it’s a few dollars, an hour of your time, or a gesture of kindness, remember that it’s not the size of the gift that matters—it’s the spirit behind it. Together, our small acts of generosity can spark change and lift others in ways we may never fully see but will always profoundly feel.

The Power of Volunteers: Changing History, One Act at a Time

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Margaret Mead (1901–1978; renowned American cultural anthropologist; strong advocate for social change and human rights, influencing discussions on gender, family, and education.)

Blue-tipped flames, shooting up from the oak logs burning in my kitchen fireplace, are chasing away a mid-September, early-morning chill. I’m sitting at the table, facing the flames, enjoying the warmth. I’m fresh shaven and freshly showered. I’m wearing my best casual shirt and my favorite Chinos–both from acclaimed clothier Charles Tyrwhitt of London–along with my Allen Edmonds loafers. I’ve even fragranced myself with a delicate spray of Sage & Citrus Oud, my favorite cologne by Habibi of New York.

Where am I going? No where. I’m hunkered down right here, sipping a decadent whip-creamed-topped hot chocolate in my favorite stoneware mug with a simple wooden handle that bespeaks rustic elegance.

But even though I’m staying right here, I’m working on a critically important task, and when something’s critical, I believe in getting myself in the right frame of mind.

Let me tell you about what I’m doing. I’m a volunteer, sending out postcards to voters in Swing States. I’m writing my message, a simple, straightforward reminder to vote on Tuesday, November 5. I’m taking my time. I’m making sure that every word is clear and legible, signaling the heavy duty that all eligible voters have to vote. I’m writing in a slower and more deliberate manner, mirroring our slow and deliberate choices when we vote.

I’m writing cards to people living in little towns I’ve never heard of. They’ll be getting cards from someone living in a little town they’ve never heard of. That doesn’t matter. What matters is getting people to vote on Tuesday, November 5.

As I address my 300 postcards—each one a small but powerful step toward change–I can’t help but reflect on the significance of volunteer work in the United States and how we have a long tradition of citizen-led efforts that have changed our nation for the better.

I’m thinking, for example, about the American Revolution. Who doesn’t remember Paul Revere’s midnight ride to warn the people of Concord that the British were coming? He was an ordinary citizen, just like the other 230,000 Minutemen who volunteered to fight for independence. Without the commitment of these volunteer soldiers, the struggle for freedom might have turned out very differently.

Fast forward to the Abolitionist Movement. I’m thinking of Harriet Tubman who was born into slavery, escaped to freedom in the North, and then risked her own life to lead other enslaved people to freedom through the Underground Railroad, a volunteer movement operating secretly across 14 northern states and parts of Canada. By some accounts, more than 100,000 enslaved people escape to freedom through the help of the Underground Railroad.

Without this vast network of volunteers, the escape routes and freedom efforts would have been far less successful, and many would have remained enslaved.

Or what about the Women’s Rights Movement? Volunteers like Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton come to mind. They and thousands of other activists worked tirelessly for decades to secure the right to vote for women. But one volunteer in particular looms large in my mind because she loomed large in life: Sojourner Truth, one of the most powerful advocates for women’s rights in the nineteenth century. At the 1851 Women’s Rights Convention held in Akron, Ohio, she delivered what is now recognized as one of the most famous abolitionist and women’s rights speeches in American history, “Ain’t I a Woman?” If you haven’t read it, this would be the perfect time, so that you’ll appreciate more fully subsequent volunteers whose steadfast work and determination led to the eventual passage of the 19th Amendment in 1920, giving over 26 million women the right to vote.

Sadly, that victory was only a partial win for women. Three years later, Alice Paul introduced the first version of the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA), aimed at ensuring that “men and women shall have equal rights throughout the United States and every place subject to its jurisdiction.” I have not the ability to explain the complicated chronology of the ERA Campaign since then, nor can I comprehend why the amendment has not been ratified. Most recently–on January 27, 2020–Virginia made history to become the 38th state to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, thereby reaching the required number of states for ratification. Now, the attention is focused on the fight for Congress to remove its 1982 deadline. I am convinced that eventually, the amendment will ratify its way to the Constitution, and when it does, it will be largely because of grassroots volunteers from 1923 until now.

Without those volunteers, the fight for women’s voting rights and gender equality would not have achieved the critical progress it has, and the ongoing efforts to secure full legal equality might not exist at all.

Then we have Voter Registration Drives and the Civil Rights Movement. How well I remember both. I lived through them. I’m thinking especially of The Freedom Summer of 1964. It’s a perfect example of grassroots volunteerism. Over 1,000 volunteers, many of them college students, traveled to Mississippi and other Southern states to register African American voters. Despite the dangers, including arrests, beatings, and even the murders of three civil rights workers, these volunteers worked door to door, held freedom schools, and organized workshops to encourage African Americans to exercise their right to vote. And let’s not forget this fact: Black women domestic workers led community efforts to organize and advance voter registration drives as well as the Civil Rights Movement. Equally important, let’s not forget the grave danger that more than 60,000 African Americans in Mississippi risked by attending local meetings and choosing candidates. 17,000 African Americans attempted to register, though only 1,200 were allowed to do so because of the restrictive laws. However, these efforts were pivotal in raising awareness and helping to pass the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which banned discriminatory voting practices.

Even today, grassroots voter registration drives continue. I’m thinking about those led by Stacey Abrams’ Fair Fight Action aimed at empowering marginalized communities. Through her efforts, over 800,000 new voters were registered in Georgia between 2018 and 2020.

Without those volunteers, both today and in the 1960s, critical voting rights victories and the enfranchisement of marginalized communities might never have been achieved.

I’m also mindful of several other initiatives dear to me where volunteers have made a powerful difference.

How well I remember the start of the Earth Movement with the first Earth Day, on April 22, 1970. It was a massive grassroots effort with over 20 million Americans—about 10% of the U.S. population at the time—participating in events like cleanups, rallies, and educational forums, making it one of the largest civic demonstrations in our history. Organizers reached out to schools, universities, and local communities to mobilize people, and the idea spread rapidly through word of mouth, local environmental clubs, and volunteer-driven networks. How vividly I remember that Seventeen magazine took out an ad in the New York Times. I just looked it up so that I could provide the poignant text that appeared beneath a photo of a couple strolling, hand in hand, along a beach:

“Today—Earth Day—we salute millions of earnest young people who have accepted the challenge of seeking solutions for our environmental ills. Having reached the moon in the Sixties, perhaps in the Seventies we shall rediscover the earth!”

Volunteer participation helped generate the momentum that led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) later that year and the passage of key environmental laws, including the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act. Today, who is not familiar with Greta Thunberg, who at 19 years of age became a Swedish environmental activist and rose to fame worldwide. She has become one of the world’s most famous figures and has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Without Greta and the long line of volunteers just like her, the modern environmental movement, and critical regulatory bodies like the EPA, might never have gained the traction needed to protect our natural resources.

As a gay man, I am mindful of the role that volunteers have played going all the way back to Henry Gerber, who founded The Society for Human Rights in 1924—the first gay rights organization in the United States. That was long before I was born, but I well remember the Stonewall Uprising in the summer of 1969, when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay club in Greenwich Village. Those riots served as a catalyst for the gay rights movement in the United States and around the world.

And look how far we’ve come. Thanks to tireless volunteers, in 2015, marriage equality became the law of the land. More recently, in 2020, Pete Buttigieg made history as the first openly gay candidate to make a serious run for president and later serve in a key role during the Democratic campaign. His rise is a testament to the hard work of volunteers who have pushed for visibility and inclusion at the highest levels of politics.

Without those volunteers, none of this progress would have been possible.

Or what about the AIDS Crisis? In the 1980s and 1990s, ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) and GMHC (Gay Men’s Health Crisis) were grassroots organizations at their core. Thousands of ordinary citizens, many directly affected by the AIDS crisis, volunteered for roles in advocacy, caregiving, and public awareness. By 1986, ACT UP had grown to over 10,000 volunteers and by 1991 GMHC provided services to over 15,000 people living with AIDS by 1991, thanks to volunteers who offered emotional and practical support. One person, though, haunts my memory: David Kirby, a Gay Rights Activist who died prematurely from HIV/AIDS. As he drew his last breath, surrounded by his family, Therese Frare took a picture that was published in November 1990, LIFE Magazine. It was titled “the picture that changed the face of AIDS.” After its public display, the photograph became one of the most powerful photos identified with the HIV/AIDS pandemic.

Without those volunteers, the public response and the government’s response to the AIDS crisis would have been delayed, and countless lives might not have been saved by the advancements that followed.

Most recently, we’ve all grappled with the COVID-19 pandemic. Once again, volunteers played an essential role in responding to its challenges. From helping with vaccine distribution to supporting food banks and providing community care, volunteers were at the forefront of the response. In the U.S., over 80,000 volunteers with the Medical Reserve Corps (MRC) assisted at vaccination sites, helping to administer vaccines, manage logistics, and ensure smooth operations. At the same time, grassroots efforts like Mutual Aid Networks connected volunteers with elderly and vulnerable populations, delivering essentials like groceries and medications to those unable to leave their homes. Food banks, facing a 60% increase in demand, relied heavily on volunteers to distribute meals to millions of families affected by the economic fallout. Retired healthcare professionals and medical students also volunteered in hospitals and clinics, providing critical support to overwhelmed healthcare systems. Volunteers even staffed crisis hotlines, offering mental health support to individuals struggling with isolation and loss. But one small group of five volunteers stand out to me because they embody the true spirit of volunteerism. They were healthcare workers at New York-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital who made headlines for their bravery and dedication. They volunteered to clean the rooms of COVID-19 patients, a task that involved significant risk. Their willingness to step up and ensure the safety and cleanliness of the hospital environment was crucial in preventing the spread of the virus and in setting a model for others to follow.

Without thousands upon thousands of volunteers, the pandemic response would have been far less effective, and countless communities would have lacked the support they needed during one of the most challenging times in modern history.

I could continue my reveries and showcase more volunteers and their extraordinary power even more fully. If I were to do so, the same adjectives could be used to describe them.

● Courageous.
● Relentless.
● Trailblazing.
● Resilient.
● Visionary.
● Fearless.
● Compassionate.
● Selfless.
● Determined.

With such noble traits, it’s easy to see why so many are eager to contribute to meaningful causes. I’m fortunate to be involved in one right now, and that brings me back to where I began. I’m sending out postcards to voters in Swing States, an effort that feels critically important.

I’m just one volunteer, and I’m only writing 300 postcards. But get this. I’m working with more than 265,000 other volunteers, all part of the Progressive Turnout Project Initiative. Together, we’ll be sending out more than 40 million postcards. Vote by vote, we will make a difference.

And what about you? What can you do? If you’re an American voter, I urge you to exercise your right to vote on November 5. Together, we can change history once again.

Remember, too, that volunteerism is a powerful tool for change regardless of who you are and regardless of where you live. Look around your own corner of the world for a cause that you can champion. As you do, you will join hands with more than 1 billion volunteers worldwide. As you do, celebrate the realization that as a volunteer, you have the power to change history, one act at a time.

The Frog at My Door

The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest of intentions.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900; Irish poet and playwright)

My mountain home borders the George Washington National Forest, and, as you might expect, my world is filled with frogs.

Tree frogs, especially, are everywhere. I am convinced that millions and millions surround me. Oddly, though, I don’t see them often at all. They are quite small and awesomely masterful at blending into the trees and forest floor where they live. But I hear them everywhere. Once they start singing–usually in late Spring or early Summer and continuing through mid-Fall–I am in the midst of a nightly surround-sound symphony, commencing with a twilight overture, continuing with a high-pitched repertoire throughout the night, and reaching a calming finale around daybreak the following morn.

The principal musician among the tree frogs is the Spring Peeper, camouflaged to look like tree bark–light or dark as needed. Their song is a pure-tone whistle or peep that rises slightly in pitch from beginning to end. Loud. Piercing. Distant choruses sound like the jingling of small sleigh bells.

Joining them, somewhere in the trees or on the forest floor, are wood frogs–brown, tan, or rust-colored–dark-eye mascara. Their rolling call is a soft, ducklike cackling–ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-acnot too unlike a flock of quacking ducks.

And let me not forget the mottled-skinned Gray Tree Frog. It can be black or almost white, and it can change to light green, yellow, or gray. Its call is a melodious trill, lasting about half a second and repeated over and over again.

Aside from tree frogs, I have several Bull Frogs that live in my Koi Pond. Green tops. Cream or yellow bellies. Large eyes with almond-shaped pupils. I’m most fascinated by their tympana (eardrums) right behind their eyes. My bull frogs belt out loud, resonant bass notes: rumm . . . rumm . . . rumm, or, as some folks claim, “br-rum” and “jug-o-rum.” Wishful thinking.

And, of course, I have Toad Frogs. Stocky body.  Clumsy gait. Dry brown skin. Warts. (No. You did not get your warts from a toad frog.) I love to watch them puff up their bodies when threatened–never by me–in an attempt to look bigger. They, too, have a call. It’s a long trill, and each male in the chorus calls at a slightly different pitch, alternating and overlapping their songs.

And, from time to time, I have seen it rain frogs. Yes. Right here in my yard.

Say whaaaat?” someone just croaked.

Yep. It is possible to “rain frogs.” In severe weather, strong wind gusts scoop them up, blow them hither and yon in the sky, and let them fall to earth again.

Obviously, I spend a lot of time listening to frogs and watching them whenever I am blessed enough to catch sight of them. However, of all the frogs in my world, one has super special meaning.

It’s the frog at my door. My kitchen door. It’s the door that I use when I go out. It’s the door that I use when I come back in.

The frog at my door is a big frog. It’s huge. Actually, it’s the biggest frog that I’ve ever seen. Its belly is all white, a dramatic contrast to the rest of its dark green body, all splotchy with light green spots. And it has several remarkably large warts on its back. As it sits there–all puffed up–its thick lips have a wide, welcoming, fly-trap grin, and its eyes seem forever fixed on mine every time that I walk past. Sometimes, I even think that it looks up and winks at me. Whenever that happens, I always return the flirt.

Is it real?” someone just bellowed.

Well, of course, it’s real. But it’s not alive. I put it there when I started reinventing myself and had to relocate treasures from my college office to my treasured mountain home.

Now the frog sits at my kitchen door, forever looking, forever looking.

My placement of the frog at my door was as deliberate as my purchase. The moment that I laid eyes on it–the moment that our eyes locked–it looked as if it wanted–no, needed–a kiss.

In an instant, I was reminded of the Grimm Brothers’ “The Frog Prince.”

No doubt you remember the story. It’s about a young princess who tossed her golden ball–her favorite plaything–into the air and, failing to catch it, it rolled along the ground and fell into the spring.

“Alas! if I could only get my ball again, I would give all my fine clothes and jewels, and everything that I have in the world.”

About that time, a frog popped its head out of the water and started talking. The princess dismissed him as nothing more than a frog, incapable of helping her.

Ironically, he was not interested in her possessions. All that he wanted, in exchange for retrieving her golden ball, was to have her love, to live with her, to eat from her plate, and to sleep upon her bed.

Thinking that the frog could not get out of the spring even if he could manage to retrieve her golden ball, the princess agreed.

The frog retrieved the golden ball. Overjoyed, the princess took the ball and ran home, oblivious of her promise.

The frog followed. When the King discovered what had transpired, he made his daughter honor her promise.

We all remember the rest of the story. The cruel spell was broken, and the frog turned back into a handsome prince. The prince and princess got married, and, of course, they lived happily ever after.

The fairy tale teaches children and all of us several important lessons:

● The importance of not judging people based on their appearances.

● The importance of treating everyone with love regardless of how they look.

● The importance of keeping the promises that we make.

It seems to me, though, that the fairy tale teaches us one more important lesson:

● Magic can happen when we help others meet their needs.

Think about it. The princess needed to get her ball from the bottom of the spring. The prince needed to be freed from the evil spell that had turned him into a frog.

By the end of the fairy tale, each had met the other’s needs. Magic happened.

So there you have it. That’s why I put the frog at my door. As I go out, I want to be reminded of the multitude of needs that I might encounter and the opportunities that I might have to help meet those needs.

Mind you: when I leave, I’m not headed out on a mission to find needs. I’m simply going out to take care of my own affairs, but as I do so, I hope to have a greater awareness of other people’s needs.

Their needs need not be big or earth-shattering. More often than not, they’re small. More often than not, I can’t meet them all every time that I head out. But when I can, I want to be reminded to do what I can.

● I want to be reminded to smile and be friendly to everyone, including strangers.

● I want to be reminded to buy local and to support small businesses.

● I want to be reminded to be on a first-name basis with all the grocery store clerks.

● I want to be reminded to thank the attendant at the sanitation landfill who rarely gets thanked and to remind her of the importance of the work that she does.

● I want to be reminded to see whether I can help the driver who has pulled his car off to the side of the road.

● I want to be reminded to show love to the seemingly unlovable; to make eye contact with the homeless person on the corner; to give generously; to offer to buy a meal.

● I want to be reminded that less can be more and that I can donate to others what I no longer need.

● I want to be reminded to pay it forward: to help someone starting their career; to give someone a word of encouragement; to be the shoulder that a friend can lean on.

● I want to be reminded that I might be the fire that inspires my local postmistress to go back to college.

● I want to be reminded that without even knowing it, my positivity might be the light at the end of someone’s tunnel.

I want to be reminded of all those things and so many, many more.

This much I know. When I get back home, the frog at my door will be there, waiting for me. Our eyes will lock once again, and at that moment, the frog at my door will hold me accountable: Did I do all that I could do? Did I turn my grand intentions into meaningful actions?

Maybe it’s just the frog at my door, but in my mountain world, it’s as magical as any fairy tale.

Celebrating the Gateway to Who I Am

“I’m Mad as Hell, and I’m Not Going to Take This Anymore”

(Rallying cry shouted by anchorman Howard Beale in the 1976 movie Network)

For decades, I have gifted myself with special birthday gifts. I always buy the gifts months in advance. I always enclose a special note, reminding myself of how special I am. I always wrap the gifts in extravagant, over-the-top gift wrap. And, then, I hide them. With any luck, when my birthday rolls around, I’ll remember not only the gifts that I bought myself but also where I hid them.

This year, though, I decided that one gift to myself would come a few days before my birthday and that I would share it with the world, right here in my blog.

Actually, on November 20, I will celebrate my 75th birthday. (Cards. Chocolates. A Viking Cruise. Any or all of those gifts are welcome. I used to include a 4-door Jeep as an option after the Chocolates, but these days I feel like a gladiator in the Jeep Gladiator that I drive. So I tossed in a Viking Cruise as a gift option. Just saying.)

So let me tell you about my birthday gift. I mean, after all, my life in general is so public that talking about one of this year’s gifts shouldn’t be a big deal. Right? Wrong. I had to think long and hard before deciding whether to go public.

Now, I’m betting that you’re scorching to know what my gift is. I certainly hope so. I promise you that the big reveal shall come in just another candle or two. After all, 75 candles make quite a virtual glow, and I hate to blow them out too quickly. Oh, what the hell. I’ll go ahead and blow them out. No doubt, they’ll all light up again.

All right. The candles are out, so let me get glowing with my gift before they flame up again and distract me.

Simply put, I’ve had one too many: “How are you, Sweetie?”

Simply put, I’ve had one too many: “Can I help you, Dearie?”

Simply put, I’ve had one too many: “Did you find what you were looking for, Honey?”

Let me pause to reassure you. I do not think, not even for one nanosecond, that the people who greet me with those terms of endearment are being mean-spirited or rude. They have good intentions.

And let me pause to give you another reassurance. Greetings such as those often have strong regional ties, especially in the South. I grew up there. It’s my home. I know.

Others who grew up in the South know, too. For example, one of my students in the Virginia community college where I teach had this to say when my class and I had a rich and robust conversation recently about Sweetie, Dearie, and Honey:

“I work in a grocery store, and I greet everyone that way.”

“Even customers in their twenties or thirties?” I queried.

“Hmmm. No.”

“How about forties or fifties?” I pursued.

“Fifties, maybe. It depends on how old they look.”

So there. We have it. “Depends on how old they look.”

As for me, I was born old, and I’ve always looked old. But it wasn’t until my sixties and seventies that others started calling me Sweetie, Dearie, and Honey.

And, quite frankly, it doesn’t matter whether the greeting is a regional, hard-to-break custom or not.

And, quite frankly, it doesn’t matter whether the greeting is well-intentioned or not.

Such greetings fall into a category of their own–side by side with Racism and Sexism. The category has a name. Ageism.

All three–Racism, Sexism, and Ageism–diminish our humanity and push us toward being “lesser-thans.”

Sweetie, Dearie, and Honey are especially diminishing in settings where the name is right there in front of the person who isn’t calling you by your name.

Here’s a perfect example. A few years ago, I had to have a CT scan at a nearby medical center. Obviously, I was feeling more than a little anxious. I needed to feel that regardless of the outcome, the person I was when I walked in would be the same person when I walked out. I needed to feel that regardless of the diagnosis, I would still be me. I needed to feel that I would still have my identity.

The diagnosis was a good one. But, sadly, during the short time that it took for the CT scan, I was called “Sweetie” two times, all the while that I was asked each time to verify my date of birth and my full name. Duh. I have a name, dammit. Why not use it? The check-in specialist as well as the radiographer were looking right at it while requiring me to verify it. By not using my name, I felt diminished and robbed of my unique identity.

More recently, the same thing happened when I went to my local pharmacy for my annual flu shot, the same pharmacy where I’ve been vaccinated for the last 24 years. I know everyone who works there. They know me, too. I’ve had many of them in one or more of my classes. The pharmacy technician approached me with the syringe and band-aid mid air.

“Name and birth date, please” was followed with, “Which arm Sweetie?”

Duh. I have a name, dammit. Why not use it? The technician was looking right at it while requiring me to verify it. By not using my name, I felt diminished and robbed of my unique identity.

Quite frankly, I’ve been identity-diminished and identity-robbed one time too many. And like anchorman Howard Beale in Network (1976), “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more.”

Here’s why I’m mad as hell. And here’s why I’m not going to take this any more.

At this point in my life–as I approach my 75th birthday–my father is dead, my mother is dead, my oldest brother is dead, many of my closest friends and colleagues are dead, and my partner is dead.

One of the few things that I have left to remind me of my humanity is my name. My name is the gateway to my identity. My name is the gateway to who I am.

Without my name, I’m just another Sweetie.

Without my name, I’m just another Dearie.

Without my name, I’m just another Honey.

So here’s my birthday gift to myself this year.

I will no longer allow others to call me Sweetie, Dearie, or Honey. I will no longer allow others to diminish my identity.

Whenever those well-intentioned terms of endearment grate my ears and pierce my being, I will rise up to the full height of my politest best, and I will do my utmost to turn those ageist moments into learning moments.

My come-back might be as simple as:

“Why, thank you, Elliot. I’d love it if you called me by my name: Brent.”

Or maybe I’ll try something like this:

“Thanks, Skyler. Do you know the most beautiful word in any language?”

“In any language? No idea. What is it?”

“A person’s name.”

“Really.”

“Yep. Isn’t that amazing. By the way. I’m Brent. Next time we meet, feel free to call me by my name.”

Now that I’ve unwrapped my gift in this blog–right here in public–I’m thinking that this might just be the best birthday gift that I’ve given myself in a long, long time. I can’t think of anything better than celebrating the gateway to who I am. Who knows. It might just be a gift that keeps on giving.

Touching Lives through Giving

“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”
Sir Winston Churchill

As a student and as a professor, I have learned some of my best life-lessons through classroom repartee—those lively, light-hearted and spontaneous exchanges that give way to intellectual magic.

As this season of celebrating and gifting winds down and as the year 2021 that gave us all fantods comes to a thankful end, I am reminded of one those magically powerful exchanges from long, long ago. However, its initial significance has been outdistanced by its long-range influence: perpetual mind food (more accurately, soul food) given freely (perhaps, unknowingly). It matters little or not at all whether it was intended for mind or soul. It matters little or not at all whether it was given deliberately or unknowingly. I have savored it and relished it down through the years.

I was a 25-year-old graduate student in an American Literature class at the University of South Carolina. One of the short stories that the late Professor Joel Myerson gave us to read was “Life Everlastin’” by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.

I knew that I had better know all the intricacies of the story before going to class. It was, after all, a graduate class. Equally important, the class was so small that we met in a small conference room and sat around a small oval conference table, with Professor Myerson charismatically leading us. Youthful (only several years older than I and the rest of the class), energetic, and intellectually stimulating, he inspired us to come to class prepared to engage in stimulating conversations, demonstrating our abilities to analyze literary works. Professor Myerson was a Formalist and a Textual Bibliographer. Nothing mattered but the literary work itself. Nothing mattered but the text. Without doubt, I needed to give that story my best.

I had been introduced to Freeman the semester before when another professor gave us some of her stories to read, and I had fallen in love with her fiction. Having to read her “Life Everlastin'” was a joy for me.

I read the story initially, and I gave it a second reading, and I am confident that I gave it yet a third reading. Professor Myerson loved giving literary works a close reading. So did I.

I wondered what take he would give the story.

Would he give it a close reading based on the story’s accurate depiction of New England village life?

Would he give it a close reading focusing on the sharp character delineations of the two diametrically opposite sisters? Maybe Mrs. Ansel who is totally preoccupied with being fitted for a new bonnet: “She was always pleased and satisfied with anything that was her own, and possession was to her the law of beauty.”

Maybe her spinster, non-churchgoing sister, Luella Norcross, who was always giving to others, who was always going “somewheres after life-everlastin’ blossoms. … If she was not in full orthodox favor among the respectable part of the town, her fame was bright among the poor and maybe lawless element, whom she befriended.”

Would he take the conversation up a notch or three by pitting seemingly shallow churchgoers (e. g. Mrs. Ansel) against those of seemingly deeper convictions (e. g. Luella Norcross) who stayed home and foraged the fields in search of life everlasting blossoms to give away, much in the same spirit of Emily Dickinson’s “Some keep the Sabbath going to Church”? Or would he perhaps compare Mrs. Ansel’s apparent lack of religious depth to E. E. Cummings’ poem “the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls”?

Or might he go even deeper and explore the story as a subtle indictment of religion similar to the charge that Mark Twain gave organized religion in his “Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Who does not recall the fact that Dan’l, the frog, was so full of quail-shot that he when he went to hop, “he couldn’t budge: he was planted as solid as a church and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out.” 

And, without doubt, Professor Myerson had to give the backbone of the story lots of attention: Luella’s discovery of two murdered neighbors; her discovery that the alleged murderer (John Gleason) was holed up in a vacant house next to her home; her realization that she had to give him up to the law; and her dramatic decision that she had to give in to her faith: “I don’t see any other way out of it for John Gleason!”

I went to class fully prepared to give my own two cents worth on any or all of those angles.

Indeed, we gave all of them lively pursuits, all that is save one. We did NOT discuss what seemed to me to be the very essence of the story: life everlasting.

I was stunned. No. I was surprised. I suspected that it was with deliberate intent that Professor Myerson did not take the conversation in the direction of the story’s obvious eschatological meaning: the destiny of the soul and of humankind after death. I knew that he wanted us to think about—and talk about—that aspect of the story independently without giving us any coaching.

Silence fell over the class.

There I sat, feeling that we had an obligation to move toward the eschatological and that he had an obligation to take us there. I gave a question that broke the silence.  

“So, Professor Myerson, what exactly IS life everlasting?” I was hoping that the question I gave him would make him squirm.

But he had the upper hand and knew precisely how to make me squirm. An expert in the Socratic method, he gave the question right back to me. “What do YOU think it is, Brent?” 

Aha! The chance for repartee had arrived! I gave in to the moment. I seized it. 

I looked him square in the eye, with an ever-so-innocent look, as I gave him nothing more than the straight botanical definition—a flowering plant in the mint family, noted for its healing, medicinal properties. Then I rambled on about Luella’s inclusion of life-everlasting in the pillows that she made and gave to help neighbors, especially those who were asthmatic.  

I could tell that Professor Myerson was on to me. I was known for this sort of academic maneuvering, and he was not amused. He gave me his over-the-glasses look that he was so skilled in giving. 

I waited to see what he would say—he always said something whenever he gave that look—but we both had to give up for the time being. Class ended.

But Professor Myerson always had a way of getting his way, in one way or another. This time would be no exception. A few days later he stopped me in the hall. With a twinkle in his eyes, he gave me an offprint of one of his articles that had been published in a scholarly magazine. On the front, he had written:

Brent,

This is life everlasting.

Joel Myerson

“What does THAT mean?” I pondered, as I walked away. I confess, however, to no small degree of jealousy. At that point in my life, I was unpublished. Nothing had appeared in print under my name.  But here was Professor Myerson—already a well-known, published scholar, albeit a young one—giving me an inscribed, offprint of his most recent scholarly article.

I had to give this gift more thought.

Did he realize the full impact of his gift?

Or was he a young professor giving me the selfsame banter that I had given him in class?

Or was his gift more serious? Was he giving me another way to look at life everlasting—perhaps different from the traditional eschatological view? Was he suggesting that we live on forever through what we share with others, especially ideas that are immortalized in print? Maybe so. After all, some cultures believe that we live as long as our name is spoken. If that was his intent, he succeeded. Here I am blogging about him, nearly fifty years later. Here I am placing his name in public view, albeit this time under my own name. Whoever reads this blog post will speak his name, even if silently. They may even share my story with others. Professor Myerson continues to live. 

His inscribed offprint had an immediate impact. It gave me some extra encouragement not only to finish my doctoral degree in American Literature but also to publish my own scholarly articles and books. I wanted to give my ideas away to others through the printed word. When that happened for the first time, I was thrilled, and the high that I experience now through being published is as high as it was then.

But here’s the greater truth. His gift touched my soul perhaps more than it touched my mind. It kept me mindful that as human beings we all have needs—immediate and long-range.

It kept me mindful that the needs are great, always and in all ways. In fact, during these pandemic years, the needs are daunting. No. They are staggering. 

Fortunately, for us and for others, the ways that we can touch lives through giving— whatever it is that we have within ourselves to give—are countless. 

We can give our ideas.

We can give our talents

We can give our time.

We can give our purse.

We can give our love.

We can give ourselves—mind, body, and soul

Our gifts need not be large. Our gifts need not be given with any expectation of ever knowing how much they touch others’ lives or of how much they impact others’ lives. This much, though, we do know about giving. It connects us to one another. It binds us to one another. It makes us aware of our relatedness to one another. 

Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, when we touch others’ lives by giving freely of ourselves—without any expectation of receiving anything in return—we might be edging our way, even if unawares, closer and closer and closer toward the very essence of life everlasting.