“The pieces of the puzzle come together seamlessly; better still, Kendrick’s investigation informs and enriches the Humourist essays, illuminating their historical and literary contexts.” —Publishers Weekly
Publisher’s Weekly Cover, December 15-22, 2025
I knew the review was scheduled to appear. I’d marked the date. I’d even ordered copies in advance.
Still, nothing quite prepares you for the moment when the work arrives by weight.
Nineteen pounds, to be exact.
The box from Fry Communications sat innocently enough at the door, but when I lifted it, I laughed—an unguarded, surprised laugh. This wasn’t an email notification or a discreet PDF link. This was paper. Ink. Volume. Evidence that something quiet and patient had crossed a threshold into the world of objects.
Inside were stacks of Publishers Weekly—the December 15-22 issue, fresh from the press. And there it was: the review of Unmasking The Humourist, resting calmly among other books, other arguments, other claims on a reader’s attention. No fanfare. No special lighting. Just…there. As if it had always belonged.
The review in context.
That may sound small. It isn’t.
For writers—especially those of us who work in literary recovery, archival research, and historical attribution—most of the labor happens far from spectacle. It happens in libraries and databases, in footnotes and marginalia, in moments when you are unsure whether the trail you’re following will narrow into clarity or vanish altogether. There are no crowds for this kind of work. No applause when you discover one more corroborating detail, one more pattern that holds.
Unmasking The Humourist grew out of precisely that kind of sustained attention. The essays at its center—satirical, incisive, mischievous pieces published pseudonymously in the South-Carolina Gazette in the early 1750s—had long been admired but never convincingly attributed. Their author hid in plain sight. The work demanded patience: weighing tone against context, tracing bureaucratic fingerprints, listening carefully to what language reveals when you stop rushing it.
And patience is not fashionable. We live in a moment that rewards speed, certainty, and hot takes. Literary recovery is none of those things. It is slow, provisional, and often lonely. You work without knowing whether recognition will ever arrive—or whether it even should. You work because the work matters.
That’s why seeing the review in Publishers Weekly mattered to me—not as a trophy, but as confirmation that the argument held. That it made sense beyond my own desk. That it earned its place in the broader conversation about early American literature and satire.
What struck me most wasn’t pride. It was scale.
The full review.
Here was my book, not elevated or isolated, but contextualized—surrounded by other studies, other voices, other claims. This is where scholarship belongs: not shouted, but situated. Not proclaimed, but tested.
There’s something grounding about that.
I spread the pages out on the table. I read the review again, this time with the odd sensation of distance—as though I were encountering the project for the first time. The reviewer understood what I had tried to do. Better still, they understood why it mattered. That’s the quiet victory every researcher hopes for.
And then there was the sheer physicality of it all. The stacks. The heft. The knowledge that these copies would travel—to libraries, to colleagues, to readers I’ll never meet. Work that had lived for years in notes and drafts now had mass. It could be lifted. Shared. Passed hand to hand.
Research takes time. Recovery takes patience.
But sometimes—blessedly, unexpectedly—the work becomes something you can actually lift.
And when it does, you pause. You hold it. You let it be real.
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: “justtheway 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 everneeded.”
Poor Brentford Says
“Your worth doesn’t need a witness. Show up for yourself. That’s the real feast.”
“Somewhere, an editor is waiting to fall in love with what I’ve written. That’s not ego. That’s faith.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947). Blogger, literary scholar, creative nonfiction writer (who loves to fool around in bed), and once-upon-a-time professor who splits his reinvention time between restoring lost voices of American literature and discovering new ways to live, love, laugh, and write with meaning. He’s been sighted in the mountains of Virginia. (Authorial aside to all editors: Sit up and take notice—because if you snooze, you lose. This dude’s relatively cheap, cleans up well, once got compared to Garrison Keillor by someone in Tennessee, and yes—he’ll bake sourdough and seduce the annotations, headnotes, footnotes, and endnotes into (mis)behaving.)
Stats?
Oh. Sorry. I don’t mean my vitals. Though I do check them daily. Why not? My Fitbit provides it all, right on my wrist. Heart rate. Breathing rate. Temp. Heart rate variability. Blood oxygenation. Stress. So, yeah. I check those first thing every morning when I wake up.
I meant another set of stats that matter to me.
My WordPress stats.
I like to know how many people are checking out my blog on any given day.
I like to know what countries they’re from.
I especially like to know what posts they’re reading. That info lets me know what’shot and what’snot. Every now and then, I lean in and almost let myself believe that what’shot mightjustbeme. I do. Really. I do. Especially when I see hits on my AboutMe or AboutMyBlog or ContactMe pages. Like the time one lone reader from Lithuania clicked through twelve posts in an hour—and paused on “About Me.” I remember thinking:
“This is it. This is my moment.”
I guess I figure that if someone is going to all the trouble of background snooping, they’re probably on the verge of being the genius who goes down in history as the one who discovered me, thus ensuring that I go down neither unfootnoted nor unnoted.
Me? Discovered?
Don’t scoff! Stranger things have happened, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t be the first writer catapulted into history and literary fame by an editor with deep belief and keen vision.
One writer who has just been catapulted into history comes to mind immediately.
Alexander Gordon (c. 1692-1754).
Did I just hear you gasp:
“Who’s that?”
Surely, I did not, for if you don’t know who he is, then you must not be the faithful follower I know you to be.
If you’re following me–my blog, I should add for your clarity and my protection–then you know that I recently finished a book about Alexander Gordon, the long-forgotten colonial satirist who published his literary works pseudonymously in The South-Carolina Gazette in 1753-54 under the name The Humourist, and then—like so many voices history forgets—he vanished. No one knew who he was. One scholar asked. But he didn’t bother to find out. No one else did, either. Then I came along. I had a lot of curiosity. I had a tolerance for long hours in dusty archives. Eventually, I had a hunch, and I discovered a clue.
So don’t tell me that a writer getting discovered is a myth. I just did that very thing with Alexander Gordon. Guess what else? It occurs to me that he now stands as the first American writer to be thrust by an editor into fame.
Yes. That’s true and, I’ll make that claim. Right here. Right now.
Someone just upbraided me:
“Excuse me. You’re wrong. Anne Bradstreet was the first.”
Being upbraided is something up with which I will not put.
“So ekscuuuuuuuuuuse meeeeee! You’re wrong.”
Here’s why.
I know. I know. You’re probably thinking about her one and only book The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America. In case you don’t know the story surrounding its 1650 publication, it goes like this. Her brother-in-law John Woodbridge spirited her manuscript off to England and published it behind her back, unbeknownst to her.
Bradstreet herself seems to back up that claim, especially in her “The Author to Her Book” offering up her well-known and oft-quoted lament:
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
How convenient for Bradstreet. Her posturing created a persona of Puritan modesty and aversion to recognition as compelling as the narrative of her “stolen” book of poetry—the very tale that helped catapult her into public view.
But here’s the thing. Actually, two things. First, Woodbridge was not her editor. Second, despite the storybook notion that Bradstreet considered her womanly role subordinate to the role of Puritan men, scholars maintain that it was “a propaganda campaign” launched by Bradstreet and her family. I’m thinking particularly of Charlotte Gordon’s “Humble Assertions: The True Story of Anne Bradstreet’s Publication of The Tenth Muse,” maintaining that Bradstreet was not surprised by the publication of her book and that, in fact, she was actively involved in its publication.
So there! Bradstreet does not beat Alexander Gordon when it comes to the first American writer thrust into fame by an editor.
But let me not digress from the claim that I am making. Think as long and as hard as you will about American writers between the publication of The Tenth Muse and the publication of the Humourist essays, and if you can come up with someone else who can seize the claim, reach out to me, and I’ll blog it. Better still, reach out to me, and we’ll co-blog it.
But I won’t hold my breath. The Humourist remained pseudonymous from his first November 26, 1753, essay through his final notice on April 9, 1754, known but to God. That is until I came along and solved the greatest literary mystery in perhaps all of American literature. I unmasked The Humourist and revealed him to be none other than Alexander Gordon, clerk of His Majesty’s Council in South Carolina.
Now, through my dogged determination, my literary sleuthing, and my scholarly editing, Gordon will be known forever more and throughout the world as the acclaimed author of the Humourist essays, among the liveliest and most original voices in Colonial American Literature, right up there and on par with Ben Franklin’s Silence Dogood essays.
Needless to say, there have been other American writers who were brought into public view by editors–all boasting just a smidgen of modesty, of course, comparable to mine–who knew talent when they saw it.
I’m thinking of my lady Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my book The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Although I edited the letters, provided thorough annotations, and wrote biographical introductions to the book itself and each of its five sections, I’m not the editor who discovered her on her way to literary stardom.
Credit for that goes to someone else. Here’s the brief backstory. Freeman started her career as a children’s writer but then extended her literary efforts into the realm of adult short stories. Lippincott’s, Century, and the Atlantic rejected her “Two Old Lovers.” Then she sent it to Mary Louise Booth, editor of Harper’s Bazar, who read the story three different times during three different moods, as was her custom, and accepted it for publication in the March 31, 1883, issue. From that point forward, Freeman wrote regularly for the Harper’s Bazar and Harper’s Monthly, and, in fact, Harper & Brothers became her regular publisher.
In a way, then, it was Mary Louise Booth’s editorial acumen that escorted Freeman into the international literary acclaim she continues to enjoy even today, though in fairness to Freeman, her talent was such that it would have found its way into the spotlight in one way or another. Talent will always out.
I could go on and on with this litany of writers who were discovered by editors, sometimes against the odds. I’m tempted to say that I won’t, but on second thought, I think that I will share with you snippets of some paired writers and editors who come to mind.
I’ll start with Flannery O’Connor, so well known for her bold and unconventional Southern Gothic voice. It was Robert Giroux, an editor at Harcourt who believed in her debut novel, Wise Blood, and guided it into print—despite its eccentric style and religious overtones.
Or what about Jack Kerouac? His On the Road was originally a 120-foot scroll—raw, unfiltered, and “unpublishable.” But Viking Press editor Malcolm Cowley saw gold and helped shape it into the beat-generation classic it became.
Then we’ve got a postal worker with a cult following in underground poetry circles: Charles Bukowski. He caught the attention of John Martin at Black Sparrow Press. Martin offered him a year’s salary to quit his job and write full time. It was the start of a prolific and gritty career.
No doubt you know the minimalist voice of Raymond Carver. His works might have stayed buried had it not been for Gordon Lish at Esquire. Lish gave Carver his break, though not without some brutal edits.
Closer to me and my situation in many ways is Frank McCourt, who, as a retired teacher in his 60s, wrote Angela’s Ashes. Nan Graham at Scribner wept when she read it and championed it into publication. Oh. My. It won the Pulitzer. It sold millions. My kingdom for a Nan.
And if McCourt was close to me occupationally—educator turned writer; I, of course, am still living according to most recent news reports—then I have to mention Jeanette Walls, whose roots are close to mine since we’re both West Virginians. Her memoir The Glass Castle was going nowhere fast until editor Deb Futter read it and saw its power. Her support turned it into a bestseller and reshaped what memoir could be.
And last but perhaps most important to the hope that I carry (like a well-worn talisman) that an editor will discover me and, in a poof, turn me into star dust is Andy Weir. He self-published his The Martian chapter by chapter online. Julian Pavia at Crown Publishing read it, loved it, and bought it. The novel became a bestseller and hit film.
Oh. My. God. I’m doing exactly what Weir did. I’m publishing all of my Foolin’ Around in Bedessays right here, week by week. Once again, my kingdom for a Pavia unless a Nan has already catapulted my bed into fame.
I could share other snippets, but I confess. Right now, I’m in a pickle. But don’t worry. I have a way out. It will work for me, and, as you are about to see, it will work for you too.
I’m going to do what Margaret Atwood did in her story “Happy Endings.” I’m going to give you options.
A. What happens next? Don’t be so impatient. History is based on facts and evidence. Come back for the ending when the ending is written.
B. What happens next? DearReader, you know exactly what comes next. Yours truly–Brent(ford) L(ee) Kendrick–aka TheWiredResearcher—keeps right on doing what he’s been doing with his writing and his research. And he keeps right on hoping that an editor–a believer—is out there, poised and ready to do for him what he’s just done for Alexander Gordon.
Not just this blog. Not just my Foolin’ Around in Bed essays. But Gordon. Freeman. Years of words, research, story, and sweat. A whole body of work—waiting for the right editor/reader to say: “This one. This voice.”
“Which ending do you like?” someone queried.
I much prefer B. After all, keepin’ on keepin’ on is the road I’m traveling. Even if it is the one less traveled by, it makes all the difference. Especially when it leads past the stats and toward the stars. (Whew! What a relief. I figured out a way to bring Robert Frost into this post. It’s been too long–far too long.)
Besides, putting aside my own preference for an ending, I have no doubt in the world that right now, an editor is out there who believes in me, who might be scrolling through my “About Me,” pausing over a sentence, clicking “Contact Me,” and thinking:
“Thisone. Thisvoice.”
OMG. I just felt the earth shift.
I did. I really did.
Did you?
No? You didn’t?
Don’t worry. Be happy.Somewhere, right now, someone’s opening a drawer, clicking a link, or flipping a page—and everything’s about to begin.
“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 porcelainturns—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, MyDearReaders, 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, mydearReaders, 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.
“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
–Dr. Seuss (1904–1991;American Children’s author and illustrator who used humor and rhyme to convey timeless lessons on individuality, kindness, and resilience; the quote is from his 1959 book Happy Birthday to You!)
How totally presumptuous of me to assume that you think you know who I am. But if you’re one of my faithful followers–or if you’re just an occasional reader–you probably know more about me than you care to know or than I care for you to know. Be that as it may, whatever you’ve read in my posts is all true, even if exaggerated occasionally, hoping to make you think or laugh. And, yes, sometimes I tell the truth slant so that I don’t razzle dazzle you with reality:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)
The reality is this: I know who I am. But growing up as a kid, my siblings tried to teasingly convince me otherwise by telling me that I was adopted.
“You don’t look like us.”
“You don’t act like us.”
“You don’t talk like us.”
“You don’t walk like us.”
“Yep. You’re adopted. Brentford Lee Murdock.”
Imagine that. Making me doubt my own genetics. The nerve! How dare they tell me that I was adopted in one breath, and then without batting an eye, tell me in the next breath what they insisted was my real surname: Murdock! Well, their teasing never bothered me one bit, not one slightest chromosome. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they acted, and the way they looked, I was glad to know that they were no kin of mine. None. Not one gene whatsoever. OMG! Did I just say that? How utterly nasty of me, if not downright, vicious. Well. They teased me then. I tease them now. Touché.
Candidly, I think they were just downright jealous because I was not only the youngest, but I was also the only one born in a hospital, one named after a Saint, no less. They were born in a coal-camp house. Not me. I was fancy-schmancy from birth, and, unlike theirs, my birth certificate is fancy, too. My goodness. I pulled it out just a few minutes ago. It’s gorgeous, gloatingly so. 8 inches x 12 inches. Parchment. Real, feel-good parchment. Enclosed in a smooth, velvety envelope. It even has my cute little newborn footprints on the back, labeled Left and Right. Beside my left footprint is my mother’s left thumb print. Beside my right footprint is my mother’s right thumbprint.
Adopted? Right. I could have extracted that certificate in a moment’s notice, proving my identity to my teasing sibs, because I knew exactly where my parents kept it. I never bothered. Some things just aren’t worth the bother, you know. When you know who you are, you know who you are. And believe me: I am who I am, and I have always known who I am, and I’m sticking with it. Besides, time was on my side and proved it for me without my having to do one single, solitary thing. As I got older and older, and balder and balder, I started to look more and more like my father. Today, I could nearly pass for his twin when he was my age. But so be it. I still don’t act like them. I still don’t talk like them. So you can rest assured: whenever it’s convenient for me to do so–in times of family disputes and in times of family disagreements–I simply look at them ever so innocently and I remind them, ever so teasingly:
“You are not going to drag me into your petty little family battles.
“I’ll have absolutely no part of it whatsoever. No part whatsoever.
“Have you forgotten? I haven’t. I’m adopted. I’m a Murdock.”
Without a doubt, I’ve always known how to use being adopted to my advantage.
However, it always struck me as rather unusual that I exhibit the exact same physical traits as my adoptive parents and my adoptive siblings.
My mother always boasted of her English ancestry, and when she really wanted to appear hoity-toity, she chronicled her French Huguenot ancestry. A close examination shows all of us–the whole family, including me as the adoptee–having fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair, consistent with my mother’s lineage as well as my father’s since he was also English mixed with German and Dutch. His father was exceedingly tall–6′ 4″–which he attributed to his being part German. His mother, on the other hand, was exceedingly short–4′ 8″–which he attributed to her being Dutch. Say whaaat? Unless I’m mistaken, the Neanderthals Netherlands boasts some of the tallest people in the world. Be that as it may, two of my sisters are short, and I’m certain that they blame their Grandma Kendrick.
Personally, as an outsider, I’m not certain that I give any more credence to all that malarkey than I do their ridiculous claim that I’m adopted. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re no kin of mine whatsoever. But with their mixed lineage–oh, I forgot to factor in Irish on one side or the other or both–they could have given me any number of surnames since 75-80% of Americans around the time that I was born came from the same stock. Aside from Murdock, my last name could just as easily have been Butterworth, McGinnis, LaFleur, or Freitag. Or maybe even Vanderpoop. I’ll have to try those on, one by one, with BrentfordLee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than BrentfordLee Murdock.
This is all such fun that maybe I’ll stick with being adopted and be done with my identity once and forever.
But first I have to tell you what I’ve gone and done to celebrate my 77th birthday on November 20. I can’t believe I did it, but I did! And I can’t believe that I’m telling you what I did, but I am. I trust you. I know that you won’t tell another living soul. I decided that once and for all, I would prove to the clan that I got stuck with that I AM adopted. I’ll show them that they need to be careful about what they say because what’s spoken becomes reality.
Anyway, I ordered myself one of those highfalutin DNA tests to prove who I am! It shipped out from Salt Lake City. Then, it stopped in Bridgeport, NJ. I know all the details because I felt compelled to track its journey since, in a way, its journey will be tracking mine. Tracking is part of the fun of ordering anything online, including a kit that might tell me who I am. I confess, though. Waiting for it to arrive in Edinburg made me so antsy that I felt like my pants were on fire!
At last, it arrived, and I opened it ever so carefully. I followed the detailed directions ever so precisely. I wanted to make sure that someone somewhere had enough saliva from my swabbed cheeks so that they could sequence every strand and map every marker of my identity.
I am pleased to say that I swabbed the good swab, I sent my whoever-I-am-DNA back to Salt Lake City, and I have been notified that it’s better than good! My sample met the “high standards” required for DNA testing. Oh. My. I love being validated in high places.
The next steps are fantabulous:
● Extract the genetic information from my sample. Ouch! I hope that doesn’t hurt.
● Isolate, purify, and copy my DNA. Please say it ain’t so. Please say it ain’t so. One Brentford Lee Mudock at a time is quite enough for this world.
● Transform my DNA into a blueprint for discovery. Go for it! Find my bluebloods and make them come out of their closets, even if they don’t want to come out.
● Dig deep into my ancestral roots that span across continents. My God! I thought I was done with weeding.
● Weave a family tree. Woo hoo! While they’re at it, maybe they’ll weave me a hairpiece, too.
● Update me as my landscape unfolds. Hmmm. I guess these DNA folks like gardening as much as I do.
In about eight weeks, I’ll get a report with all of that information and more. Voila! My jeans genes will be transparent for all to see.
Here’s where it starts to get funny. Chances are beyond good that I will never explore my DNA report when it arrives.
It’s not that I’m afraid of what I might find out. I’m not. And I really don’t think that the results would change anything anyway. All right. Perhaps it might validate the outlandish claim that one of my no-kin-of-mine-whatsoever relatives made about being descended from John the Baptist. For all I know about them, they might be descended from Queen Elizabeth I, Brian Boru, Rembrandt, or even John Calvin himself! La-di-da. But why would I care? Like they’ve always reminded me, “You’re’ adopted.” And like I’ve always retorted with all the civility they don’t deserve, “You’re no kin of mine. Not one chromo, Bro.”
Besides. I know who I am, and I am anchored strong to my identity.
I’m a vital part of the universe, rooted in Nature and connected to Her. I draw lessons from everything in Nature, seeing the world around me as resilient metaphors for growth, transformation, and stability in life. Nothing can ever take that away.
I’m dedicated to personal growth and to declaring and maintaining my authenticity. I have always been the real thing, and I will continue to be. I embrace self-examination and transformation, and I am open to change. Nothing can take that away.
I’m creative in all that I do, whether it’s in writing, cooking, or gardening. I bring a thoughtful, personal touch to all that I do, and I like to think that I can weave philosophical insights into anything and see truths in everything. Nothing can take that away.
I’m comfortable with both tradition and innovation. I value the old and the new, and I am committed to learning from the past while seeing potential in the future. Nothing can take that away.
I’m strengthened by community and my connections with others. Although I am introspective, I cherish my relationships. I celebrate ideas, value honesty, empathy, and the bonds that tie me to all others. Nothing can take that away.
I’m passionate about intellectual curiosity and lifelong learning. I believe that education transforms lives, and I believe that an education is the best investment that anyone can ever make in themselves or in others. Nothing can take that away.
I’m anchored to the world around me. While I am at home right here on my mountaintop sanctuary in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, I am confident that my appreciation of place would make me feel equally at home anywhere in the world. What I find, I’ll make mine. Nothing can take that away.
I’m an integral part of a spiritual tradition that is open and deep, that is inclusive, that respects universal truths, and that leads me to see my interconnectedness with all living things. I kneel before the wisdom of the ages. Nothing can take that away.
Above all else, I’m a man of heart—generous in spirit, passionate in purpose, compassionate by nature, and unwaveringly true to who I am, with just enough mischief to keep life, and those around me, delightfully off-balance. Nothing can take that away.
Nothing–absolutely nothing–that I know now or that I might come to know in the future–can ever undo my identity anchors. That’s why my DNA report will remain sealed, as far as I know right now.
It does occur to me, however, that one thing might push me over the edge enough to make me want to know my genetic past.
The next time that I have a sibling spat, I might open the report so that I can prove to them–and them only–that I am none other than the illustrious and inimitable Brentford Lee McGinnis LaFleur Kendrick Freitag Murdock Vanderpoop.
–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, DearReader, 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.
Cheerstoyourvacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.
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 gonnahappen. Forgetit.” 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:
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.
TargetedCandidates: 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)–
“Laughter connects you with people. It’s almost impossible to maintain any kind of distance or any sense of social hierarchy when you’re just howling with laughter. Laughter is a force for democracy.”
–John Cleese (well-known English actor, comedian, and writer; a member of the comedy group Monty Python; played Basil Fawlty in the classic British sitcom “Fawlty Towers.”)
THE BACKSTORY.
My life has been punctuated by several major turning points. Two of them are inextricably linked. In the fall of 1998, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress, sold my home on Capitol Hill, bought myself a Jeep Wrangler, and relocated to my weekend cabin in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. I was fifty and determined to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a college professor. I believed fully that by fall 1999, I would be teaching in the hallowed halls of academe.
The key phrase, of course, is: “I believed.” Belief was all that I had. Hope was all that I could hang on to. When I left DC, I had no teaching offers lined up. I simply believed and hoped that a door would open.
I did my part, too, to open the door. I explored teaching opportunities at Shenanadoah University, James Madison University, and Bridgewater College. While I explored, I served as a consultant to the Librarian of Congress, driving back and forth from Edinburg to DC several days a week. One July day, as I returned home via I-66, I noticed a sign for Lord Fairfax Community College.
“Why not explore community college opportunities, too?”
In an instant, I agreed with myself:
“Great idea. I’ll do just that.”
I took the exit, found the small campus–less than a mile away–and within a magical nanosecond I was chatting about my career and my resume with Dr. Sissy Crowther who, at the time, was the dean of the Humanities Division.
“Teach two Technical Writing classes as an adjunct?”
Luckily, I think fast and negotiate even faster:
“Sure. I’d love to teach Technical Writing, but I’d love it even more if I could also teach American Literature.”
“You live in Edinburg?”
“Yes.”
“How about an American Lit from 7-10pm at our offsite Luray High School facility? That’s just over the mountain from you. And maybe you’d like a Saturday morning American Lit that we’re offering also offsite at Warren County High School in Front Royal?”
“Absolutely!”
To be sure, Dr. Crowther had just filled in some gaps in her Fall 1999 class schedule. What she did not know, however, was this. When she asked me to teach those classes at Lord Fairfax Community College, she opened the door that my third-grade dream walked through. Now was the time of fulfillment. I had arrived. I was home.
In the next nanosecond I was in my cabin, on my mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, United States of America, Planet Happiness and Dreams Come True. To this day, I do not believe–nor shall I ever believe–that my Jeep Wrangler took me there.
I did not know then that in the class schedule, under the instructor column, I would be listed as STAFF.
I did not know then that adjunct pay was low, pitifully low.
I did not know then that the American Lit classes I had agreed to teach so readily were the ones that full-time faculty had no desire to teach–at night, on Saturday, and in high-school buildings that didn’t feel like college.
Even if I had known, it would not have mattered.
All that mattered was that my childhood dream had come true.
All that mattered was that I felt at home.
All that mattered was that I was part of an academic family.
Now fast forward with me, past more than 7,000 students and more than 250 classes that anchored me morning and night during a 23-year teaching career that happened magically at a community college, right in my own back yard.
Now fast forward to January 1, 2023, when another turning point punctuated my life.
I decided to bring my teaching career to a close and to reinvent myself. Notice that I did NOT say that I retired. Retire and reinvent are two entirely different words and two entirely different worlds. Trust me: I mince no words about the difference. Trust me again: I respect both worlds. It’s simply that I am not ready to do that R-t-r- thing. All those who know me know that I keep it simple and call it the “R” thing.
Since then, I have been dynamically engaged in teaching a stellar class of one admiring student: me. Subjects? Research. Writing. Publishing. With two books to my credit in 2023 and with two more on the horizon for 2024, what can I say other than my Reinvention is all that I hoped it would be.
As you might imagine, I love talking with others about my journey, and I can be as serious or as silly as they would have me be.
Obviously, when Andy Gyurisin, Development Officer, Office of the Foundation, Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) invited me to speak at the November 1, 2023, Retirees Brunch and Learn, I accepted immediately, especially after he told me that he wanted a light-hearted, humorous presentation.
I jokingly warned Andy from the start that I would be poking fun at me, at him, at the college, at my adjunct teaching days and more.
“Go for it. It will be fun.”
The beauty, of course, about poking fun at colleagues whom you love is knowing that the tight family bonds will make the humor all the brighter.
MY MOMENT AS AN UNPAID COMEDIAN.
Andy, thank you so much!
My goodness! What can I say! Isn’t it amazing how home always feel like home?
How many of you feel as if you’re home? That’s great!
As for me, all I can say is this. Based on how I look these days—especially when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror and all the hair that I don’t have is standing up all over my head, I say to myself:
“Good God. HOME. You belong in … a home.“
Actually, I started feeling at home as soon as Andy invited me to talk. I agreed immediately, without even asking about the speaker’s fee, that I was sure I wouldn’t be getting anyway.
But you know what they say:
“You get what you pay for.”
So, folks, you ain’t gettin’ much from me, not even good grammar. You can thank Andy!
§ § §
Damn! That felt good. Saying damn felt good, too.
What else might have felt good if I had had the nerve to say it on the first day of class—you know—back in the day when I was teaching, especially in my adjunct days?
How many of you started as an adjunct?
Remember the pay back then? Maybe you’ve been able to put it out of your mind. I haven’t. It was nightmarish.
So, let’s see. If I had had the nerve back then, maybe something like this would have flown out of my mouth when I walked into class that first day:
“Good morning, young scholars! You know the old saying, ‘You get what you pay for?'”
They’d just sit there and stare and not reply, not even nod. Then I’d shock them with:
“Well, I’m an adjunct. I’m not being paid much, so you’re not going to get much!”
(President Blosser, you might want to put your fingers in your ears. It gets worse. Like I said: I ain’t bein’ paid much!)
Or how about wanting to say this to your students. You know the situation. You walk into class, all hyped up to talk about Dynamical Systems & Differential Equations or The Single Theory of Gravity or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire or, God forbid, something literary like the really good stuff that students love, like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. And there you stand.
“Good morning, young scholars. Does anyone have any questions?”
“Professor, I have a question, but it’s probably a dumb one.”
You know what comes next. The fixed smile. The formulaic response.
“Thanks, Casey. There’s no such thing as a dumb question except the one that doesn’t get asked.”
Deep down inside, you’re dying to scream:
“Guess what? There are dumb questions. Why don’t you just keep your dumb question to yourself.”
Can you relate?
§ § §
But it’s not always about the money. We all know that! After all, we taught at a community college.
Sometimes it’s enough just to see your name in the lights or on an invitation.
I confess. I was hoping to see my name on the invitation to today’s brunch and learn—whatever the hell that is; you won’t be learning a thing from me—but I hoped to see my name on it anyway, just so I could add the event to the resume that I no longer need.
Sure, enough. I got my invitation. I opened it up with great anticipation. Yep. I was right. No speaker’s fee and no mention of my name.
Yep. Made me feel right at home.
§ § §
Actually, it took me back to 1999 when I started teaching here as an adjunct. I was so excited. It was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.
I could hardly wait for the class schedule to come out.
It did. I was thrilled.
I found all of my classes listed. You know, the ones at times of day that full-time faculty never want and never fight to get: 7-10 at night. And in places where full-time faculty are never thrilled to go in the dark. Luray High School. Warren County High School.
But it’s all good. I had landed myself a job teaching, and I was so eager to send that schedule to my folks back home in West Virginia so they could see that I had arrived.
And sure enough—just like the invitation—my name did NOT appear on the schedule. What do you think appeared in the Instructor Column for my classes? What do you think appeared?
Yep. You got it. STAFF.
Anyone else remember those days?
§ § §
But you know what I did when I saw STAFF on that schedule? You know what I did?
I did it just for the sake of consistency, nothing more. I certainly not do it to get even or anything like that.
If I’m STAFF on the schedule, well, hell! I’ll be Professor Staff on my syllabi, too.
It took my dean three years to notice what I was doing. What else is new?
(Morgan, don’t look so alarmed. You weren’t my dean then. Anyway, it took you five or six years to figure out my shenanigans.)
§ § §
OK. This is really funny! But it’s true. The other day when I was at Sheetz pumping gas—a whole dollar’s worth; got it? A dollar’s worth—that’s all that I can afford these days. Anyway, there I stood, head down, facing the pump, so no one would see me.
Lo and behold from three islands away, someone yelled:
“Hey, Professor Staff!“
§ § §
But here’s what I want to know? Have any of you—since you did that R thing—had to pump gas only to discover that you were down to your last dollar?
Come on: let me see hands. You’re pumping gas and only have a dollar to your name?
Just what I figured. I guess that I should have retired, too. But I decided to be different.
OK. What else is new? I’m always different.
So to be different this time, I decided to reinvent myself.
Obviously, you’re getting a better paycheck than I’m getting.
§ § §
But that’s okay. Reinvention has had some good sides to it.
For starters, I took $400 cash, instead of the rocking chair. I wonder. How many of you opted for the rocking chair?
That’s great! You all rock!
(President Blosser, I hope you noticed. Did you see all those hands that didn’t go up? It might be time to reconsider the rocking chair.)
As for me, I didn’t need to consider or reconsider.
I took my money and bought myself a gorgeous coral bracelet. Yep. That’s what I did. See. Take a gander. I think it rocks, too.
When I finish, you all can come up close to get a better look while you drool.
For those of you who took the rocking chair, I’ve got a sweet deal for you. Let me see your hands again.
Great. I’ll visit you at your home so that you can see my bracelet while you rock … and drool.
§ § §
I don’t know about what you’ve experienced since you retired, but since I started reinventing myself—got it? Reinventing. There’s a difference!–I’ve heard some really silly if not downright dumb retirement jokes.
I sure hope that you haven’t heard them. You’re going to hear them again.
Question: When is a retiree’s bedtime? Answer: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.
Question: How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Only one, but it might take all day.
Question: Why does a retiree often say he doesn’t miss work but misses the people he used to work with? Answer: He’s too polite to tell the whole truth.
§ § §
I also get asked some really dumb questions, far dumber than the ones my students never asked. I mean, really dumb.
Just the other day, my phone rang. It was a friend. Like you, they retired. They know, though, that I did NOT do that R thing. They know fully well fully well that I’m reinventing myself.
Dingaling. Dingaling. Dingaling.
Joy of all bored joys. Someone’s calling!
“Hey. How’s it going.”
“Good. Real good. I don’t imagine that I interrupted anything important did I?”
“Nope. I’m just lying on the couch, counting the ceiling tiles that I don’t have, just to pass the time.”
Idiot! They know fully well that I have a schedule just as rigid as the one that I didn’t have when I was teaching. These days I’m just doing a little research here and there and a little writing here and there. But you know, when you do those little things, your entire life is so loosey-goosey.
§ § §
Yep. Loosey-goosey. That’s how I managed to get two books published this year.
I need to see some hands. How many of you would have the nerve to write about foolin’ around in bed with whoever it is that you’re foolin’ around with?
Just what I thought. You did that R thing. You’re probably not foolin’ around with anybody. You should have reinvented yourself, like I did. Then you could have invited anybody and everybody to hop in bed with you, the way more than 7,000 people have hopped in bed with me since I got smart and reinvented myself.
I mean just look here. It’s a gorgeous book. Hard is really gorgeous. Feels good. Soft is gorgeous, too. It feels good, too, but hard feels lots better. If you want to feel it, buy your own dang copy!
§ § §
Then while I’m counting ceiling tiles that I don’t have—you know, just to pass away my idle days—I cranked out another book: Green Mountain Stories.
It’s a gorgeous book, too. It’s available in hard copy only. It feels so good. But again, if you want to feel it, buy it!
And I am not going to tell you what it’s about. If you want to know, buy it. And shame on you if you don’t. You need to get some learning and find out all about Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, especially you women who have probably never heard of her. Shame on you. Shame I say. Shame. Buy your own copy and get some smarts.
And while you’re buying those books, remember the gifting season is fast upon us. These books will be the perfect gift—an absolutely pluperfect gift—that you can give yourself, your family, your friends—and, perhaps, even your enemies, especially the ones who think folks like me have no busy sharing with the world the shenanigans that I’ve been carrying on in bed.
§ § §
Come on now. You can be as green about my two books as you want to be—and some of you are showing color already—but don’t be jealous. Please don’t. Let me tell you why.
When I taught Creative Writing, I always told my students—even the really superior ones that I never had:
“Don’t give up your day job. Got it? Don’t give up your day job.”
And what do you think I did? What do you think I did? Come on: give it up. What do you think I did?
I went and gave up my day job. Well, it wasn’t much of one anyway, and the pay was pitifully low. But the royalty payments I’m getting from these two books are lower. Actually, the payments are pathetic. Plumb pathetic. They weren’t too bad the first month or two. $370. $276. $180. $85. Then those payments went from little to less to almost nothing. I got a check yesterday—yes, a check, a paper check; I didn’t know they even existed anymore—a whopping $1.85.
Yep. I should have listened to the advice that I gave: Don’t give up your day job!
§ § §
All right. I’m about to wrap things up. I realize that I’ll be ending far short of the three hours that Andy said I couldn’t have, but remember: you get what you pay for and …
I wish that I had time to talk about some of the really fun essays in my book In Bed. Truthfully, they’re all funny. They are! Want proof? Fine. I’ll give you some.
One reviewer said: “The essays are most philosophical, but what I’m drawn to most often is the humor.”
Here’s another: “Engaging, poignant, humorous, heart-felt. A must read.” Did you get that? “A must read.” (Thank you, Dr. Cheryl.)
Here’s another: “Universal appeal and connectivity. Souls gathered around a complex and intriguing thought or proposition. Whimsical observations turned into moments of community meaning.” (Thank you, Morgan.)
How’s this for a final review comment. There are lots more, of course, but I’m running out of time: But how’s this: “Reminds me of Dave Berry and his dry sarcasm and satire.” OMG. I think I died and went to Heaven.
§ § §
Sadly, I won’t get to amuse you with any of the things that I hadn’t planned to amuse you with. Like …
1. How I’m keeping my house clean…by having imaginary guests.
2. How I’m staying fit as a fiddle…the inefficient way
3. How I’m enjoying living with a writer … me.
I wish that I could talk about those and more, but I can’t. Andy was as cheap with my time as he was with my speaker’s fee.
Anyway, you’ll find all those topics and more In Bed. So, go buy your own dang copy! And when you do, I hope that you’ll read all 55 essays in bed, which is exactly where I wrote them, night after night.
§ § §
Andy, thank you so much for inviting me to speak.
Colleagues, thank you all so much for coming out.
It really is great to be home despite all of my banter. Laurel Ridge will always hold a special place in my heart. It opened its doors to me way back in 1999 in ye olden Lord Fairfax Community College days. When those doors opened, my childhood dream of becoming a college professor came true.
Whatever you’re doing since you did that R thing, I hope that you are having as much fun as I’m having with my own reinvention!
“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.
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 allI 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 BAGFINDINGS.
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 toAfterlife 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.
“Right on top is my gift card, from me to me. Is that special or what? If I don’t deserve the best, who does? In my card, I remind myself of how awesome I am, and I tell myself not only to enjoy my gift but also to remember that I deserve it as a bonus for suffering through the arduous rigors of reinventing myself once again.”
–The Wired Researcher (b. 1947; Acclaimed and Self-Effacing Educator, Essayist, Green Mountain Scholar, and Humourist, Waiting for Long-Overdue New York Times Recognition.)
Listen up, folks, I need to clear the air right from the start. I’m no shop-til-you-drop fanatic. Seriously, I’m not. My shopping stamina peaks somewhere around a leisurely stroll in my online shopping wonderland. I mean, I do love to shop but not in stores. Shopping in stores takes far too much time. I have to drive to the store, walk up and down all of the aisles, paw over every single item that I might be interested in and even a few that I’m not interested in at all, stand in line to pay, and then drive back home. Also, if I want to do comparison shopping–and who doesn’t?–I have to drive around to another store or three or nine. Then, eleven times out of thirteen, I’ll end up right back at the first store where I started my nonsensical in-store shopping. Then, I have to drive back home. Been there. Done that. One time, too many. I do not like it.
But like I said, I love shopping. For a long, long time, I’ve done most of my shopping online. In bed, head resting on my pillows. Almost exclusively.
“Say whaaaaat?“
Yep. Why not? I can order it tonight and get it yesterday at my front door, or if I use Amazon–and who doesn’t?–I can get it the day before yesterday or sooner.
Many people have lots of legit concerns about online shopping. But I think the plusses outweigh the negatives. Relax. Kick back. Chill with me. If you’re not in the online shopping camp, I won’t try to walk you across the line. However, you might enjoy reading about a few of my own experiences as well as some of my own observations about how to recognize a solid merchant when you’re thinking about an online purchase.
In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. In one word: Nope. In all my years of shopping online, I have had only one scare. Once, someone managed to get my card number and tried to buy a $2,700 Cesare Attolini man’s suit at the acclaimed E–y Mo-e–ii- store in Naples! Luckily, American Express monitors my purchases–using parameters that I established–and stopped the transaction. But hey! If I’m going to be defrauded, at least I want it to be by someone with exquisite taste! Actually, I’m hoping that the buyer–notice that I have kept the fraudster genderless–got to touch the suit for a fleeting second and enjoy its velvety luxuriousness. As for me, a former community college professor who can barely afford to reinvent himself, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I could ever afford my fraudster’s attempted lifestyle. Vicarious theft will have to suffice for me.
Ironically, credit card fraud is not the biggest concern that my friends and family express to me about online shopping.
Appalled. Yep. That’s what they are. They sound something like this:
“It would never fit. The dresses never run true to size.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Not try them on? That’s half the fun of shopping for clothes.”
“I have to feel it. I simply won’t buy it if I haven’t felt it.”
Well, to each their own. As for me, it’s a given: I don’t want to try on clothes that God only knows who all has tried on already. As for the fabric, unless I’m mistaken, 100% linen always feels like 100% linen, and 100% cotton always feels like 100% cotton. I mean, really. Come on. Why all the fuss?
I know what I want, so I have no need to scope out the entire clothesscape. I know my size, and it runs true. I know my preferred fabrics, and I’m sticking with them. So, for me, it’s settled. I’ll be loyal to the two clothing purveyors that meet my needs: Joseph Banks and Paul Frederick. When it comes to shoes, I have two more purveyors that have proved true as well. When I order online from them, I can count on the size being right and on the leather being genuine: Bostonian and Clarks. What’s even sweeter is that I can get my shoes Broken In already. I think that’s what it’s called. Hmm. Maybe it’s Ready to Wear? Gently Worn? Well, whatever. It’s not by some stranger who probably wouldn’t want to walk in my shoes even if I’d let them. Instead, it’s by some robot who has nothing else to do but walk around all day in strangers’ shoes. Well. As I always say, different strokes for different folks. But those break-in steps sure do flex my soles.
The same thing holds for my underwear and my socks. Good God, no. I don’t mean that they’ve been Broken In already. (Don’t get me going there.) I simply mean that I know my size and my preferred fabric for those things, too, so it’s perfectly safe and okay for me to be clingy.
Sometimes, though, when I’m shopping for clothing, I like to be bold and step outside my comfort zone. A year or so ago, for example, I spotted some shirts on sale online from a clothier in London, just a stone’s throw Across the Pond. I knew as soon as I clicked that it had to be good, if not better. Sure ’nuff. When my button-down-collar broadcloth shirts arrived, the cut was for a real man with a real man’s full chest, just like mine. Those Brits know the measure of a man, and they know how to value him. Aside from their manly cut, here’s more proof. After I placed my order, they did not email me that my shirts had been shipped, as merchants do on this side of the Pond. Instead, they sent me an email that was suited to my status:
“Dear Dr. Kendrick,
We are pleased to let you know that your custom order has been dispatched.”
Dispatched. Don’t you just love it? I do. I long for a world where everything is dispatched. And the email was signed by Nicholas Wheeler, the Founder of Charles Tyrwhitt. Wow. I take great comfort in knowing that if I want respect, I know where I can buy it.
Needless to say, Charles Tyrwhitt is my new best clothing bud. I like their clothing well enough that recently I ordered a pair of their Chinos. They arrived just a few days ago, and I was thrilled when I looked at my package. My pants had gone through Customs and had to be inspected. God only knows who pawed all over them. I’m intrigued and cannot help but wonder. It doesn’t really matter, though, since I always launder my clothing before I wear it. So, I washed and dried the pants and gave them a hearty shake-a-roo–you never, just never, iron Chinos and don’t even think about creasing them–and then I put them on. They fit perfectly and feel as if I’ve been washing them forever. Soft never felt so Chinos before.
But hold your stylish horses; I can’t resist spinning more tales of my online buying escapades. I’ve talked about threads, but now it’s time to unravel the stories of my other online retail dalliances. I buy my bedding from Down Under. I love the quality of the linen as well as the range of colors, plus their sizes run large, as do their men who are among the tallest in the world. They always fit my extra deep mattress with no straps required to tie them down, and they stay snugly in place. (Obvs. I mean the sheets, not the men. You got that. Right? Of course.) I guess that’s why I’ve been foolin’ around with In Bed for several years now, and every night when I hop in bed, the bedding down keeps getting better and better.
Part of my fun in buying from Down Under and from Across the Pond is tracking my purchases. I like to see where they stop en route to me. Why, sometimes I make believe that I’m traveling along on my own little mini vacay, for example, as my sheets and pillowcases, move from Sidney to San Francisco to New York to DC to the FedEx Distribution Center in Harrisonburg (VA). I always hear the FedEx Driver grinding his way up my washboard gravel road. He’ll not sneak up on me. I’m always waiting and meet him at my door to accept my delivery. When the box arrives at my front door and I open it, I am always amazed by the careful packaging those In Bed Aussies give their sheets: they’re in a hinged box with a twisting vine design, and the bedding is secured in place by a brocade ribbon matching the linen. Right on top is my gift card, from me to me. Is that special or what? If I don’t deserve the best, who does? I remind myself of how awesome I am, and on my card, I tell myself not only to enjoy my gift but also to remember that I deserve it as a bonus for suffering through the arduous rigors of reinventing myself once again. More important, perhaps, is this: the sheets and pillowcases are folded so meticulously that I can’t find one single solitary wrinkle, unless I happen to look in the wrong direction and catch a glimpse of me myself in the mirror. (Aside to me myself: take down that mirror!)
Aside from bedding and clothing, I procure many other things online, too, notably hard-to-find, exotic foods.
Most recently, I ordered a whole dried squid online. Yes. It was a squid. In my book, a squid is a squid is a squid. I know fully well that culinary books talk about calamari, and I know that they are not exactly the same. Calamari are smaller and have a more tender texture. Tough. I refuse to call a squid a calamari.Hooey Phooey! Calling it by any name other than what it is will not–cannot–make it taste any better than it tastes, already. Besides, I like watching people do the Tentacle Dance when I walk in the room and announce squid as our appetizer.
Anyway, I had to have this whole dried squid so that I could make authentic Taiwanese Squid Soup, one of my all-time favorites. After years of searching, I finally found an authentic recipe. That’s why I had to buy myself a dried squid.
What I didn’t know until I received the tracking number was that the squid was being shipped from Mainland China. Hot damn! This wouldn’t be one of my little mini vaycays. I’d have myself a full vacation by the time it reached me.
I kept checking daily to see where the squid was traveling. It didn’t seem to be moving at all. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect it to be traversing the ocean floor in its usual graceful and undulating locomotion. It was, after all, deadanddried. But it had to be somewhere in China. A week or two went by, and I had no location updates, and my vacation depended on those updates. Finally, an email disclosed all. My dried squid was in Guangzhou, a major shipping city. Well, major or minor, it just seemed to hang out there. Since it was a dried squid, after all, no big deal. Several more weeks passed, and I still had no further updates. Hmmm. I texted my Linden (VA) correspondent, who’s practically my online shopping guardian angel when it comes to my internationalhonor(able) purchases. Below are tentacles from our messages spanning several weeks.
WIRED: I need to see where my squid is.
LINDEN CORRESPONDENT (LC): Your squid is going on its farewell tour.
WIRED: My squid has made it from China’s Great Wall to Los Angeles.
LC: And where is the squid?
WIRED: Sitting in CA. But I’m ready when it arrives.
LC: Tell it to catch a wave.
WIRED: The squid arrived. They scrunched it all up in a little package. They probably killed it.
LC: So, soup tomorrow?
WIRED: Depends on how long it takes me to bring the squid back to life.
I took photos of my world-traveling squid and shared with LC before and after I soaked it for nearly 24 hours. I swear. For a moment I thought that I saw it move:
LC: Ah! Now THAT looks like squid!
WIRED: Yes. It’s smelling. like an ocean breeze.
To LC’s horror, but to my squid-loving delight, I unveiled my Taiwanese Dried Squid Soup on Monday, September 4. It was the ultimate way to Celebrate Labor Day. Who needs to work hard when you’ve got a tentacled twist on an all-American holiday tradition? It seems thinking outside the box is my birthright.
I just realized that this pillow-talk post about online shopping could feather itself into a book, maybe even a multivolume one. I still have hundreds of stories to share with you. Let’s see how fast I can fluff up this part. (DISCLAIMER: I am not an affiliate of any of the merchants above or below. Click to your heart’s content. Nary a penny will find its way back to me! FURTHER DISCLAIMER: The litany of merchants was not influenced at all by Justin Bieber’s “Peaches,” but sometimes a tune gets stuck in my head. Just sayin’.)
● I get my pork out in Tennessee from Porter Road Butcher: “Life-changing meat, delivered.”
● I get my chicken and duck up to the North from D’Artagnan Meats in New Jersey: “Food raised right tastes better.”
● I get my beef and lamb up in New York from Lobel’s: “For six generations … purveyors of fine meats dedicated to the highest standards.”
● I get lots of seafood up in New York, too, from Citarella: “Seriously Fresh Seafood Shipped Overnight.”
● I get my live oysters and some other seafood, up in New York, too, from Fulton Fish Market: “From the Sea to Your Door.”
You’ll have to wait until the book’s publication to sniff out the purveyors that I use for Baklava, cheeses, chocolates, dates, exotic meats, figs, exotic fruits, spices and much, much more.
But you won’t have to wait to get the low-down on why I think my merchants are top-notch.
They offer High-Quality Products, and they take pride in what they offer. They have User Friendly Websites that allow a seamless online shopping experience. Obviously, they are Reliable. They deliver on their promises, provide accurate product descriptions as well as pricing, and shipping details. I can rely on them to fulfill my order promptly and accurately. Somewhere in the blend, I have to include Transparency because my merchants are upfront about their policies, including return and refund procedures, shipping costs, customer support, and contact information. Finally, they provide Excellent Customer Service. They offer responsive and helpful customer support through various channels like live chat, email, or phone. If I have an issue or inquiry, they make resolving them a priority.
OMG, that trait just reminded me of a recent online purchase. Trust me. It wasn’t a smooth ride. It was a tale of pillows, MyDearReaders, and it’s what inspired this post.
Funny thing is, I didn’t really need new pillows. But being the side sleeper that I am, I couldn’t resist those online pillows custom-made for folks like me. So, one evening–probably with a shot or three of Bunnahabhain Single Malt Scotch Whisky in hand–I impulsively placed an order.
A day or three later, an email pinged in, announcing the shipment of my pillows from our side of the Pond, where everything is shipped and nothing is dispatched. Since my online shopping delight includes tracking my deliveries to my front door, I was determined to ensure that neither stranger nor robot had snuggled up with my pillows. I was going to break them in myself.
The tracking journey began for the pillows I’d ordered from the Sl–p-gr-m. I checked daily. Concern crept in when the delivery date status showed “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.” Not ideal. But I’m a patient soul. I gave it a full week before shooting off an email to the company. They responded with apologies and promised to send a fresh pair.
Guess what? Three days later, I checked the status. You won’t believe it, but the new shipment displayed the same “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.” Frustration brewed, especially when my emails went unanswered. Fed up, I threatened to contact American Express and dispute the charge. That got their attention. They assured me an immediate refund.
But here’s where things get really amusing. Sl–p-gr-m initiated a special search with UPS for both shipments. Ironically, all the tracking info was linked to me since I was the customer. Weeks later, an email revealed that the packages had been found and were in transit.
“Sweet,” I thought. “They must be sending the pillows as a goodwill gesture.”
Wrong! Another email came, and you won’t believe it: the pillows were in transit back to the company.
Now, it gets really funny. Both shipments are still on their way back home to Sl–p-gr-m. When I last checked, the status remained “IN TRANSIT–ARRIVAL DATE PENDING.”
As a wise friend once said, “What goes over the devil’s back comes under his belly again.”
And me? I scream joyfully:
“Karma!”
Well, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. But, as luck would have it, while I was on this whimsical journey of pillow karma, I stumbled upon Saatva, a company offering the perfect pillows for side sleepers. They may not have been cheap, but as they say, you get what you pay for.
Now, here I am, enjoying the luxurious comfort of these new King-sized pillows as I wrap up this whimsical tale of pillow-talk karma. It’s been quite a ride, from inexplicably vanishing pillows to international escapades, all while joyfully shopping online. And you know what? It’s been one heck of an adventure, one I’ll treasure as I rest my head on my new, heavenly pillows, giving my head and my heart the Karmic peace they deserve.
The Wired Researcher 