Category Archives: Humor

Thanksgiving Shenanigans with Poor Brentford Lee

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Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher has Poor Brentford Lee
and welcomes him back as a guest contributor—
louder than a sardine timer and twice as slippery—
to sanctify
our Thanksgiving tables
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Discerning readers like you, My Dear Friends, have no doubt noticed that from time to time, I write my posts under what I would call my nom de plume, Poor Brentford Lee. I like it, especially since it always makes me feel that I’m right up there in American letters right beside Ben Franklin and his famed Poor Richard.

I suspect it is with me as it was with Franklin. Using a nom de plume allows me to say things that I might have better sense than to say under my real name.

Anyway, I like Poor Brentford Lee enough that I let him grab hold of my smartphone and tap his heart away to share whatever it is he insists on sharing about Thanksgiving!

And this, My Dear Friends, is precisely where I step aside and let Poor Brentford take over. He’s already clearing his throat, poised to pontificate about Thanksgiving and give you a mouthful about all the other holidays we might celebrate. Or not.

Take it away, Poor Brentford…

Law me, Child, you would think folks would leave well enough alone and let Thanksgiving shine on its own once a year. But no. One day’s not enough for some people. They’ve gone and populated the whole turkey week with holidays!

Where shall I begin and how shall I spit out all the celebrations making every day on my calendar look like parchment with measles.

I’ll tell you here and now. Lace your girdle. Tighten your suspenders. Better still. Do both.

“Who? Me?”

“Yes. You. You tin-bellied Buzzard.”

And no. It is not true, the rumor that you may have heard that Ben Franklin wanted the buzzard to be declared America’s national bird. (And even if he had, he would not have endorsed eating it for Thanksgiving instead of turkey. So don’t let my nonsense bother your pretty little mind nary a whit when you sit down and take a gander at the golden bird on your table. It’s a turkey. And, besides, a turkey by any other name tastes the same.) But he did prefer the turkey over the Bald Eagle–which was, is, and forever shall be America’s national bird. He thought the eagle had “bad moral character” whereas the turkey was a bird “of courage.” But I assure you, Franklin never advocated that the turkey–or buzzard–be elevated to a national symbol.

But let’s get back to this bird of courage, with my genuine assurance that you’ll be stuffed by the time yours is done. (And it may be already.)

Do you realize that just a few days ago–Monday, November 24–folks celebrated:

● Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day. (Law me, Child, half of us still haven’t identified a talent, and the other half are busy showing theirs off on Facebook. Settle down and smooth your feathers. We’re all special just as we are.)

● D. B. Cooper Day. (Lord help us! Who in their stuffed mind celebrates a masked, unidentified airplane hijacker? Pass the gravy, please—and make it strong.)

● International Au Pair Day. (Bless their ambitious little hearts. Raising other people’s children while living in their basements. That’s not a holiday—that’s a calling.)

● National Brand Day. (Because nothing says Thanksgiving spirit like corporate logos. Law me twice and hand me a napkin.)

● National Fairy Bread Day. (Child, that’s just white bread with butter and sprinkles. The Australians have some nerve calling it a delicacy. Bless their festive little hearts.)

● National Sardines Day. (Well, thank you! I think I will. Pass the saltines, please. Those fishies may be little, but they sure pack the omegas. Goodness, no. No need to open the windows. Light a candle? Have you lost your mind? Eat some sardines and chill.)

Land’s sake. That’s just Monday’s shenanigans.

I won’t dare trot my way through Tuesday and Wednesday, and when we get to Thanksgiving Day (the granddaddy of all American feasts), we’ve got at least five other celebrations dotting up my measled calendar—including Turkey-Free Thanksgiving. (I’m about to faint. Run fetch the smelling salts, please.) And Pins and Needles Day. (No doubt all the turkeys in the land are on theirs. My stars, even the Macy’s balloons look nervous.)

And don’t get me started on what follows on Friday. It’s none other than Black Friday, but Poor Brentford calls it National Lose Your Religion Day.

Thank your lucky un-plucked feathers that brings us to December, filled with an entire navigation of celebratory days that won’t get stuck in anybody’s craw.

The month barely opens before we’re knee-deep in Advent (which starts on November 30 this year—law me, Sweetheart, some of us are still digesting stuffing and the rest of us are remembering that we meant to buy candles).

Then comes December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (a reminder that December still knows how to be holy before the cookies take over).

December 10 brings Human Rights Day (which, given the state of the world, ought to be celebrated daily, loudly, and with snacks).

December 12 offers the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe (a celebration so radiant it could light a path clear across the Shenandoah), and December 13 arrives with Saint Lucy’s Day (bless their bright little candles; it’s the one holiday where setting fire to your hair is considered festive).

And then, Sugar, December 21 rolls in with the Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year—when the sun says “I’m tired” and slips behind the hills before Poor Brentford has found his reading glasses).

December 24 is Christmas Eve (the day we all lie and say “just one more cookie”), December 25 is Christmas Day (the grandmammy of gift wrap and gravy boats), and December 26 brings the first day of Kwanzaa and Boxing Day (a pair of celebrations that stretch the season just a little sweeter and a little longer).

Finally, December 31 lurches toward us as New Year’s Eve (when half the country watches the ball drop and the other half drops before the ball does).

And before you start thinking December has nothing left to get stuck in your craw, Dear One, let Poor Brentford assure you otherwise. We haven’t even touched the other December shenanigans—those bafflin’, bedazzlin’, bubble-blowin’ celebrations that make a body wonder who’s in charge of this calendar.

Take Package Protection Day (Law me, Sweetheart, if your packages need protection, it’s already too late).

Then there’s Bathtub Party Day (Heavens no. These bubbles are reserved for… well, that’s none of your business).

Put On Your Own Shoes Day arrives next (bless their slow little hearts—and who, pray tell, was puttin’ ’em on before today?).

National Letter Writing Day finally appears (fetch me a quill and ink pot pen before the feeling passes), followed closely by Weary Willie Day (and aren’t we all, after this calendar?).

Then up pops Dewey Decimal System Day (now kiss my librarian grits—this is a holiday worthy of humanity), and International Mountain Day (Child, here in the Shenandoah, every day is Mountain Day, even Tuesday).

Fast-forward a bit and December tosses out National Whiners’ Day (celebrated mostly by folks returning gifts they don’t deserve), followed by Still Need To Do Day (my to-do list fainted dead away—fetch the smelling salts), and finally Make Up Your Mind Day (if only—Poor Brentford’s been undecided since the first time he picked up a pen).

As for me, I’ve made up my mind that I’ve stuffed you with enough celebrations already, and I’m not about to puff up my feathers and strut around with more. Land’s sake alive! If I got going on all the celebrations we won’t be celebrating in 2026, I’d be here forever and you’d be reading even longer. (One reader told me just a feather or two ago that I was getting pretty windy.)

Now, before you fan yourself and declare that Poor Brentford has lost the last marble he was ever loaned, let me tell you something plain and true. All this fussin’ and frettin’ over holidays—big ones, little ones, ridiculous ones—might seem like the carryings-on of a nation that’s plum run out of sense. But Sugar, I don’t think that’s it at all. Not deep down.

I think we keep inventing these goldurned celebrations because we’re hungry for each other. Hungry for community, for belonging, for a reason—any reason—to stop the world long enough to say, “I’m here, you’re here, thank heavens we made it another day.”

We are a scattered people trying to stitch ourselves back together with whatever thread we can find—peppermint bark, bathtub bubbles, mountain days, turkey days, even days devoted to weary Willies and packages that need protecting. It’s laughable, yes. But it’s also a kind of hope. A kind of reaching.

And if you ask me—and you didn’t, but here I go anyway—I think we ought to take these foolish little observances and set them right on the Thanksgiving table alongside the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Call them what they are:

Laughable Blessings.

Because heaven knows we need reasons to laugh. We need excuses to gather. We need bright spots—silly or sacred—that remind us we belong to one another, even on the days we feel most alone.

So Child, if some little holiday comes along and tickles your wishbone or nudges your heart, pull up a chair at your Thanksgiving table and let it sit a spell. Celebrate it. Laugh at it. Give thanks for it.

Light a candle. Bake a pie. Wear the dress or don’t (but mercy, cover the essentials). Put on your own shoes—today or tomorrow.

Because in the end, Thanksgiving isn’t only about turkeys and table linens. It’s about noticing the small things—absurd, tender, holy—that remind us how lucky we are to be here at all.

And that, My Dear Readers, is a blessing worth celebrating on Thanksgiving and every day of the year.


Poor Brentford Says

Eat well. Laugh loudly.
And Sweetheart, if life insists on giving you
a celebration for every day on the calendar…
count them as blessings — even the laughable ones.

FramilySaid™: For When “Bless Your Heart” Isn’t Enough

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Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher now welcomes a guest contributor:
Poor Brentford Lee,
who has agreed to sanctify our troubled times
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Approved by ole Ben Franklin.
Improved by Poor Brentford Lee

“Forgiveness is divine—but FramilySaid™ is faster and comes in gummable gummies.”

-— Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947). Unlicensed. Unfiltered. Unapologetically adopted.
Known for saying the quiet part loud, he’s back by popular demand (and at least one cease-and-desist letter). Seasoned expert in nothing but experience. Sourdough connoisseur. Self-declared inventor of emotional supplements. Hangs out somewhere between a heavenly blessing and A HOMEMADE biscuit (preferably sourdough).

Years and years ago, in one of my brilliant moments—you know, the kind that arrive somewhere between misplacing your glasses and finding your purpose—I concocted a miracle elixir. An emotional balm. A psychological salve. A chewable sacrament.

And I’m convinced—when it’s finally patented, mass-produced, and widely distributed—it will relieve the world of all its wounds and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Or, at the very least, it will help you forget them for a little while. And really, isn’t that what the world needs most right now? Not advice. Not enlightenment. Not deep therapy.

All you need is Forgetfulness.

Chances are good that if you’re reading this—and have not forgotten—you’re an Oldie-Goldie who still remembers when love was all you needed, and your hips didn’t pop when you bent over.

But friend, times have changed. Now what the world needs isn’t just love—it’s a little bit of blessed, blissful forgetfulness.

So in the spirit of rock legends and gospel truths, I offer you an updated version of the Beatles’ classic. Hum along. Or gum along. Or just pretend you know the tune and clap on the offbeat:

All You Need Is Forgetfulness (Redux)
(with apologies to Lennon & McCartney—and gratitude, too)

There’s nothing they can say that can’t be un-heard
No shame so deep it can’t be deterred
No burn so old it can’t be un-spurred
You can let it go

All you need is forgetfulness
(Da-da-da-da-da)
All you need is forgetfulness
(Sing it like you mean it)
All you need is forgetfulness, forgetfulness
Forgetfulness is all you need

(Slide whistle optional. Biscuit in hand, sourdough preferred.)

Yep. That’s it. All you need is forgetfulness. Not the kind that sneaks up on you in your golden years, when you can’t remember who you bit when you meant to kiss or where you were going with your pants unzipped or where you’ve been with a bowl of popcorn when you went to get strawberries. No—I’m talking about on-demand forgetfulness. Reliable, immediate, with controlled-release options for holidays, family reunions, and any Sunday when your phone rings before you’ve had time to check your Fitbit to make sure you made it through the night.

That, My Dear Readers, is where FramilySaid™ comes in.

They mean well. They always do—those “bless your heart” people. But sometimes, what your framily says can lodge itself right in the soft tissue of your soul, like a splinter from the communion table.

That’s why I made FramilySaid™—not FDA-approved (yet), but clinically proven (by yours truly) to dull the sting of being emotionally ignored by people who should know better. In gummable form, naturally.

A Quick Word about the Name.

FramilySaid™ is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a mountain prof’s fusion of friends, family, and the things they’ve said—bless ’em.

Because sometimes, it’s the people closest to you (by blood—or, in my case, by adoption—history, or shared casserole) whose words linger just a little too long. Who don’t mean to hurt you but somehow do. Who support you privately … but not publicly. Who say “I love you” but never with the clincher: “just the way you are.”

When they speak and zing you with their petty little barbs? FramilySaid™ can help you. Un-hear it. Un-feel it. Un-bother yourself entirely.

A New Kind of Relief.

I developed this product in a dimly lit, emotionally unstable lab located precisely between my kitchen and a moment of near-epiphany. FramilySaid™ is the first over-the-counter solution specifically designed to help you temporarily forget your people. Not all of them, bless ’em. Just the ones whose “support” lost all its elasticity because you’re doing all the emotional heavy lifting.

Get this. FramilySaid™ is so hip that it comes in gummy form. Flavors include Denial-Drop Cherry and Emotional Support Butterscotch. Easy to chew. Easy to swallow. No dentures? No problem. Just gum it and go.

I just heard a panicked soul (bless their heart) blurt out:

“How can I get me some?”

Well, bless your little heart. It’s so simple. Go online–or use your phone app–and in just a few clicks you’ll be consulting with a doctor named “Jeff” who is definitely certified but not necessarily licensed. Within days or maybe even as soon as yesterday—Poof! A discreet brown package arrives at your door—just like your sex toys arrive, but with more dignity—and fewer batteries.

Anyway, from that point forward, you’ve got protection from friends and family. Take FramilySaid™ when the text message lands wrong. Take it when the smile feels fake. Take it when someone who “loves you no matter what” leaves your partner off the guest list.

Take it. Just take it. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.

Now go ahead. Swallow your truth with a buttery sourdough biscuit, included free, one for every FramilySaid™ gummy included in your order. Remember: Cheaper by the Baker’s Dozen.

Now breathe. Breathe again. You’ve got this.

Situations When You Might Need a Gummy.

Situation #1. You call with good news—any kind of news, really—and they respond with:

“Oh, that’s… nice.”

You smile politely. Take a FramilySaid™ gummy. Let the world blur at the edges.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child…”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin with precision, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little pea-pickin’ heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits?”

Situation #2. You share something meaningful—a photo, a milestone, a moment—and get nothing but a thumbs-up emoji.

You chew slowly. Cinnamon apathy floods your tongue.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lean back, fan himself once, and say:

“Why, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours nary one bit.”

Then, with that same cool smile, he’d add:

“Well, bless your little heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits? I need me ‘nuther one”

Situation #3. You confide in someone you thought might be a safe space. Instead, they tilt their head like a golden retriever hearing static and say:

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

You double your dosage and erase five awkward conversations from memory.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child… we are officially rationing warmth now.”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin precisely, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little heart. Them sourdough biscuits sure are good. Can I have just one more? Not the whole basket. Thank you kindly.”

Situation #4. Someone finally asks:

“How did you two old geysers meet anyway?”

But get this. Their tone sounds more like a customs agent than a curious soul.

You suddenly feel like a suspect in your own joy. FramilySaid™ softens the interrogation.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lift one eyebrow, cross his silverware, and murmur:

“Law me, child. Love ain’t no interview.”

Then he’d smile–all teeth, all grace–and whisper at his loudest:

“Well, bless your little heart. I think I’ll have another sourdough biscuit—maybe two if you’re feeling generous.”

Situation #5. On one of your hardest days ever in your entire ancient life, you look up at the sky—not metaphorically, but really look—and ask:

“God? Really? After all I’ve done to live with grace, to love deeply, to forgive… and this is still where I land?”

That’s when you reach for the God-level dose. FramilySaid™ won’t answer the prayer. But it will quiet the ache long enough for you to refill your hope.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d blink once, breathe deep, and say,

“Law me, child. Even Heaven can ghost you sometimes.”

Then with a reverent nod upward:

“Well, bless your eternal heart. Hand me a biscuit. The everlastin’ kind.”

™ … ™ … ™

Final Notes from the Founder.

Every time you take FramilySaid™, you’ll forget for a spell. You’ll feel better for a spell.
Might smile, hum a tune, maybe even whistle while folding your fitted sheets.

But eventually—inevitably—you’ll sit real still. And your heart will tap you on the shoulder and say:

“This ache? It don’t need numbing. It needs naming.”

And you’ll remember:

“It wasn’t the forgetting that healed you. It was remembering the friendship and kinship you truly deserve.“

So go ahead. Declare what you need. Claim your joy. Refill your prescriptions for love, laughter, and a little holy audacity.

And if someone still doesn’t get it?

“Well, bless their little hearts. Just hand ’em one of those perpetual sourdough biscuits and smile like you mean it.”

Coming Soon from the Maker of FramilySaid™.

Because sometimes one generic gummy just isn’t enough, the Maker offers you some specific options:

● SisterStrength™ – For passive-aggression that’s been simmering since the day before forever.

● CousinClear™ – When you can’t remember which cousin sells snake-oils and which one married his ex’s sister brother’s husband.

● UncleMute™ – One dose silences three stories about the Civil Wah he and his kin are still fightin’.

● MatriarchMax™ – For that layered guilt, always served hot, always with a side of pie—and a smile.

● HolidayProlonged Release™ – Kicks in during grace and peaks after the second round of green bean casserole.

A Final, Final Word from the Maker—Yours and Mine—The Big One Who Always Gets the Last Word.

Forgetting isn’t what you need, child.
Remembering what you’re worth?
Dagnabbit. That’s exactly what you need.
That’s the real prescription.
(Signed, sealed, and delivered by Poor Brentford Lee, totally unlicensed but highly seasoned.)

While you’re remembering, just reach up and hand me a sourdough biscuit, swallow your pride, go ahead and make up with your low-down, no-good Framily. And then? Move it. Move it. Move it—as fast as a tumbleweed in a windstorm.

And don’t forget Poor Brentford Lee, sitting here, there, and everywhere–all smiles–saying to himself for no one else to hear:

“Law me. Won’t you lay one on me? No, no. Not a biscuit—though they are mighty fine. Just a blessing, child. That’s all I ever needed.”

Poor Brentford Says

“Your worth doesn’t need a witness.
Show up for yourself.
That’s the real feast.”

My Altar Ego

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“I tried so hard to do nothing that I accidentally did everything I needed.”

— Poor Brentford Lee (born 1947 and born again today).

Long, long ago I learned to not complain about the weather. For me, it was not a hard lesson to master. I love weather. I love how it arrives unbothered by plans, how it doesn’t ask permission to shift. Rain seeps, sun scorches, wind whispers or howls—all of it a steady reminder that the world turns whether I make a list or not. Seasons don’t hustle. They don’t perform. They simply become what they are, and in that quiet becoming, I find permission to do the same.

And so it is that I often find myself luxuriating in my bathtub–sunny days, rainy days, snowy days. Any day in any weather will do for a good old-fashioned soak. It’s especially good in a real tub like mine. Cast-iron enamel. Please tell me that no others are manufactured. Or if you tell me that they are, please have my smelling salts handy.

Let’s be clear: my bathtub is not clawfoot elegant, but it’s deep enough to pretend. When I slide in, I tell myself that I’m taking time to be. But I know the truth. I’ve turned soaking into an event that I do.

Usually, it’s not much of an event or a do. It doesn’t need to be since I don’t need much. Water. Hot. Always hot. None of this lukewarm nonsense for me. If I’m going to bother drawing a bath, I want it to steam like a sultry Shenandoah Valley morning, rolling up from the tub like fog curling along the Seven Bends of the Shenandoah.

Getting the water that I need is not as straightforward as you might think. No. It’s not. Even though I live on a mountain, I do not draw it from my well. It’s pumped from my deep well and flows through copper pipes indoors, as befits a mountain man with a porcelain tub. And, of course, mine has proper porcelain turns—white handles, chrome collars, and bold Hot and Cold lettering, like a tub straight out of a 1950s film noir. Hot, thank goodness, does bring hot. Cold brings cold. So far, so good. But to adjust the flow, I have to turn both knobs left. Why? Because my plumber, bless his well-meaning hands, apparently installed them backwards. I think. I always thought I turned the hot water knob counterclockwise to turn on the flow and clockwise to turn off the flow. The cold lever is opposite, clockwise to turn on the flow, and counterclockwise to turn it off. It is something like that. Right? Damned if I know anymore. Apparently, I’ve spent years turning one way, only to be met with the smug silence of a faucet that refuses to gush or blush. In this tub, turning is just plumb wrong.

I guess it’s a small metaphor for life, really. Just when you’re sure you’re doing it correctly—hot water flowing, intentions pure, and everything else on course—you realize the universe wants you to turn the other way.

But before I turn the other way and step into the tub–which is, I must warn you, the stage on which I will be soaking, ruminating, and possibly overdoing it for the rest of this essay—I must direct the stage lights toward something magnificent. Close your eyes for a sec. Okay. Now open, look down, and let your eyes feast upon my …

… bubble bath.

Yes. I do use bubble bath. Lord knows it’s not for the scent—though I admit, I have a weakness for sandalwood. And lavender. But let the record show: I allow lavender only in the tub. Nowhere else. A mountain man like me has standards and has to stand by them.

I tell myself that it’s not for the fragrance. It’s for the foam. Even though I reveal to you, My Dear Readers, far more than I should, I want to assure you that I do have a modicum of modesty. A bubble here, a bubble there—tastefully arranged to preserve an illusion of decency. Let’s just say the bubbles know where to gather.

Yep. That’s about all I need for one of my regular soaks. A tub. Hot water. Bubble bath.

But let’s face it. Every once in a blue moon, a mountain man needs a little spice. I’m no exception, even though I confess to being more than a little exceptional.

It’s on those blue-moon occasions that I line up a full production. Then, believe you me. I don’t just take a bath. I stage a bath.

I arrange things just so on my Broadway altar: mug of chamomile tea (because sometimes wine in a stemmed and fluted Baccarat feels like too much doing), one candle (the fancy one that I don’t even own, but begrudgingly burn anyway), and three colognes that I don’t own yet, each vying for my American Express card that I do own. Imagine. Three bottles lined up like contestants on The Bachelor: Mountain-Man Bathroom Edition. It’s far more than cologne drama. It’s downright Shakespearean. It’s The Mountain meets The Globe.

It opens with a cologne smackdown.

Baie 19: (sniffily) “Let’s not pretend I’m not the one Poor Brentford truly wants. I’m rainfall and memory. I’m the whisper of longing on damp skin. I’m practically poetry in a bottle.”

Oud Wood: (with velvet growl) “Poetry’s lovely, dear, but I’m seduction that lingers. I’m cashmere confidence. I’m what Tennessee Gary leans in to smell twice.”

Patchouli Absolu: (swaggering) “Children, please. I’m the heartbeat of the forest and the soul of a vinyl jazz LP. I’m Poor Brentford in full earthy glory. He doesn’t wear me, he becomes me.”

Baie 19: “You smell like a commune.”

Oud Wood: “You smell like wet pebbles.”

Patchouli Absolu: “And you both smell like insecurity.”

ME (overwhelmed on one of my rare occasions when I know how it feels to feel overwhelmed, which is not overwhelmingly often): “You’re all exhausting. No one’s coming over. I’m about to confess my sins to the lefty-tighty, righty loosey faucet and cry into the loofah that I neither have nor want.”

They fall silent. I choose. None. Scentless, I splash around in the tub like a mountain man who moonlights in musicals.

Then what do I do? I lean back, all the way back, and I start confessing. The bubbles gather ’round in all the right places like gossiping parishioners. The faucet stares. Ruby settles nearby with the look of a creature who’s seen this show before, seen it all before, all too often.

I speak.

“Forgive me, tub, for I have over-functioned.”

Drip.

“I said I was going to be. Just be. Instead, look at what I’ve done. I’ve curated a still-life. I folded the towel just so. I fluffed my own ego like it was company. I …”

Drip. Drip.

“… I checked my smartphone. Three times. I told myself I wouldn’t, but what if he texted? What if he sensed my aching soul? Oh, do not ask me, “Who?” You tease. Please be still. Surely, you know exactly who. Surely, you do. You do, don’t you?”

Ruby raises one eye and promptly closes it again. Even she doesn’t buy my shameless shenanigans.

“And yes,” I whisper, “I lit the special candle that I don’t have. The one I said I was saving. For what? For when? Who knows. I guess I was saving it for this moment of low-grade thirst.”

Replies? None. Not one. No, not one single solitary reply. I suspect judgment. Is that what exfoliating looks like? Is that how it feels? Judgment?

I confess one more thing. Doing this being thingy that I’m supposed to be doing ain’t easy. But what’s a mountain man to do when he be soakin’ in a tub?

The very question made some of the less bashful bubbles pop, just as I brought on stage everything that I’ll need to play out my after-the-rain weather act—the one I fully plan on doing.

I’ll harness my weedwhacker around me like medieval armor and march into the yard. Oh. Don’t get alarmed. I’ll don all my clothes so that the scorching sun will not be led into temptation. No doubt the overgrowth in the lower yard and along the rutted road will wave at me and thrash about, like green adversaries, defiant and smug.

And I, in true Don Quixote theatrics at their finest, will tilt my weedwhacker and tackle it all, tackle it all already, as I have tackled it all already so often already in the past.

And I will be noble.

And I will be productive.

And I will be heroic.

And I will let the rains come and the winds blow. Ruby, smarter than I, will bolt for shelter. But I will stay. Drenched. Steaming. And—without even trying—I will finally be. Just… be.

Wet. Ridiculous. Peaceful. Winded. My trusty weedwhacker by my side. But I will have achieved being.

That is the theme, isn’t it, of whatever it is that I’ve got goin’ on in this here tub? Right? The daily tug-of-war between doing and being.

I want to be at peace, but now I’ve done gone and plotted out all the steps and ruined it.

I want to be still, but now I’ve done gone and ended up writing about the stillness.

I want to be the mountain man who soaks in sandalwood and lavender in a porcelain tub with porcelain faucets that can’t figure out which way to turn.

But I also want to be the mountain man who hosts, cooks, flirts, loves, writes books, directs theatrical Broadway tub shows, and maybe gets a text from someone–in Tennessee?–who says, “You smell good—even when you don’t wear cologne, especially when you don’t wear cologne.”

And here, my dear Readers, is the moment when the lights begin to dim ever so faintly, the audience leans in more spellbound than before, and Poor Brentford steps on stage–front and center, fully wrapped in his towel (or is he fully wrapt?)–for his soliloquy that he never dreamt of speaking, let alone rehearsing:

“I tried so hard to do nothing that I accidentally did everything I needed.

“I made peace with three colognes I dreamt about, one candle that I don’t own but burn at both ends anyway, a tub with faulty faucets, and me– myself, just as I am.

“I let the bubbles baptize my busy mind.

“And when I stepped out—wrinkled, radiant, ridiculoos—I realized:

“‘I be fabulous.’

“I also realized: ‘You be fabulous, too.’

“So. Listen up. Go now. Take a soak, with or without bubble bath.

“It’s where becoming begins.”

A Culinary Heist in Broad Daylight

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“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”

–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom.

Rare is the occasion that finds me speechless, but this may be one of them. I h ave come up with an idea whose brilliance is beyond brilliant, and the only way that I know how to share it is in the context of a comment that Oscar Wilde may have made on January 3, 1882. When he disembarked from the ship that brought him to New York and went to the Customs House, government agents asked their standard question: 

“Do you have anything to declare?“

Wilde supposedly answered: 

“I have nothing to declare except my genius.”

I realize, of course, that I must tweak Wilde’s quote if it is to serve my purpose, and I will do so. I think there’s nothing wrong with doing that. Actually, I think it’s fine and dandy since I have given him credit, though I don’t see why that’s really necessary since the attribution to Wilde is more than likely erroneous. But I will err on the side of my integrity by retaining the probable misattribution. I have changed the quote by one word, albeit a significant one, thereby making it my own. Henceforth, it will be mine. All mine.

“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”

Many of you–my Dear Readers–know about my culinary genius already, because I have hinted at it from time to time. However, my FB followers know about it far better because with them, I know no shame. I post frequent photos of my culinary masterpieces. Truthfully, I like to think of them as Food Porn. Only a few days ago, I shared my unabashed celebration of culinary desire, where a crackling sourdough Margherita pizza stole the spotlight. It had a blistered crust, air pockets rose like tiny golden mountains, bubbling mozzarella stretched into molten strands, and fresh basil leaves fluttered atop like green confetti. And get this. My photo showed it being served up before a roaring kitchen fireplace. It was more than just a meal. It was a hearthside seduction, a slow dance of flavors and flickering flames, teasing all the senses and leaving anyone looking utterly and deliciously captivated.

Inevitably, when I share those food porn photos, at least one person–usually more than one–comments:

“You need to publish a cookbook.”

I decline, demurely.

After all, I have so many other books in the fire that tackling a cookbook has always struck me as more than I can swallow. But things changed just the other day when I took a hankering for some Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs. I love them, and they’re not that difficult to make. I Googled a recipe, and one by NYT Cooking popped up! Hot damn! I decided that I’d go with it. Then I discovered that in order to see the full recipe, I’d have to subscribe, and these days with the price of eggs going up and up and up, I just can’t afford to subscribe to recipes.

I just kept right on Googling, and before long, I discovered the same recipe splattered everywhere. That set me to thinking about Copyright infringements. Not to worry! Did you know that you can’t get a copyright or a patent on a recipe?

“Say whaat?”

It’s true. I won’t get into the (legal) weed(s), but recipes themselves can’t be copyrighted. However, if the recipe involves a unique step or process or if it takes on a literary twist, then it can be.

Unique literary twist???

OMG! Am I literary and twisted or what? I know how to fool around with words. This is super sweet. I’ll play around with one recipe–the NYT Cooking recipe for Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs that I found verbatim on multiple websites without a crumb of credit given on any.

Give me a minute or five. I swear it won’t take long. I’m good with foolin’ around. BRB.

See. That didn’t take long at all. I just came up with a razzle-dazzle literary narrative to go with the recipe:

“I remember the first time I had them—golden, fragrant, and suspiciously addictive. A close acquaintance, let’s call him ‘Brentford Lee’ (because that’s his real name), swore he had perfected the recipe himself. ‘A dash of this, a pinch of that,’ he said, waving his hand like some sorcerer of Southeast Asian flavors. I nodded, politely chewing, my palate deciphering the unmistakable signature of a recipe I’d seen before. Somewhere.

“Of course, it didn’t take much sleuthing to confirm my hunch. The same ratios, the same sequence—right down to the crushed Ritz crackers binding it all together. A carbon copy of a certain prestigious publication’s recipe, passed off as Brentford Lee’s divine inspiration. But could I call him out? No, no. We live in the Age of No Credit, where recipes are pilfered like unattended bicycles and reposted without so much as a footnote.

“So I let him bask in his culinary genius, even as I swirled my meatball in a bit of nuoc cham and smiled. ‘Brilliant, Brentford Lee. Just brilliant.’ Meanwhile, I tucked the recipe into my mental vault—because in this lawless land of recipe anarchy, the only rule is to steal it back.”

I had no sooner drafted that dazzling literary narrative than I realized I was on to something. I could do an entire cookbook, stealing recipes from the world’s most renowned chefs, dress them all up in my literary garb–the recipes, not the chefs though that’s (food) porn for thought, too–compile them into a newfangled cookbook arranged by food categories like Appetizers, Salads, Soups, Mains, and Desserts, publish the book, and file my Copyright.

And just to bring this heist full circle, I’ve decided to submit my proposal to NYT Cooking. I figure, if they’re going to make me pay for recipes, they might as well pay me for the privilege of publishing my stolen ones first. A fair trade, don’t you think?

“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”

Let’s see, I think you, my Dear Readers, deserve a modest tasting menu of what my extraordinarily extraordinary cookbook will be like so that I can pleasure your palate.

APPETIZERS: A PRELUDE TO LARCENY

“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”

–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom

Every great heist starts small. A lifted truffle from a posh soirée. A swiped canapé from a silver tray when the host isn’t looking. A recipe, pilfered in broad daylight, then draped in literary velvet until it’s unrecognizable from its humble origins.

This section is the opening act, the whispered promise of what’s to come. Here, I present to you the stolen first bites—the small, seductive preludes to full-blown culinary mischief. Grab a plate. No one’s watching.

SALADS: LEAFY DECEPTION

“A salad is merely a plate of stolen ingredients pretending to be virtuous.”

—Me, again, because who’s stopping me?

Salads are the original confidence tricksters of the culinary world. They lure you in with the promise of health and innocence, then smother you in cheese, nuts, crispy bits, and a dressing so rich it might as well be dessert. They are gilded greenery, whispered excess, a balancing act between penance and indulgence.

And so, in keeping with the Age of No Credit, I present a selection of salads—each one an outright theft, draped in just enough literary flourish to make it legally mine. Grab your fork. Justice is dressed and ready to serve.

SOUPS: LIQUID LARCENY

“A good soup is like a well-told lie—it simmers, deepens, and by the time you taste it, you don’t even care where it came from.”

—A philosopher (probably). Or me (definitely).

Soup is the ultimate culinary illusion—a cauldron of borrowed flavors, a slow-simmered scam where even the simplest broth has a backstory so tangled in history, no one really knows who made it first. And that’s exactly why it belongs in this book.

Ladle deep, my Dear Readers, into the warm, uncharted waters of plagiarism, where the spoons are heavy, the bowls are bottomless, and the only thing hotter than the bisque is the lack of attribution.

MAINS: GRAND THEFT ENTREE

“Behind every great main course is a chef who swiped the idea from someone else first.”

–Not Escoffier, but could have been.

This is where the stakes get serious. The main event. The crown jewel of culinary heists. A place where time-honored traditions meet a well-timed Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.

Here, I serve up lavishly pilfered plates—steaks seared with someone else’s technique, roasts glazed in repurposed brilliance, pastas dressed in the creativity of long-forgotten hands. And yet, because I have woven them into my own dazzling narrative, they are now mine. All mine.

Bon appétit, legally speaking.

DESSERTS: SWEET, SWEET PLUNDER

“The best things in life are stolen. Ask anyone who’s ever ‘borrowed’ a cookie recipe and never returned it.”

—A confectionery thief with no regrets.

Dessert is the final seduction, the last laugh of the larcenous chef. Here, sugar and butter conspire in broad daylight, drizzled in caramelized deceit, dusted with the powdered sugar of plausible deniability.

From towering cakes to pies with scandalous backstories, I offer you this sticky-fingered collection of confections—every one taken, tweaked, and rebranded with just enough literary flourish to make it legally binding.

Because in the Age of No Credit, the only sin greater than theft is not licking the spoon.

_____________________

Voila! I have just uncloched the sections of my forthcoming cookbook. Maybe I’ll title it Cooking with Oscar. Or how about Culinary Heists of a Wilde Chef? I’ll keep thinking, but here’s the great part. What I’ve disrobed right here in front of you is protected by Copyright already because my blog is Copyrighted. All that remains for me to do is continue scouring the Internet. Whenever I find a recipe worthy of stealing in broad daylight, I shall do so. Then I shall dress it up–or down–in literary flamboyance and insert it into the proper section of my culinary opus in progress.

Food has never tasted this good, and, to think, it all began with my honest effort to find a Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatball recipe. I guess it just goes to prove that a good recipe is not hard to find.

What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?

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“Today you are You, that is truer than true.
There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

–Dr. Seuss (1904–1991; American Children’s author and illustrator who used humor and rhyme to convey timeless lessons on individuality, kindness, and resilience; the quote is from his 1959 book Happy Birthday to You!)

How totally presumptuous of me to assume that you think you know who I am. But if you’re one of my faithful followers–or if you’re just an occasional reader–you probably know more about me than you care to know or than I care for you to know. Be that as it may, whatever you’ve read in my posts is all true, even if exaggerated occasionally, hoping to make you think or laugh. And, yes, sometimes I tell the truth slant so that I don’t razzle dazzle you with reality:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)

The reality is this: I know who I am. But growing up as a kid, my siblings tried to teasingly convince me otherwise by telling me that I was adopted.

“You don’t look like us.”

“You don’t act like us.”

“You don’t talk like us.”

“You don’t walk like us.”

“Yep. You’re adopted. Brentford Lee Murdock.”

Imagine that. Making me doubt my own genetics. The nerve! How dare they tell me that I was adopted in one breath, and then without batting an eye, tell me in the next breath what they insisted was my real surname: Murdock! Well, their teasing never bothered me one bit, not one slightest chromosome. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they acted, and the way they looked, I was glad to know that they were no kin of mine. None. Not one gene whatsoever. OMG! Did I just say that? How utterly nasty of me, if not downright, vicious. Well. They teased me then. I tease them now. Touché.

Candidly, I think they were just downright jealous because I was not only the youngest, but I was also the only one born in a hospital, one named after a Saint, no less. They were born in a coal-camp house. Not me. I was fancy-schmancy from birth, and, unlike theirs, my birth certificate is fancy, too. My goodness. I pulled it out just a few minutes ago. It’s gorgeous, gloatingly so. 8 inches x 12 inches. Parchment. Real, feel-good parchment. Enclosed in a smooth, velvety envelope. It even has my cute little newborn footprints on the back, labeled Left and Right. Beside my left footprint is my mother’s left thumb print. Beside my right footprint is my mother’s right thumbprint.

Adopted? Right. I could have extracted that certificate in a moment’s notice, proving my identity to my teasing sibs, because I knew exactly where my parents kept it. I never bothered. Some things just aren’t worth the bother, you know. When you know who you are, you know who you are. And believe me: I am who I am, and I have always known who I am, and I’m sticking with it. Besides, time was on my side and proved it for me without my having to do one single, solitary thing. As I got older and older, and balder and balder, I started to look more and more like my father. Today, I could nearly pass for his twin when he was my age. But so be it. I still don’t act like them. I still don’t talk like them. So you can rest assured: whenever it’s convenient for me to do so–in times of family disputes and in times of family disagreements–I simply look at them ever so innocently and I remind them, ever so teasingly:

“You are not going to drag me into your petty little family battles.

“I’ll have absolutely no part of it whatsoever. No part whatsoever.

“Have you forgotten? I haven’t. I’m adopted. I’m a Murdock.”

Without a doubt, I’ve always known how to use being adopted to my advantage.

However, it always struck me as rather unusual that I exhibit the exact same physical traits as my adoptive parents and my adoptive siblings.

My mother always boasted of her English ancestry, and when she really wanted to appear hoity-toity, she chronicled her French Huguenot ancestry. A close examination shows all of us–the whole family, including me as the adoptee–having fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair, consistent with my mother’s lineage as well as my father’s since he was also English mixed with German and Dutch. His father was exceedingly tall–6′ 4″–which he attributed to his being part German. His mother, on the other hand, was exceedingly short–4′ 8″–which he attributed to her being Dutch. Say whaaat? Unless I’m mistaken, the Neanderthals Netherlands boasts some of the tallest people in the world. Be that as it may, two of my sisters are short, and I’m certain that they blame their Grandma Kendrick.

Personally, as an outsider, I’m not certain that I give any more credence to all that malarkey than I do their ridiculous claim that I’m adopted. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re no kin of mine whatsoever. But with their mixed lineage–oh, I forgot to factor in Irish on one side or the other or both–they could have given me any number of surnames since 75-80% of Americans around the time that I was born came from the same stock. Aside from Murdock, my last name could just as easily have been Butterworth, McGinnis, LaFleur, or Freitag. Or maybe even Vanderpoop. I’ll have to try those on, one by one, with Brentford Lee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than Brentford Lee Murdock.

This is all such fun that maybe I’ll stick with being adopted and be done with my identity once and forever.

But first I have to tell you what I’ve gone and done to celebrate my 77th birthday on November 20. I can’t believe I did it, but I did! And I can’t believe that I’m telling you what I did, but I am. I trust you. I know that you won’t tell another living soul. I decided that once and for all, I would prove to the clan that I got stuck with that I AM adopted. I’ll show them that they need to be careful about what they say because what’s spoken becomes reality.

Anyway, I ordered myself one of those highfalutin DNA tests to prove who I am! It shipped out from Salt Lake City. Then, it stopped in Bridgeport, NJ. I know all the details because I felt compelled to track its journey since, in a way, its journey will be tracking mine. Tracking is part of the fun of ordering anything online, including a kit that might tell me who I am. I confess, though. Waiting for it to arrive in Edinburg made me so antsy that I felt like my pants were on fire!

At last, it arrived, and I opened it ever so carefully. I followed the detailed directions ever so precisely. I wanted to make sure that someone somewhere had enough saliva from my swabbed cheeks so that they could sequence every strand and map every marker of my identity.

I am pleased to say that I swabbed the good swab, I sent my whoever-I-am-DNA back to Salt Lake City, and I have been notified that it’s better than good! My sample met the “high standards” required for DNA testing. Oh. My. I love being validated in high places.

The next steps are fantabulous:

● Extract the genetic information from my sample. Ouch! I hope that doesn’t hurt.

● Isolate, purify, and copy my DNA. Please say it ain’t so. Please say it ain’t so. One Brentford Lee Mudock at a time is quite enough for this world.

● Transform my DNA into a blueprint for discovery. Go for it! Find my bluebloods and make them come out of their closets, even if they don’t want to come out.

● Dig deep into my ancestral roots that span across continents. My God! I thought I was done with weeding.

● Weave a family tree. Woo hoo! While they’re at it, maybe they’ll weave me a hairpiece, too.

● Update me as my landscape unfolds. Hmmm. I guess these DNA folks like gardening as much as I do.

In about eight weeks, I’ll get a report with all of that information and more. Voila! My jeans genes will be transparent for all to see.

Here’s where it starts to get funny. Chances are beyond good that I will never explore my DNA report when it arrives.

It’s not that I’m afraid of what I might find out. I’m not. And I really don’t think that the results would change anything anyway. All right. Perhaps it might validate the outlandish claim that one of my no-kin-of-mine-whatsoever relatives made about being descended from John the Baptist. For all I know about them, they might be descended from Queen Elizabeth I, Brian Boru, Rembrandt, or even John Calvin himself! La-di-da. But why would I care? Like they’ve always reminded me, “You’re’ adopted.” And like I’ve always retorted with all the civility they don’t deserve, “You’re no kin of mine. Not one chromo, Bro.”

Besides. I know who I am, and I am anchored strong to my identity.

I’m a vital part of the universe, rooted in Nature and connected to Her. I draw lessons from everything in Nature, seeing the world around me as resilient metaphors for growth, transformation, and stability in life. Nothing can ever take that away.

I’m dedicated to personal growth and to declaring and maintaining my authenticity. I have always been the real thing, and I will continue to be. I embrace self-examination and transformation, and I am open to change. Nothing can take that away.

I’m creative in all that I do, whether it’s in writing, cooking, or gardening. I bring a thoughtful, personal touch to all that I do, and I like to think that I can weave philosophical insights into anything and see truths in everything. Nothing can take that away.

I’m comfortable with both tradition and innovation. I value the old and the new, and I am committed to learning from the past while seeing potential in the future. Nothing can take that away.

I’m strengthened by community and my connections with others. Although I am introspective, I cherish my relationships. I celebrate ideas, value honesty, empathy, and the bonds that tie me to all others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m passionate about intellectual curiosity and lifelong learning. I believe that education transforms lives, and I believe that an education is the best investment that anyone can ever make in themselves or in others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m anchored to the world around me. While I am at home right here on my mountaintop sanctuary in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, I am confident that my appreciation of place would make me feel equally at home anywhere in the world. What I find, I’ll make mine. Nothing can take that away.

I’m an integral part of a spiritual tradition that is open and deep, that is inclusive, that respects universal truths, and that leads me to see my interconnectedness with all living things. I kneel before the wisdom of the ages. Nothing can take that away.

Above all else, I’m a man of heart—generous in spirit, passionate in purpose, compassionate by nature, and unwaveringly true to who I am, with just enough mischief to keep life, and those around me, delightfully off-balance. Nothing can take that away.

Nothing–absolutely nothing–that I know now or that I might come to know in the future–can ever undo my identity anchors. That’s why my DNA report will remain sealed, as far as I know right now.

It does occur to me, however, that one thing might push me over the edge enough to make me want to know my genetic past.

The next time that I have a sibling spat, I might open the report so that I can prove to them–and them only–that I am none other than the illustrious and inimitable Brentford Lee McGinnis LaFleur Kendrick Freitag Murdock Vanderpoop.

When the Heat Is On: Cue the Vacay!

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“You don’t have to be rich to travel well.”

–Eugene Fodor (1905–1991; notable American travel writer and editor best known for founding Fodor’s Travel Publications).

All right, everyone, indulge me for a moment and imagine something a bit out of the ordinary.

Close your eyes and conjure up an image the likes of which I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before. Picture a man in his 70s, proudly sporting a ponytail that flutters like a whimsical flag in the breeze, perched precariously atop his chimney. Clad in well-worn flip flops and cut-off blue-jean shorts that reveal a pair of weathered but surprisingly spry and some-say-sexy legs, he stands with the kind of balance that suggests he’s either a seasoned acrobat or a silly fool blissfully unaware of danger.

From this lofty perch, he’s gazing out over the Shenandoah Valley below, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf’s, while the mountains in the distance seem to be returning their own salubrious salutation. With all the gusto of a wired researcher on a caffeine overdose, he belts out the Hallelujah Chorus at full volume, his voice soaring like a defiant eagle. His performance is a grand spectacle of unbridled joy and unequaled eccentricity, turning the chimney into his personal stage and the sky into his private audience.

In case you’re wondering who this daring rooftop performer is and why he’s carrying on such shenanigans, lean in close, and I’ll tell you. It’s me! I’m celebrating what appears to be the temporary end of an exhausting heat wave and drought by having my own imaginary rooftop concert that would make any diva proud. After enduring what felt like a never-ending barrage of scorching temperatures and parched landscapes, I figured it was high time for a little over-the-top jubilation. And if there’s anything that I love, it’s everything over-the-top.

Cooler temps and rain seem to be headed our way, and I’m embracing the arrival of this much-needed relief with the kind of exuberance that only a seasoned professor of hot weather clichés could cobble together. It’s been so blisteringly hot that I nearly froze to death, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve become a connoisseur of every sun-scorched saying you can imagine. I’ve spent weeks sweating buckets, trying not to fry like an egg on the hood of my Gladiator, and lamenting the fact that my car seats are doubling as personal saunas. I’ve become a pro at grumbling about the weather, wondering whether my walkway pavers were actually sizzling, and dreaming of anything that wasn’t a mirage.

Guess what else I did during the sweltering days that are temporarily behind us? I put off more tasks than Carter’s got liver pills! Yep. The heat and drought have been an excuse, whether I was avoiding the garden beds that have turned into dust bowls or ignoring other projects that seemed like too much effort in a heatwave. I’ve postponed weedwhacking, repairing the leaky faucet that’s been dripping like a leaky faucet (because, let’s face it, who wants to fix a sink when it feels like you’re living inside an oven?), and even organizing the loft, which has somehow become a haphazard shrine to summer’s oppressive heat.

Guess what else I did? I decided that I needed to take a vacation! Yep. You heard me right. I decided that I needed some good old-fashioned downtime. But dayum! Before I could even plan to take it, I found myself all curled up and relaxed with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) so that I could find out all about the vacation that the dreaded heat and drought convinced me that I needed to take.

As might be expected, our kith and kin Across the Pond used the word vacation as a noun long before we did, all the way back in 1405:

“Whan he hadde leyser and vacacion ffrom oother worldly ocupacion” (Chaucer, Wife of Bath’s Tale Prologue l. 683).

Isn’t that fascinating? Of course it is. More fascinating, though, is the fact that we Americans used it first as a verb in 1866:

“Whether Winter or summer, … threading the filthy lands of the Ghetto or vacationing among the islands, Mr. Howells found Venice … a theme for constant studies” (Round Table 8 September 90/2).

Now that I’m all squared away on the word vacation, I think I’ll spend just another second or two finding out when the phrase take a vacation was first used. You might have known it. The OED has the scoop:

“Smoke Jordan tried hard to get him to … maybe take a vacation, Florida’s nice. ‘Get yourself wheeled up and down like an icky banker?’” (D. Baker, Young Man with Horn, 1938)

What the OED does not disclose is fascinating as well, and I wouldn’t know it if I had not wanted to find out who “D. Baker” is. As it turns out, Dorothy Baker was an American novelist who loved jazz. In fact, her Young Man with Horn was based on real-life jazz cornet player Bix Beiderbecke. Even better is this hot tidbit: the novel was made into a 1950 movie featuring such hotties as Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, Lauren Bacall, Juano Hernández, and Beiderbecke’s friend and collaborator Hoagy Carmichael.

Well, these word trips are turning out to be as much fun as a vacay! OMG! Did I just use that word? Well, I did, and since my OED is still open (virtually), I just have to see when vacay was first used. I’m betting that it was coined by an American. Those Brits have no problem when they need to stoop to conquer, but they would never think about stooping low enough to truncate a word. Well, I was right. Vacay was first used in 1992:

“He said he was going on vacay and would give me something after he gets back” (Re: More on getting Gigs in rec. music. makers 14 January, Usenet newsgroup., accessed 13 Sept. 2013).

Just a sec, though. I might be wrong to claim the first usage as American. The OED‘s citation is rather shabby, in my opinion, and I can’t determine the authorship with any certainty. Lector: Cave a fidem non probatis.

I shall not, then, trust my initial claim, but I shall trust my subsequent claim that the next usage of the word vacay was American. It appeared in 1995 in the Pittsburg-Post Gazette:

“The convertible … was my Mom’s, we were on vacay” (16 July g8/2).

As for va-cay, vakay, and va-kay–those variant spellings of vacay–the OED has not seen fit to include them at all. I find that rather strange, however, since I am certain that I have seen them in use somewhere or other, perhaps right here in my blog. Ab ridiculo ad sublimem transire.

Hooey phooey is all that I have to say. Leave it to me to turn a vacation into a bunch of malarkey!

However, in case you’re thinking that you might need a vacation, let me help you. If you find yourself nodding along to any of the subsequent scenarios, it’s time to cue the vacay:

● Work: Your boss thinks “work-life balance” means balancing more work on your plate. Your to-do list looks like a never-ending scroll of doom. You start dreaming about spreadsheets. You feel like a juggler on a unicycle, minus the thrill. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Social Media: You’ve scrolled so much that you start liking your own posts. You find yourself in a deep rabbit hole, liking posts from three years ago, and you’re contemplating the philosophical implications of cat memes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Family Gatherings: Your aunt asks (for the 15th time) why you’re still single. You’re dodging advice and daydreaming about automated responses. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dieting: You’re on a diet of kale smoothies and quinoa bowls, and you start dreaming about burgers and ice cream like they’re forbidden treasures from a lost civilization. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Home Improvement Projects: Your “quick” weekend project turns into a month-long renovation of ginormous proportions, complete with a gazillion trips to the hardware store and questionable structural changes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● News: You’re considering a bunker in the backyard. Dystopian novels of doom and gloom look cheerful compared to your news feed. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dating Apps: You’re swiping so much that it feels like a full-time job. Your thumb is sore, your eyes are glazed over, and every profile starts to blend into one amor(ph)ous blob. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Exercise Regimens: Your workout routine feels more like a medieval torture session. You’re dreading your workouts more than a trip to the dentist. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Parenting: “Me time” means locking yourself in the bathroom with a chocolate bar. Your rare escape feels like a luxury retreat. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Blogging: Your efforts to craft engaging content week after week during a record-breaking heat wave and drought feel like an endless marathon. You’re standing on the chimney singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Yep. Cue the vacay!

Dayum! Dayum!! Dayum!!! Here I’ve done gone and paved the way for me to have a perfectly legit blogging vacay this week, and wouldn’t you just know it! I’ve done gone and cranked out today’s blog anyway! Phooey!

Clearly, my brain has been baking in the sun too long. Tuff. I’ll keep right on gazing from my imaginary chimney perch, realizing that, sometimes, the best way for me to break free from the grind and the heat is to let my imagination run wild and embrace the breeze of a little bit of whimsical madness.

I hope that you, Dear Reader, find your own rooftop, whether real or metaphorical, and that you sing your heart out when the world gets a little too hot to handle. Whether it’s a break from work, social media, family, or even blogging, taking a vacay isn’t just about escaping the heat—it’s about rediscovering the joy in life’s little quirks and celebrating them with gusto.

Cheers to your vacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.

I’m a Wired To-morrower

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“Tomorrow is often the busiest day of the week.”

–Spanish Proverb

When I jumped into bed a week ago, I was ever so eager to get going on the post that you’re reading right now. Trust me, though, I was ready to hop right back out again when I realized that I didn’t have the foggiest idea what I was going to write about. Normally, that’s no big deal. Almost always, I have lots of ideas in various stages of development. So, I simply did what I have often done in the past. I opened my posts and started scrolling through the drafts. One by one, I dissed ideas that had once upon a time captured my fancy. I found myself saying over and over and over again:

“Not in the mood.“

Even if you’re not a writer, you know as well as I that “Not in the mood ” translates to “It ain’t gonna happen. Forget it.” It means that even if it doesn’t begin with, “Honey, not tonight.“

I’m not sure why I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe I was drained from the New Year’s and Christmas celebrations that I myself had desired.

Then, just when I was ready to put off the post until tomorrow, I saw a draft that looked inviting because of its downhome and simple title: “The Concept of Tomorrow.”

“Perfect. I can run with that idea.”

I opened the post and nearly jumped out of bed for a second time in as many minutes.

All that I had was the title. It was so lame that I couldn’t even call it a title. I might be generous enough to call it an ill-formed topic. Whatever it was, it had no notes. Not one word. Nothing.

My mind chatter started replaying in loop mode what I always tell writers:

“Whenever you have an idea, capture as many details as possible so that it will seem fresh when you return, even if you return a year later.”

Obviously, I had not followed my own writerly advice. I lay there in bed, silently lecturing myself while staring at my blank WordPress page.

Then I had a flashback. I remembered what prompted the initial idea. I needed to do something, and I had the time to do it right then and there, but I wasn’t in the mood to do it right then and there, so I decided that I would do it tomorrow. I’m all too familiar with the all-too-familiar line:

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

Well, why not? If Scarlet O’Hara can get away with it in Gone with the Wind, so can I:

“I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.“

Ironically, even after having those course-correction thoughts about Scarlet and about what I tell writers they need to do when they have an idea, I went right ahead and became a to-morrower anyway. But not without immediate reprobation.

In that same instant, I kicked my Jackass self with all four hooves because I am not by nature a to-morrower.

“Yes. To-morrower is a bona-fide word.”

“Say what?”

“I did not make that up. I can prove it.”

I’m tempted to wait until tomorrow to find my proof, but, on second thought, I’ll go ahead and find it today. I just checked the Oxford English Dictionary (OED). To-morrower is defined as “a person who puts matters off till tomorrow; a procrastinator.” The word was first used in 1810:

He [sc. Thomas DeQuincey] is as great a To-morrower to the full as your poor Husband. S. T. Coleridge, Letter c14 April (2000) vol. III. 804

So, there’s my proof. I can’t do it right now, but tomorrow, I will do further research to find out more about Coleridge’s letter. He is certainly bad mouthing somebody’s husband, and I’m dying to know who, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, let me note that the word was not used in print again until 1880:

“The Postponer, The Deferrer, or, as we might say, The Tomorrower (G. Meredith, Tragic Comedians vol. II. vi. 96)

Even without waiting until tomorrow to decide, it is very clear to me today that to-morrower is never used in a complimentary way. But actually, it sounds more flattering than most of its synonyms that were bantered around before and after 1810:

● tarrier (1382)
● delayer (1509)
● postponer (1533)
● prolonger (1548)
● proroguer (1551)
● deferrer (1552)
● waiter upon God (1592)
● procrastinator (1607)
● temporizer (1609)
● protractor (1611)
● retarder (1644)
● cunctator (1654)
● adjourner (1738)
● postponator (1775)
● putter-off (1803)
● offput (1856)
● shelver (1881)
● staller (1937)

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like any of those synonyms except for, maybe, “waiter upon God.” It could be a perfect job title, fleshed out as follows:

Job Description: “Ready to trade your earthly apron for angelic wings? We’ve got the gig for you – ‘Waiter upon God.'”

Qualifications: 1. Angelic patience (Mortal patience won’t cut it.) 2. Ability to stay cool under Divine pressure. (3) Must be willing to wear a halo.

Benefits: (1) Job security: God doesn’t do layoffs. (2) Direct hotline to the Divine HR. (3) Unlimited access to Divine WiFi.

Targeted Candidates: Prophets, miracle-workers, and those with an affinity for clouds are ideal candidates. Apply tomorrow and start your cosmic career the day after.

I don’t need to wait until tomorrow or the day after to know how I feel about some of the other synonyms. For me, words that I use need to roll off my tongue easily, leaving behind a good, smooth mouth feel. I challenge you to say aloud proroguer or cunctator. If you can even pronounce the words, I’ll guarantee you that they will not roll off your tongue easily. As for mouth feel, you’ll probably feel the need to wash your mouth out. If I were you, I wouldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Then there’s postponator. What a silly looking word. I’ll wait until tomorrow to check it out in the OED. Surely it was used in jest. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, so here’s what I just found about postponator. Thank God! The word appears to have been used only once and that was way back in 1775:

Rawlins postponator declares the resolution not proper to proceed from the Committee of South Carolina.

While I was checking the OED, I decided to go ahead and get the low down on shelver. I know that it has absolutely nothing to do with returning books to a library shelf, but that’s what it ought to mean. Don’t you agree?

Eight sheluers, which pulled downe the courts [= carts] as they came to the place where it was needfull to vnlode. (A. Fleming et al., Holinshed’s Chronicles (new edition) vol. III. Contin. 1544/2)

I am awfully glad that I looked. I am certain that the OED editors made some kind of mistake when they included shelver in the historical thesaurus for to-morrower. Tomorrow, I shall reach out and let them know the error of their ways.

Up until now, I had been worried about using to-morrower in the title of this post. But having perused the alternatives, I like it a lot. It’s as good a way as any to feel less guilty about putting off until tomorrow what I could have done the day that I put off exploring the concept of tomorrow. Plus, I believe fully well that Scarlet herself would approve of my title. No doubt, however, she wouldn’t let me know until tomorrow, which will be too late because by then, I will have published this post.

As I touch type the final words on my smartphone, I raise my nearly empty Bunnahabhain (empty glass, mind you; not empty bottle) to all the tarriers, delayers, and even the occasional shelver. In the fast-fading fabric of word time, we are but mere stitches, weaving our stories one postponed task at a time. So, here’s to the to-morrowers, the champions of “It can wait until tomorrow,” because sometimes, tomorrow is just a delay away from today.

And with that, Dear Reader, I leave you until tomorrow or until I’m in the mood (but not tonight, honey). In the meantime, may your days (and nights) be filled with lots of in-the-moods, delightful detours, and amusing delays. After all, why rush today when there’s always the sweet promise of tomorrow? Cheers to the art of postponement!

Until then, I remain ever so faithfully yours (but not until tomorrow’s sunrise or, at least until tomorrow’s to-do list demands my attention)–

Your Wired To-morrower.

Sherlock on the Summit: Solving the Mysteries of My Mountain Abode

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“My idea of superwomanman is someone who scrubs herhis own floors.”

–Bette Midler (b. 1945; renowned American actress, singer, and comedian; quote modified by a Midling but Aspiring Aerial Editor.)

From time to time, I start a post with “Listen up!” This time, I’m not going to do that because those who follow me know that I live on a mountain, so saying, “Listen up! I live on a mountain” would be totally unnecessary. But I do. Sometimes I say that I live on a mountain top. Well, actually, I don’t. Not exactly. But my property borders the George Washington National Forest which goes up to the top of the mountain and beyond. I live mid-way up the mountain, at about 1,650 feet, so it’s not as if I have an aerial habitation, though some folks seem to think that my head is up in the air. I assure you that it is not. I am simply too short, even if I stood on my tippy toes. Perhaps, if I climbed up Jacob’s ladder, I could stretch and achieve aerial status.

Either way, my mountain world is otherworldly. I know because I lived in Washington, DC, for 25 years before retreating here. In DC, I had wide city streets, a pristine patio, and urban elegance. In the Shenandoah Valley–at least on my mountain–I have a narrow dirt road with patches of gravel here and there that bespeak better days, a woodland yard that some folks call a “mountaintop oasis,” and a collection of dirt, dust, and debris hiding behind the mask of a rustic embrace. It’s a stark contrast here. Nature reigns supreme and shows herself more powerful than I. Truthfully, I spend so much time outdoors trying to keep Nature’s wilderness at bay that I sometimes wonder whether I need to spend more time indoors so that I can maintain my mountain abode according to the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that cleanliness has taken a back seat. It hasn’t. I write frequently about my frenzied strategies to stay on top of my home, indoors and out. No doubt you will remember “My Imaginary Guests,” “OHIO On My Mind,” and “Less Is Not Always More Until It Is.”

More recently, I’ve adopted some new tactics. I’ve started going through my home with a high-beam flashlight, shining it across the floors and baseboards, into corners and crevices, on top of furniture and behind, and even up and down the ceiling beams. I started doing that when I lost my Fitbit. (For a full account, see my “Finding Far More than My Fitbit.”) I discovered cobwebs lurking in unseen and unvisited spots. Their little filament lines looked like fluffy dust streamers. From time to time, I could even see anchor points attaching the web to the walls. I was absolutely flabbergasted because I thought that my home would have passed the White-Glove test. After all, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for my Thanksgiving guests. The month before, I had cleaned the house thoroughly for Veteran’s Day guests. I could keep rolling the calendar back, and I could keep talking about how I had  cleaned house for this occasion or for that occasion or for this guest or for that guest. But what good would that do me? I had shined a light, and I had seen those cobwebs. Since then, I have been sleuthing around with my flashlight regularly, day and night. It helps me discover all that is unseen before my guests see what I didn’t discover before their arrival.

I’ve implemented additional drastic cleaning methods, too. It broke my heart to break the pledge that I made to Pledge decades ago, but recently, I wrapped my arms (and my dustcloth) around Endust. Trust me. It doesn’t. End. Dust. I’m thinking about asking Pledge for a reconciliation.

I tried one more thing, too. I picked it up from my neighbor, who’s hot to buy my house when I put it on the market, especially now that he knows I don’t come with it. The first time that he visited me, he took his shoes off at the door. There he stood in his white socks.

“Say whaaat?”

“Don’t be ridiculoos! Of course, he was fully clothed. He only removed his shoes.  Geez!”

I am certain–in fact, I’ll wager my shoes–that it was just a ruse on Jordan’s part to see how dirty my floors were, especially since I tried my best to persuade him to put his shoes back on. Nope. He would not be swayed, though God knows how hard I tried. No luck. He kept right on walking around in his white socks. When he started to leave, I did not dare look at the bottom of his socks. I was fearful.

Since then, I have observed that he does not wear shoes in his home either. I realize, of course, that lots of people follow that practice. It makes good sense for hygiene and cleanliness. But like I said, in my efforts to keep my Nature wilderness tamed, I go in and out my door 20 times a day, if not more.

But Jordan’s cleanliness inspired me, so I decided to try his strategy. I bought myself a whole navigation of crocs so that I could slip them on quickly (going out) and slip them off easily (coming back in). It worked pretty well for me, but for the life of me, I could not train Ruby to slip into her four cute purple clogs (matching mine, of course). All the bones of Chewy would not sweeten the deal enough for her to wear them. That’s okay. I’m adaptable, so I decided to abandon Jordan’s shoeless method and get right down to the dirty: wear white socks indoors. I know dirt when I see it. When the bottoms of my socks are dirty, I know that my floors are dirty, and I know exactly what to do.

§ § § § §

Overall, these new cleaning initiatives have worked beautifully. However, every single time that I get close to achieving the White-Glove Standard of Cleanliness that I long for, mysterious things start to happen. They’re beginning to give me the fantods. Why would anyone or anything want to undermine my intentions and hard work? The really scary part about it all is that I never see it happening. Never. Not ever. It just happens, always taking me unawares and by surprise.

I am determined to ferret out whatever it is that is behind it all. I’m certainly capable, especially since I have decades of experience as an information sleuth at The Library of Congress. If I can find stuff in books, it will be a sneeze for me to find stuff in my dustpan and in my vacuum cleaner bag, and I can analyze my findings using my powerful Sherlock Holmes Magnifying Glass.

Actually, I have begun to do so already. I am horrified to the point of being nearly speechless, mainly because I don’t know how some of it is getting in my house.

I always do a general sweep of my floors several times a week, so I ought not have a lot of anything in my dustpan ever. You’ll be surprised. Information sleuth that I pride myself in being, I have organized my findings according to Library of Congress Call Numbers, which I have researched painstakingly and meticuloosly.  I hope that by providing these call numbers, you can classify your own dirt.

TS2020.D87. DUSTPAN FINDINGS

● RC867. The Last Strands of a Balding Hero: Lord, help us all. I found more than a few strands of my own hair, valiantly hanging on, participating in a follicular showdown with the relentless forces of balding.

● SF411-459. Doggy Debris: I found a generous contribution of short black dog hair, forming an uncanny tribute to Ruby’s daily shedding rituals. Bless her precious heart. A few of her hairs won’t matter nary no bit at all.

● TX808.C78. Crumb Conundrum: Duh! I expected that: I am baker. Hear me rise! Nonetheless, it is weirdly fun for me to see these crumbs since I know each one’s unique origin story and flavor profile.

● SB453.5.G37. Gardener’s Treasure Trove: As you might expect, bits of soil and garden debris snuck in just to remind me of my gardening prowess and green-thumbed escapades.

● SD397.F67. Forest Souvenirs: I also spied leaves and twigs from my lush garden adventures, as if the forest itself decided to follow me indoors.

● QL458.2.S65. Spider Artifacts: Damned arachnids. I even saw a few spiderwebs, a spider leg or three, evidence of arachnid architectural failure.

● TX339.L56. Lint Lagoon: How about a lot of lint and fuzz, aerial fluffiness in a sea of debris.

● TD427.P37. Mystery Particles: I swear that I have looked and looked, and after all I have unidentifiable specks and particles that defy explanation, as if they were transported from The 5th Dimension, just to confuse me some more.

§ § § § §

TR899.D57, OR TX314.N8, OR TS221.C55. VACUUM CLEANER BAG FINDINGS.

Well, the bag looks like a pufferfish, so I needed to clean it anyway. There’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’ll empty its contents indoors. This exploration requires that I be outdoors as I delve into the bag, unearthing a few more enemies sucked up from the depths of my home’s nooks and crannies.

● CT9999.M42. Paper Trail of a ReInvented Life: I’m not too surprised to find stray paper scraps, receipts, and notes that have been vacuumed up. I pause as I peruse each one and sigh:

“My goodness,” I say to myself for no one else to hear, “My goodness, my goodness. Maybe I should dust these off and file them away as evidence of my busy, document-scattered, reinvented existence.”

● TS1345.B88. Button Bonanza: Glory Halleluliah. At last, I’ve found my buttons–Button, button, who’s got the button?–and I can embark on a sewing spree and attach the buttons to their rightful owners.

● Z711.P37. Paperclip Parade: To get my daily steps in, I often walk around while I’m doing desk cleanup. Obviously, I’ve lost a few clips during my metallic shenanigans.

● QM23.2.A5 OR T47.L67. Nutty Surprises: Say whaaat? Nuts and bolts? I have no idea what to do with them, so I’m sure that I didn’t drop them. Ahhh. Now I’m getting closer to the truth, and I know exactly what to do. A rogue handyman elf dropped them on a mission to confound me. Just wait ’til I get my hands on/around him/them.

● TT145. Crafty Clues: I swear to you, My Dear Readers who know me so well, that I cannot account for all of the glitter, beads, and sequins. At this point in my life, I am as open as a book, and while I am crafty, it’s never covert and behind the scenes. Give me a sec while I dust off these baubles. They’re just too cutsey-wootsey to toss out. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they’re forming a tiny glittery army, just the way they did the other day when I was trying to hide them.

● HG222.3. Dusty Coin Cache: I am not about to throw away the coins that I found. On my reinvented salary–even factoring in my negative royalty payments from In Bed and Green Mountain Stories–I need every Hungarian pengő that I find. What a welcome treasure trove, right beneath my sneezing nose.

● QL678.9. Feathered Friends: Feathers! While I’m not thrilled to find so many of them—enough to turn myself into a modern-day Icarus—I’ve traced their origin to my strong work ethic, which apparently keeps me busy even in my sleep having pillow fights with myself. It’s either that or invisible birds are taking flight to confound me.

§ § § § §

I am confident that you will agree with me. Analyzing and classifying my vacuum cleaner bag debris and my dustpan debris is fascinating–actually, it’s riveting, especially since I assigned Library of Congress Call Numbers to each category–but it is not helping me fulfill my initial mission of discovering who/what the hell is getting my house dirty every time that I get it close to passing the White-Glove Inspection. And I haven’t even shared with you my horror when I discover streaks and smudges that appear on my windows and stainless-steel appliances almost immediately after I polish them.

Well, this much I know. Ruby and I are relatively small and do not take up much space, so there’s no way–there’s just no way–that the two of us can be the masterminds of all this mayhem.

I have one more thing that I plan to do. I’ll set up cameras and infrared lights in my mountain abode–just as Ghost Hunters do–and when I watch the celluloid–cellulite?–I will discover the culprits and bare them to the world.

Information sleuth that I am, I found myself flipping through the virtual pages of the Ghost Hunter’s handbook. If you are into the paranormal–or, for that matter into the normal–you may be familiar with it: Spectral Shenanigans: A Ghost Hunter’s Guide to Afterlife Amusements (Call Number: HQ666 G5S68 2023). The book speaks of a need for a curious blend of cutting-edge gadgetry–(That’s me!)–and a dash of supernatural charm–(That’s me, too! I am an aerial spirit, after all!)–to capture elusive spectral entities on film.

I started my journey by selecting the most strategic camera positions, carefully pinpointing those areas where perplexing window streaks and elusive stainless-steel smudges keep appearing and reappearing. One was trained on the stainless-still kitchen sink, the scene of many a phantom dishwashing episode. Another zeroed in on the microwave, the double wall ovens, and the refrigerator, where inexplicable fingerprints left their ghostly marks.

Then I embarked on a similar quest by strategically positioning cameras at the windows that peer out onto my deck, across the Shenandoah Valley, and to the mountain range beyond. 

Once the cameras were in position, I tapped into advanced virtual surveillance software, not too unlike the spectral-analysis tools used by seasoned Ghost Hunters. This high-tech wizardry has the power to identify peculiar movements, whether the handiwork of gnomes or spirits.

And there I was, sitting spectrally on my couch with a trusty bowl of popcorn that I popped exclusively for Ruby. (I assure you that there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I would pop a bowl of popcorn for me.) I felt just like a seasoned Ghost Hunter, ready to expose the true nature of these elusive entities. And Ruby must have felt that way too because she kept looking around to see what I was looking around to see. Were they crafty forest creatures, whimsical feathered friends, or perhaps mischievous spirits? The spirit of being a mountain man in the wilderness coursed through my veins, as I eagerly awaited any signs of movement, waltzing shadows, or ghostly charades. Indeed, this was no ordinary evening; it was the evening when I transformed my mountaintop oasis into a paranormal stakeout.

Lo and behold! In my quest to discover the secret sources of all my dirt, I had reinvented myself accidentally once more. Go figure. I had embraced the fleeting role of a domestic detective, hell bent on uncovering the antics of the whimsical creatures who plague my search for a little White-Glove Cleanliness. I swear. I could hear echoes resonating through the very walls of my home. I verily believe that they were laughing at me. And if they weren’t laughing at me, they were laughing at the Sherlock on the Summit that I had become, foolishly hoping to solve the dirt, dust, and grime mysteries of my mountain abode. Nevermore.

A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener.

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“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.”

—Gertrude Jekyll (1843–1932; a British horticulturist, garden designer, artist, and writer.)

Confession is good for the soul, so gather round as I confess.

Please, if you wouldn’t mind, might I implore you to lean in just a little closer. I don’t want the weeds to hear.

“Say whaaaattt?”

Yes. You heard it right. I don’t want the weeds to hear. I’ve discovered that they have extrasensory powers (never before known and never before explored) that allow them to know a gardener’s unspoken thoughts from hundreds of yards away, especially when the weeds think they’ve won the battle.

Some days, I think they’ve won the battle, too. So that’s the first part of my confession. Believe it or not, I’m starting to feel a wee(d) better.

It’s been a rough gardening season here on my mountain. Actually, since I am confessing (laying bare my gardener’s soul right here in front of the whole world, lean in and have a close look at my pain, but don’t mess up the few strands of hair that I have left), let me be brutally honest. It’s been a tougher-than-nails gardening season here on the mountain.

It got off to a really good start. Spring came early, nearly a full month, and I accomplished lots, especially ripping out shrubs that had outgrown their spaces. I even managed to thoroughly weed several garden beds.

Then, after dinner each day, I’d go deckside, lean back (all lazy-like), survey my progress, raise high my Gin and Tonic, and toast not only all that I had accomplished but also all the glorious weeding triumphs ahead of me.

Looking back, I realize that was my mistake. No. No. Not the Gin and Tonic. A Gin and Tonic is never a mistake as long as it’s made with Bombay Sapphire or Hendricks. The mistake was my boastful toasting. The damned weeds heard my every unspoken thought, and they went on the offensive.

I didn’t just make that up. I know for a fact because one day, I heard them chatting amongst themselves whilst I was raising a second toast. They didn’t mince a weed.

Japanese Knot Vine: Did you hear that? He’s confessing his weaknesses to all his readers throughout the world!

Johnson Grass: Weaknesses? Ha! More like his utter defeat! Did you hear him babbling about our victory?

Fern: Oh, don’t you all just love how he’s pouring his poor little heart out? He’s silly if I ever heard silly.

Ivy: Yes, but don’t get too cozy, my leafy friends. He’s onto us – he knows we’re more than just your average weeds. We’re up-and-coming. His garden is our focus.

Japanese Knot Vine: Ivy’s right. Our psychic powers are legendary. We can sense his thoughts from every corner of his gardens and deep into his deep, dark woods.

Fern: And let’s not forget his most revealing Gin and Tonic confession. That’s where our plan takes root.

Johnson Grass: The Gin and Tonic? Is that some sort of secret weapon?

Fern: Well, sort of. You see, when he’s sipping on that stuff, his guard is down. He’s practically defenseless, especially when he makes it a double!

Ivy: Excellent. So, what’s the master plan, oh wise and vengeful weeds?

Japanese Knot Vine: Let’s just wait him out.  While he’s toasting his “triumphs,” we will bide our time in the shadows.

Fern: And then?

Johnson Grass: And then, my leafy accomplices, when the dark clouds gather and the rain pours down as it is about to pour down for the next two weeks …

Ivy: We strike! We grow faster, taller, and thicker. We wrap around his plants like a cozy blanket. He won’t know what hit him!

Japanese Knot Vine: We’ll show him that the real victory lies with us.

Fern: Revenge is ours!

Johnson Grass: Get ready, my weedy companions. The rain is our cue, and this time, we’re taking over that mountain top garden that he thinks belongs to him!

As much as I hate to confess it, the Weedsters did exactly as they plotted. They wrought havoc upon me and my gardens during this year’s Sheep’s Rain that came later than usual. (I wrote all about it in “Human Being, Not Human Doing.” Remember?) Without a doubt, the Weedsters caught me off guard.

TANGLED AS ONE, THEIR WHISPERS ROSE UNHEARD AS I DROVE DOWN THE DUSTY ROAD:

Rain and shadows, our powers align,
Gypsy Moths will join us, a force malign.
Towering oaks: brace for the blight.
Unity’s strength, our dark flight.

With Gypsy Moth allies, our plans will unfold,
the old gardener’s excitement, already he’s told.
He’s leaving now with smiles, but oh, the surprise,
Upon his return, the shock in his eyes:

No leaves will remain, the forest will be bare.
Our triumph will be visible in the open sky.

To make matters even worse, right after the nearly catastrophic Sheep’s Rain, I headed off to Vermont for two weeks. As I left, I sighed a painful sigh as I confessed to myself that the Weedsters were gaining the upper hand. But, hey! I was off to celebrate Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my edition of her Green Mountain Stories. I’d resume my war with the weeds when I returned triumphantly home from my book tour.

Off I went on my merry way, pumped up with such great expectations that I didn’t have my ear to the ground as the Weedsters plotted my demise.

During my time in Vermont, I didn’t have one wee(dy) thought whatsoever. But when I returned home, a heavy burden fell on my gardener’s soul. I could see it from down in the Valley as I looked up to the mountains, precisely to the spot where I knew my home to be. Half of the mountain–hundreds of acres, including my 20–had trees with no leaves. As I drove up my mountain road, I was shocked beyond belief: my home was standing in the midst of towering, leafless oaks. Worse, my weedy world–now high above my wobbly knees–was thick with wooly, black Gypsy caterpillars.

Even though I had not heard the Weedsters whispering their threats as I drove off to Vermont, I now witnessed their vicious vengeance: they had joined forces with Gypsy Moths in a conspiracy against me.

Others, too, have conspired against me in the past, and I have managed to survive. I had no doubt in the world that I would survive this attack, too.

I knew exactly what I would do. But I did not dare even think the thought because I knew that the Weedsters would know. The next morning, I harnessed myself to my Weedwhacker and started cutting large swaths of weeds, level with the ground, sometimes so close dust devils swirled heavenward. The Weedsters knew that the end was near for them.

I did not realize, though, that they were on to me, and they were conspiring a horrendous attack. They came up with a sinister pact to enlist another unlikely ally:

Ivy (Dancing a sinister dance, its tendrils all twisted): Listen closely, my brethren. Our time has come to strike a blow that will shake the very core of our gardener. Let us extend our influence beyond the confines of earth and air and beckon the venomous ally that slithers within the gardener’s oasis.

Japanese Knot Vine (Quivering with malice and hissing in agreement): The Copperhead is a force to be reckoned with, its bite a venomous thrust of agony. Once it sinks its fangs into Ruby, the beloved companion of our gardener foe, despair will melt away his resolve to conquer us.

Pokeweed (Nodding in approval): But how do we lure this deadly ally to our cause? What bait shall tempt the Copperhead to plunge its venom into a dog as sweet and innocent as Ruby?

Johnson Grass (Waving its fronds and whispering): Let our whispers cast a spell on Ruby so that she will not recognize the Copperhead with all its poisonous power and instead she will mistake him for playful friend.

With their plan intricately woven, the weeds exchanged malevolent winks. All that the Copperhead had to do was to wait for poor innocent Ruby to come along as indeed she did, mistaking the pit viper as a serpentine toy for her amusement, opening her mouth fully to his viciously venomous bite. I became the victim, too: caring for Ruby during the two weeks of her recuperation kept me from weeding and weedwhacking. I lost most of June to the Weedsters.

What can I say of July? I doubt that any of us can speak kindly of the month that proved itself this year to be the hottest on record. Yet as a gardener battling the Weedsters, it gave me joy beyond measure. As the scorching fingers of July’s embrace tightened and the heat index reached 110 degrees, the once defiant weeds withered like forgotten dreams, their vibrant greens surrendering to the relentless heat, their grand subterranean structures reduced to delicate skeletons in July’s unforgiving furnace.

August has been somewhat cooler, especially at night, but as we approach the end of the month, it’s abundantly apparent that a drought plagues our land. Yet, again, as a gardener battling the Weedsters, it gives me joy beyond measure. The weeds now face a duel against their own roots. As the days stretch on with no rain in sight, their subterranean anchors strain and thirst for the lost melody of raindrops.

As September draws near and as the Weedsters grow weaker, I will renew my strategic assault. Each morning will find me armed with firm determination, renewed purpose, and (t)rusty tools. I will destroy the once-mighty weeds, whose defenses have been eroded by the scorching trials of July and the relentless drought of August. The garden will become a battleground, as I methodically reclaim the territory, unveiling patches of earth left parched and vulnerable. Day by day, defeat will resound through the heavens as I subdue the weeds one by one.

I know fully well that my September triumphs will be but a momentary stay against the attack that the Weedsters have launched against me this gardening season. It is, I fear, precisely as one of my kind neighbors kindly reminded me, just the other day, in the midst of my lamentations:

Matt: Give a weed an inch, and they’ll take a yard.

How prophetically true. But something else is true as well. This is my yard, my garden, and my mountaintop oasis. The Weedsters will not seize that which is mine. I will take back the proverbial “yard,” inch by inch.

What the Weedsters don’t understand is that they will die, and even if they return (as they surely will), they will be weakened and diminished. What the Weedsters don’t understand is that I, the gardener, will prevail. The heart of the Garden tells me so daily, reminding me that the love of gardening never dies.

As Light As a Feather

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On a long journey, even a straw weighs heavy.

Spanish Proverb

Recently, I traveled from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to the Green Mountains of Vermont. What prompted the trip was the launch of my edition of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s Green Mountain Stories, first in Burlington and then in Brattleboro. Don’t worry. I won’t recap the book or its launches. Neither is the point of this post.

Something unusual happened while I was packing for my journey. I’ve been wondering about it ever since.

Even though I was going to be away for ten days, I managed to pack everything that I needed into one small suitcase (laundered and folded shirts; boxers; socks; handkerchiefs; bathrobe; and toiletries); one thin garment bag (a lightweight blazer; a pair of dress trousers; several pairs of chinois; flip flops; and a pair of loafers); and my book bag (laptop; books; portfolio with notepad; pens; and index cards).

I was pleased with my efficiency. I could grab my suitcase and book bag in one hand and my garment bag in the other and be on my way. I had room to spare in the backseat of my Jeep Gladiator, especially since my dog Ruby was staying in her own room at our local pet spa.

This was my first solo research/scholarly trip in two decades.

Until this time, my late partner Allen had always gone with me on all of my scholarly speaking engagements, research journeys, and conferences. The details started bubbling up from the depth of memory to the surface of now.

All of those “aways” were professional, but Allen and I always did our best to make them memorable vay-kays.

Packing was totally different then, and we each did our own thing.

I was never quite certain what I might be called upon to do professionally on these trips, and, like most Scorpions, I have a moody side. So I had to pack at least one suit–sometimes two–plus several sports jackets with matching trousers; two dress belts (black and brown); at least a half dozen dress shirts and as many or more silk ties; boxers; socks; two pair of dress shoes (black and brown); and handkerchiefs.

That would cover professional events. But hey! We’re on vay-kay. What about play clothes?

I’m just as fashionably moody in that clothing category, too. Khakis. Blue jeans. Long- and short-sleeved shirts. Lightweight sweaters. Penny loafers.  Sneakers. Athletic socks. OMG.  What if we go hiking? Hiking boots. Hiking poles. Backpack. Well, you see where this is going. Right?

Yeah. You probably do. But keep in mind that I haven’t even gotten to my cosmetics. Hairspray. Facial cleanser. Astringent. Skin cream. Shaving lather. Razors. Deodorant. Nail clippers. Files. Emory boards. And what’s a vay-kay without a facial? Peel-off masks. Clay masks. Charcoal masks. Body scrub. Sun screen. Toothpaste. Dental floss. Mouthrinse. OMG. I nearly forgot my hairbrush and comb. Thank God I remembered those. After all, even strangers remember me for the hair that I don’t have enough of, really, to brush or to spray. But I have lots of memories, so I keep brushing and spraying. Those were the days, my friends.

But let me get back to Allen and his packing. He never worried too much about the professional attire. Since he and I wore the same size clothes, he figured that if I wasn’t wearing it, he could, especially since he liked my dress clothes.

But when it came to play clothes, if my Scorpionic moodiness made me pack a lot, his Piscean moodiness made him pack a lot more, usually a lot more new threads that he always loved to buy for our vay-kays.

Luckily, he could pack his cosmetics in a small leather toiletry bag while telling all of our friends–and even rank strangers–that we always pulled one U-Haul for my cosmetics and another U-Haul just for my hairspray.

Sure. Of course. Allen had his own quirky things that he had to pack up and bring, too. So that I can have my own touché moment, I’ll tell you all about them right now, My Dear Readers. But please don’t share these secrets with strangers, rank or otherwise. First and foremost, he had to bring an electric fan–not to cool us off but to create white noise while we slept. Second, and almost as important as the first, were our pillows. No other pillows in the world would satisfy him like our own. Shrink packaging helped, but those four king-sized pillows added to the total weight of everything that we were packing. Third, e[x][r]otic massage oil. (Well, maybe we’ll need the electric fan after all. Just saying.)

If we happened to be packing for a trip somewhere where we had rented a VRBO home–as we preferred doing whenever we could–we knew that we would be cooking dinner upon arrival. Whatever we were having for that first evening’s meal would fit into the cooler, along with whatever “special” cut of meat we would have for a special vay-kay dinner while away. Toss in the spices, condiments, wine, limes, tonic water, and Bombay Sapphire Gin. Now, we’re all packed and ready to go. (Not to worry. I didn’t forget our favorite cast iron skillet.)

OMG! I forgot the dogs! Never two at once. First Hazel during most of the years that Allen and I were together. Then, Ruby, during Allen’s final three years. Each dog had the same requirements. Food. Treats. Food dish. Water dish. Blanket. Brush. Toys. Leash. Poop bags. Space to curl up and lie down.

By the time we got everything packed into my Jeep–usually a two-door Wrangler–we inevitably started our journey with no small degree of surprise that we had managed to get everything packed into the Jeep while still leaving space for our furry, four-legged best friend.

When we arrived, wherever it happened to be that we were going, we were always ecstatic to get unpacked and settled in. (Thank God for Gin & Tonics, e[r][x]otic massage oil, and the electric fan.)

Regardless of how often we traveled–usually two or three journeys a year–as we unpacked, our eyes would lock on one another, and we would break into riotous laughter as we discovered that each of us–unbeknownst to the other–had packed candle sticks, candles, cocktail glasses, Venetian glass cocktail stirs, wine glasses, linen napkins,  pewter flatware, and China service for two.

Now, I can’t help but wonder and wonder and wonder about all of those journeys. What magic made those heavy suitcases feel as light as a feather?