Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.

Posted on September 25, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The best journey takes you home.”
–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)

Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.

The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.

In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.

When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:

“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”

I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.

Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.

“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”

I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.

I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.

§ § §

Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.

Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:

“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”

Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.

Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.

Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?

Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:

“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.

But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:

“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.

My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?

Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.

As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.

Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.

Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.

Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.

Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.

Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?

§ § §

Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:

“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”

Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.

But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.

The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)

The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.

The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.

The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.

The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!

Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.

Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.

§ § §

I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.

“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”

I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.

Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.

Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.

Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.

Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.

Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.

Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.

As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!

Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.

But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.

Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).

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

Posted on August 21, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.”
—Gertrude Jekyll (1843–1932; a British horticulturist, garden designer, artist, and writer.)

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

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

“Say whaaaattt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fern: And then?

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

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

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

Fern: Revenge is ours!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Published. IN BED: MY YEAR OF FOOLIN’ AROUND

Posted on May 8, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Take my word for it. I never—absolutely never–intended to fool around in bed, certainly not every day, seven days a week, for an entire year.“
from “An Invitation to Join the Author
In Bed” (5-12).

QUICK QUESTION:

What does it take to write a book?

QUICK ANSWER:

● 6,625 readers.

● 59 countries.

● 1 year.

● 1 bed.

● 1 writer.

EXPANDED ANSWER:

That’s how many readers I’ve had since my blog went weekly on December 28, 2021. That’s how many countries my readers represent. That’s how long I spent writing the blog posts. That’s the bed where I wrote them. And I’m the writer. No foolin’.

NOW, 57 of those essays, reflecting the best of the best, have been published in a book that is exquisite from cover to cover and every page of the 346 pages in between. It’s available on Amazon or Barnes & Noble, or you can order it from your favorite local bookstore!

TAKE A LOOK AT THE BRILLIANT COVER!

Surely you recognize ME! I’m smackdab in the middle of my bed writing a blog post about foolin’ around with some well-known writers. Mark Twain and Truman Capote are on the floor at the foot of the bed, blowing smoke rings at one another. Imagine! They’ve got some nerve! Acclaimed artist/illustrator Mike Caplanis gets credit for the caricature based on one of the book’s essays, “Foolin’ Around in Bed with Famous (and Not-So-Famous) Writers” (249-53).

WHAT’S THE BOOK ALL ABOUT? See for yourself.

“Fresh and refreshing through and through.” I love it! Other ADVANCE PRAISES grace the dust jacket of the hardcover book.

“A MUST READ” impresses me so much that I just repeated it and made it all caps and all bold! Dayumn! I like it so much that I want to shout it again: “A MUST READ.” (Thank you, Cheryl Thompson-Stacy!)

IN BED: MY YEAR OF FOOLIN’ AROUND is available in hardcover, paperback, and Kindle. I recommend the hardcover. It costs a little more, but it feels so much better than the paperback. What can I say other than there’s something extraordinarily extraordinary about a book that has its own dust jacket!

The publication of this book is an historic and timely solution for every gift-giving occasion that might be coming your way for the rest of the year, if not for the rest of your life. And let me add: may your life be long, healthy, and prosperous and may you keep right on buying copy after copy of IN BED. It’s the perfect gift. Right here. Right now. You do not need to look any further. And while you’re buying multiple copies for gift-giving, remember that IN BED is also the perfect gift for all of your friends … and enemies.

Thank you, DEAR READERS, for all of your support. I have no idea how you found your way into my life, but knowing that you are out there reading my posts strengthens me and uplifts me whenever I need to be strengthened and uplifted.

Time’s a wastin’. ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY on Amazon or Barnes & Noble. Or you can or order it from your favorite local bookstore!

More Mishaps & Memories

Posted on April 24, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“I’ve learned so much from my mistakes … I’m thinking of making some more.”
Cheryl Cole (b. 1983; English singer and television personality.)

Well, I don’t know about you, but this past week has been quite a week for me. I daresay that it would have been for you, too, if you had disclosed as much about yourself–for the whole world to see–as I did last week in my “M & M’s: Mishaps and Memories.”

I mean, it wasn’t too bad that I fessed up to not remembering the mishap that prompted the post in the first place, and it wasn’t too bad that I shared two foot-in-mouth mishaps. But what on earth possessed me–at the end of the post–to mention my IQ test.

Without a doubt, I did not need to bring up my IQ. Even now, after considerable reflection, I don’t know why I did. It’s not as if I don’t have an IQ. I do. But–brace yourself–I had to take my IQ test twice to find out my score.

Right now, the foot in my mouth is getting harder and harder to swallow, so I had just as well tell you all about my IQ test mishap so that I can gulp–and you can gasp–and we can all be done with it.

I was in the third grade. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention to the test directions. I don’t remember. I just thought that it was one more fun thing to do on one more fun-filled school day. And everything was going along just fine until I got to the third test question. It was a math question, and it must have been a real challenge. I kept working away on it, and just when I figured out the answer, the exam time was up.

I flunked my IQ test.

“What do you mean? Of course, Brentford Lee has an IQ.”

“But it can’t be determined because he only answered three questions. He didn’t finish the test.”

“Well, give it to him again and make sure he knows that he has to answer all the questions.”

The whole mishap was more embarrassing for my parents than it was for me. It didn’t bother me too much because, in my mind, I blamed them. After all, they were the ones who had taught me:

If a job is once begun

Never leave until it’s done.

Be it’s labor great or small,

Do it well or not at all.

Naturally, when I was challenged by that math question, it became my job. I kept working on it all the way to the end of the exam time. In my mind, that question became my great labor. I was fiercely determined to figure it out. Until I did–and I did, eventually–I couldn’t begin to think about all those other questions. In my mind, they didn’t even exist.

Well, like I said, I had to take the test again to establish for someone’s benefit that I had an IQ. I guess I showed them a thing or two because I didn’t have to take it a third time.

But don’t ask me to tell you my IQ score. I can no more remember it than I can remember my Myers-Briggs personality type. I always have to have Jenni remind me. (Dear Readers, you do remember Jenni, right? She’s my dear colleague, who set me up for this mishaps-and-memories nonsense in the first place.) Anyway, I’m 75% certain that I’m an ENFJ. It’s the 25% J part that always causes me to ask Jenny. Unlike me, she remembers everything.

Here. I’ll prove it. I just sent her a text message:

What is my Myers Briggs type?

If I recall correctly, aren’t you ENFP?

P?

I know the E and P for sure. The other two I think are right…

See. I told you. Jenni remembered. I am ENFP, and I’m sticking with it for now.

Wow! I’m glad that I told you all about my IQ mishap.

Now I can move on.

I mentioned last week that the mishap that sparked last week’s post might have had something to do with cooking or baking.

Now, however, I don’t think that it had anything to do with baking. I have shared my one memorable baking mishap already in my “Baking Up My Past.” Remember? In my first childhood baking adventure, I measured the baking powder incorrectly. Neither I nor my mother knew until batter oozed out the door of our South Bend, woodburning-cookstove, onto the kitchen floor.

Obviously, I have had other baking mishaps down through the years. But I have my reputation to protect–in my own mind, at least, even if nowhere else–so I’ll keep those to myself.

As for cooking mishaps, I do have one that always makes me laugh. It proves, once again, how naive and innocent and unschooled I am in the ways of the world.

I’m not certain, however, that it can be considered cooking. Is popping popcorn cooking? And it involves a microwave. I’m fairly certain that preparing anything in a microwave can not be considered cooking.

Nonetheless, here’s the laughable mishap that might have been related to cooking, depending on your culinary views.

For years, I would have nothing to do with microwaves. But the time came when my oldest sister Audrey talked me into letting her gift me with a microwave. As near as I can remember, it would have been around 1994 when my now full-time home in the Shenandoah Valley was then just a weekend getaway. She thought that I could use the microwave, if for nothing else, for popping popcorn. I mean, who doesn’t like popcorn? So I accepted her gift, not realizing how big the microwave was nor how much it weighed. It was, after all, 1994, and by then microwaves had advanced a lot, and they were much smaller than the commercial refrigerator-sized RadarRanges that Raytheon brought out in the 1940s. I assumed that my gift would be modern and small, too.

Small? Not. It was huge. It took up nearly all of the island counter space in what was then my super-small, weekend kitchen.

But, hey. I’m always up for a popping good time. So I bought a box of Jolly Time popcorn packets.

I put a pack in my clunker microwave and stood there in full anticipation.

Nothing. No popping sounds. No popcorn aromas.

Nothing.

I tried again. Nothing. As my IQ test mishap demonstrates, I don’t give up. I went through the entire damn box and my entire damn evening. Nothing.

The next day, I took the box and all of the unpopped packets back to the store.

“I want to get my Jolly Time money back. This popcorn must be old. None of it would pop.”

I walked away with a refund.

A few weeks later, my sister called to see how I was enjoying the microwave.

I told her about my disappointing popcorn experience.

“What cooking mode did you have it on?”

“Say whaat? Cooking mode?”

She explained the controls and the various options.

“Run into the kitchen and check. I’ll stay on the line.”

I was back in a sec.

“It’s on … Defrost.”

Dang. Defrost. Needless to say, I felt like an idiot. For some reason, I never did like that microwave after that memorable mishap.

At last, I remember the mishap that started all of these confessions. It was decidedly a technological mishap, even more embarrassing than the microwave one.

This mishap happened in the late 1980s or early 1990s when Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone introduced Caller ID to its subscribers in Washington, DC. I had just launched my own side gig–Potomac Research Organization (PRO)–and I felt a compelling need to monitor my incoming calls.

Instanter I went downtown and bought myself new phones so that I would know who was calling me.

As soon as I installed them, I called my sister in Richmond:

“Hey. I just bought these new Caller ID phones. Call me so I can see who’s calling.”

She did. Her name and number did not show up on my phone.

I did the same thing with my oldest sister in West Virginia.

She called me. Again, her name and number did not show up on my phone.

I unplugged my phones, boxed them up, and on Monday, I marched in the store, asking that my defective phones be replaced.

What do you mean by defective?

I explained in detail my two “test” experiments with my two sisters.

The salesperson looked at me with a smirky smile that still makes me cringe:

“Have you enrolled in Caller ID with Chesapeake and Potomac?”

“Say whaaaaat? Do you mean to tell me that I have to buy new phones AND enroll in Caller ID? Well, I have never.”

I got my money back, and I was perfectly happy living my life exactly as I had been living it: answering my phone without knowing who was calling. Or not answering it at all.

Yes, indeed! Caller ID was the mishap that sparked the idea for last week’s post and for this one, too.

I wish that I could say that I have learned a lot from my mishaps. I haven’t. And I wish that I could say that I won’t have any more mishaps. But I will. And I will keep right on laughing through all the memories.

M & M’s: Mishaps & Memories

Posted on April 17, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To make mistakes is human; to stumble is commonplace; to be able to laugh at yourself is maturity.”
William Arthur Ward (1921-1994; American motivational writer.)

Memory of an elephant. Yep. That’s exactly what I’ve got, and you–My Dear Readers–can vouch for me. As you know, I can drone on and on about many things, especially about my elephant memory. I did so just week before last in “Dating after Twenty-Three.” Remember? Of course, you do.

But here’s the thing. For this week’s post, I’m in a bit of a pickle. I’m having a memory lapse.

Don’t worry. I’m sure that it’s minor, and I’m sure that it’s momentary. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what the hell this post is supposed to be about. I don’t mean in the broadest sense of its content. Of course, I know that fully well: mishaps and memories.

The idea sparked as miraculously as spontaneous combustion one day last fall when a dear colleague and I were exchanging lighthearted banter, and I ended up fessing up to one of the many mishaps that I’ve suffered down through the years that ended up as memories.

As soon as I shared it with her, she quipped:

“That would be an excellent angle for one of your blog posts.”

I agreed. Almost immediately, I started a draft and made it as far as the preliminary title: “Mishaps and Memories.” In an instant, the two M’s seemed sweet enough to melt in my mouth, so the working title became the final title of today’s delectable treat: “M & M’s: Mishaps & Memories.”

Immediately, I loved the quadruple alliteration as well as the double ampersand. I still love them. Plus, in high school, I learned that every good title has a main title and a subtitle, separated with a colon. Can you believe that I remembered that little rule after all these years and used it here with a full measure of success?

But I sure wish that I could remember the memorable mishap that sparked this idea the day that my colleague and I were having such frivolous merriment on paid college time. (Oops! Did I just say that? Well, so be it. It’s not a problem for me anyway because I’m no longer on the college’s payroll. I’m reinventing myself at my own expense. It’s no problem for my colleague either because I have not disclosed her identity.)

Let’s see. What can I do to jog my memory? I know. I’ll use my alphabet technique for remembering things. Starting with the letter A, I’ll slowly work my way through the alphabet, lingering on each letter for a bit. When I get to the letter of whatever it is that I’m trying to remember, the entire word will flash apocalyptically across my mind.

Well, I’ve been from A to Z and back. Not once. Not twice. But three times. No apocalypse.

Well, duh. Why don’t I just text Jenny? I’m sure that she would remember our conversation. On the other hand, doing that would give me a ready answer and spoil all my fun and yours, too.

If I keep at it, I’m sure that I’ll remember. Aside from my foolproof alphabet technique, I have another technique for remembering things. But right now, I can’t remember it either.

So where was I? Oh, yes. I remember. I was trying to remember my memorable mishaps.

Well, let me just start sharing some, and as I share, maybe–just maybe–I’ll remember the one that Jenny thought was so riveting.

The mishap that I am about to share was the result of my naivete and innocence coupled with my polite and courteous outspokenness, for which I am so well known.

When I started my Federal career, I was part of a large editorial team. One of my co-workers was Ed-–h B-l-–r. After a year or so, I transferred to another editorial position in the same Federal agency, but in a different building.

On my first day in my new position, I was introduced to one of my fellow editors, H-l-n B-l—r.

Since their last names were the same, I assumed that they were related, and I was so delighted with myself that I had a perfect way to get into a perfect conversation with her.

“It’s an honor to meet you. Are you related to Ed–h B-l—r?”

“Do you mean the bitch who stole my husband?”

What an embarrassing mishap. Now, though, it’s a funny memory.

Okay. Let’s try another mishap confirming that I am naive, innocent, and downright dumb when it comes to being politely and courteously outspoken.

Fast-forward, if you will, a good number of years. Same Federal agency. Different position. Different building.

In that position, I had to review everything that the staff ghostwrote for my boss, the director.

One memo caused me to have some major concerns, and I called them to B-n’s attention.

“Go down there right now and tell N-r- that this is nothing but a piece of sh-t.”

I did as directed.

“Good morning, N-r-.” I flashed my widest smile as I handed her the document. “B-n told me to tell you that this memo is nothing but a piece of sh-t.”

N-r- stormed out, taking the stairs to B-n’s office on the sixth floor. I took the elevator, hoping to warn B-n. Fury must have wings. She beat me to his office where I found her giving him a piece of … her mind.

Sadly, these two foot-in-mouth mishaps haven’t taken me any closer to the mishap that I’m struggling to remember.

Maybe it had something to do with technology?

Maybe it had something to do with cooking or baking?

Maybe it had something to do with both?

Surely, it didn’t have anything to do with my IQ test. I don’t think that I have ever disclosed that mishap to one single solitary living soul. No, not one.

And, please, please, please, Dear Colleague who was with me when the idea combusted originally: do NOT reveal your identity by commenting on this post to tell me the memorable mishap that I can’t remember. You must remember that I have done everything in my power to keep it concealed.

Also, doing so would make me look really dumb. Work with me. Give me a little more time. By next week’s post, I’ll surely remember the memorable mishap that I can’t remember right now.

Dating after Twenty-Three

Posted on April 3, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

MY CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS: I made dinner for two. Ate both.
–Unknown

Trust me. I wish that I could write a blog post that focuses on the ins and outs and ups and downs of dating after the age of twenty-three. Unfortunately, that is so long ago for me that I probably can’t remember. On the other hand, I have the memory of an elephant, and I remember everything–literally everything–so I am sure that I could conjure it all up. But relax. I will spare you the torrid and sultry details.

But that’s neither here nor there because this post is not about dating after the age of twenty-three. This post is about dating when you haven’t dated for twenty-three years. (Not to worry. The operative word in the preceding sentence is haven’t. Equal to my elephant memory is my vivid imagination. Once again, relax. I will spare you the details of what is yet to happen, but trust me, those imaginings are getting hotter and steamier by the second, and they can’t happen soon enough. I think.)

The operative sentence in the preceding paragraph is “I think.”

Let’s face it, if you haven’t been on the dating circuit–Is that what it’s called these days? Circuit? Market? Game? Scene?–well, whatever it’s called, I haven’t been on it for twenty-three years. That’s a helluva a long time, and believe me: I’ve got plenty to think about before I throw myself into whatever it’s called.

The last time that I threw myself into whatever it was called back then, I was young. All right. I know. I can do my own math just as well as you can do it for me: 75 – 23 = 52. So. Fine. Being young is relative. Let’s try this wording: I was younger then than I am now. So, for Pete’s sake, can we just move on?

In those days, dateables–or whatever you want to call ’em–seemed to be everywhere. In front of me. Behind me. On both sides of me. They were just everywhere. But in the interest of being totally transparent, I will tell you this. It’s not like I was fighting them off, but I sure had lots of options to think about. After all, a good man is hard to find.

These days, dateables don’t seem to be anywhere. They’re not in front of me. They not behind me. They’re not on either side of me. They are nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. I know because I’ve looked everywhere. I wouldn’t want the world at large to know, but I’ve even looked in the trees all around my house, thinking, wishing, hoping, longing that maybe–just maybe–I would find one there. You know, just hanging out all casual and relaxed and friendly like, waiting for me. Waiting to see if I was looking back to see if… But I haven’t found one–not one–which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt: dateables do NOT grow on trees in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

So that you can check out my assertions for yourself, let me give you the exact location in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia where I have determined that dateables do not grow on trees. Doubt no longer. Check out the latitude and longitude coordinates and know that I speak truth and kid you not: 31.771959, 35.217018.

For now, this much is obvious to me. If I am to continue this post–and, having made it this far, I have every intention of making it all the way through to the end–I will just have to shift my focus from real dates to imaginary ones. In that sense, then, it would be similar to “My Imaginary Guests.” Actually, I like that comparison so much that I’m tempted to change the title of this post from “Dating after Twenty-Three” to “My Imaginary Dates after Twenty-Three.” Thankfully, that temptation–unlike some others–did not last long. I wouldn’t want a Potentially Dateable Person (PDP) to be turned off by perceived fickleness. I stand by mine just as surely as Tammy Wynette stands by hers.

All right, then, where were we. Don’t you just love my use, just now, of the royal “we.” I do. I’ll bet you’re wondering–just as I much as I am–when we first used we so royally. Let me check.

Be Right Back.

Well, according to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the pronoun “we” (used in place of “I” by a monarch or other person in power) goes back to 1801 when Buonaparte appointed his brother-in-law, Leclerc, to St. Domingo.

Isn’t that riveting? I wonder what other words I could look up right quick? Hmmm. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that I’m doing everything in my power to avoid getting into all the nitty gritty details of all that’s involved in dating–real or imaginary–after twenty-three years.

I assure you that I am not. This really isn’t a big deal after all. I’ll do what I do best: face it head on.

So work with me while I pretend that I have, in fact, found a real, live, breathing, walking, talking date.

What’s for certain is that I didn’t find one in a tree. Ahhh…now I remember. My imaginary friend lined me up with a Blind Date.

Be Right Back.

Sometimes my imaginary friend is a prankster, so I had to confirm that Blind Date was still used these days to mean “a date with someone whom the datee does not know but which is arranged by a third person.” The OED assures me that the phrase is still used, though mainly colloquially, and that it is still politically correct.

We’re good to go with both, so I suppose that I’m good to go with this phone number of a PDP. My imaginary friend thinks that we might click. Is that what it’s called? Might be in harmony? (Nope. We’re not singing.) Might go hand in hand? (Nope. In public? In the Shenandoah Valley? Come on.) Might harmonize? (Nope. Again, we’re not singing.) Jibe? (Say whaat?) So much for a thesaurus. I’ll stick with click.

Let me get this over with right now. If I don’t, I’m going to look bad, and that might make my imaginary friend look bad. All that I have to do is make the call, pop the question, and hear what happens. Hang on.

Be right back.

Well, dayum. That went better than I thought. Far better. I loved the voice that I heard. Confident but not too assertive. Raspy but not enough to make me suspect a cold. Loud but not enough to make me suspect the use of a hearing aid or, worse, the need for a hearing aid paired with a refusal to admit it or a cheapness to buy it. So far, so good. I got a resounding “Yes” to the question that I popped.

We’re going to meet for coffee at our local Starbucks. Isn’t that a great idea? It was mine. You’re probably thinking that Starbucks is a dumb first-date idea. You’re wrong. Actually, it’s the perfect spot for a first date. Here’s why. Multiple studies–each one referencing the other for validation–have determined beyond any scientific doubt–thereby eliminating any need whatsoever for a third study to validate the first or the second–that we should size up people not on the basis of their shoes, not on the basis of their cars but rather on the basis of the drink they choose at Starbucks.

So my date’s beverage choice will be the first reveal. Is that caffeine in my cup or what?

I don’t mind telling you that I’ll order my usual Latte or Cappuccino. OMG. Here’s how the research sizes me up, based on my preference:

… perfect blend of the drip coffee folks and the chai latte people. Sometimes shy, sometimes outgoing … so balanced, well adjusted, and free of common neurosis you wonder if a magical fairy raised this magical unicorn. … Date this person ASAP. [Emphasis supplied for any PDPs who might be reading. Just saying. You know how to find me.]

I’m hoping that my date might order a Chai Latte. Would I be one lucky dude or what, if what the research has established is true:

The Chai Latte … person is at their core a humble introvert. … they’ve probably traveled to some remote untamed parts of the earth, have a double PHD in astrophysics … Navigating through life with a Buddhist mentality the Chai Tea person is the opposite of an open book. Mysterious like a mythical creature, you watch them trot off to yoga class and feel your heart squeeze. You might be in love.

Say whaat? Might be in love? I haven’t even swallowed the first sip of my Latte or Cappuccino. Slow down. Let’s enjoy this.

But if my date orders a Java Chip Frappuccino, that will pretty much be a deal breaker for me:

Always full of spice and sass … rocket-balls of energy. Do NOT stand in their way. The frappuccino person is the one driving the car with the ridiculously oversized rims and the dude wearing the blinding bright red jewel encrusted Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers.

Those rocket-balls of energy sound intriguing, but if my date orders a Java Chip Frappuccino, I’ll drink my Latte or Cappuccino as rapidly as possible so that I can get out of Starbucks with my “This was so ……” echoing as I wave goodbye.

While Starbucks was my idea, meeting there at 7:30am was not. I mean. Come on. I’m a morning person, but that’s a bit early, it seems to me, for a first date.

But I’ll get over it, and, actually, it might have real advantages. At that time of day, a handshake will do. Maybe a light hug. But it’s certainly too early in the day–and certainly too early in the dating game–to even think about a kiss. After all, meeting a date for the first time is stressful enough without all the worry about morning breath–the kiss of death when it comes to dating. And, therefore, Dear Readers, you can rest assured: if I should sense even the slightest body movement suggesting that my date is leaning in for a kiss, I’ll just bend over right quick to retrieve my napkin that fell mysteriously to the floor.

Well, as I am sure you can tell, I am not the least bit worried about this first date. If all goes well, it might be the first of many dates that get earlier and earlier. Who’s to say when dawn slides back to midnight and midnight slides back to evening and …

But now I’m wondering what’s supposed to happen with that second date that’s sure to come. I just know that it will. After all, no one in the Shenandoah Valley–absolutely no one–wears blinding bright red jewel encrusted Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers, so I am certain that my date will not have ordered a Java Chip Frappuccino at Starbucks.

So let me see. What comes after that first date? Good God. On my last first date, time stopped and the world stood still for twenty-three years.

Be Right Back.

Thanks for your patience. I had to do some quick research to find out the stages of dating. My sources boldly plagiarized one another, so they are pretty much in agreement. I would document my sources, but I can’t tell which one started it all, so I will share the common threads, paraphrased freely to suit the pitter-patter of my amorous heart.

1. INFATUATION AND ROMANCE. CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU. Say whaat? My concern, Dear PDP, is whether I can live with you.

2. ACCOMMODATION. GETTING TO KNOW LIKES AND DISLIKES AND WARTS. Well, that’s fair enough, I guess. However, just because I’m agreeing does not mean that I have warts. I don’t. Not even one. But I do have one or more wrinkles. But don’t worry. They are not problematic whatsoever. They all disappear every time that I take off my glasses.

3. POWER STRUGGLE. OMG. Please say it ain’t so. At this stage of my life, am I arm-wrestling with my father again?

4. COMPLETE TRUST. This stage is really funny. As I was reading about it, I was looking through the wrong part of my trifocals. Instead of seeing Complete Trust, I saw Complete RUST. At my age, probably.

5. SEXUAL EXPLORATION. Well, it’s about time. I’m going back to Stage 4 and redact ~~RUST~~. For this stage, it’s all about TRUST.

6. YOU’RE MEETING EXPECTATIONS AND DEALING WITH CHALLENGES. Hello. Didn’t we just deal with this in Stages 3, 4, and 5?

7. SURRENDER TO COMMITMENT AND THE RELATIONSHIP. I’m good with commitment, but surrender? Are we about to wage war?

8. MOVING TOGETHER AS A TEAM. Moving? Where the hell to? Nobody said anything to me about moving. Where are we going? Where I go, my gardens go, too. Where I go, my loft goes, too. Where I go, Ruby goes. (Not to worry: she’s my dog.) Maybe this moving together stage isn’t a good idea.

Actually, the more that I write about it–the more that I think about it–maybe this whole dating thing isn’t such a good idea after all, especially after twenty-three.

Be Right …

My Literary Fruitcakes

Posted on December 5, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

It’s always the same: a morning arrives in November, and my friend, as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart, announces: “It’s fruitcake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.”
“A Christmas Memory” ~ Truman Capote (1924-1984; American novelist, playwright, screenwriter and actor)

It’s no secret. I love food. I love to cook. I love to bake. And, when it’s fruitcake weather, I love to lose myself in baking fruitcakes.

Yes. Fruitcakes. MAHvelous fruitcakes! Say what? You don’t like fruitcake? No way! I’ll bet that you’ve never had a really good fruitcake. Not to worry. I’m not going to try to turn you into a fruitcake or into a fruitcake lover.

But, hey. Come on. Show me a little respect, too, won’t you? Just stop it right there. Right now. I’ve heard them all, heard them all already, all the fruitcake jokes.

What baffles me is how the ancient, noble, beloved fruitcake became the loathed butt end of some of the worst jokes in the world.

I’m tempted to blame Johnny Carson for them all. Every last one of them. I’m sure, though, that fruitcake jokes didn’t start with him, but his fruitcake joke is, without any doubt in the world, the worst in the annals of baking. Maybe that’s why it’s the most well-known. I’m sure you know it. On his Tonight Show during the 1960s, Carson quipped:

“The worst Christmas gift is fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other, year after year.”

People keeping sending Carson’s fruitcake joke to each other, year after year, too. Look. I just sent it to you.

And, no doubt, you’ve heard others like this one:

“Why does fruitcake make the perfect gift?

“Because the U.S. Postal Service hasn’t found a way to damage it.”

And who hasn’t heard this one?

“If you don’t like it, use it as a doorstop.”

But it gets worse than any of those dried and false jokes that couldn’t come to life if they were soaked in all the finest brandies in the world! There’s one fruitcake joke that is truly alive and lives year after year in Manitou Springs, Colorado. It comes to life annually during its Great Fruitcake Toss, celebrated since 1996. People pitch fruitcakes. People launch fruitcakes. People toss fruitcakes. And if my post makes you want to pack up your cake and join the people, you still have plenty of time to make arrangements. The next Toss will be on January 28, 2023. No fruitcake? No problem. (Don’t you dare ask for one of mine! You’ve got your nerve.) Rent one at the festival. You can, for one dollar. Go. Go on. Let your fruitcake fly.

That’s quite enough about fruitcake jokes. I’m not certain how I got pulled down that rabbit hole anyway.

My intent was simple and straightforward. It occurred to me that it might be fun to explore fruitcakes in literature. No. No. I don’t mean writers who are fruitcakes. They all are. (Trust me: I know firsthand.) I simply mean literary works about fruitcakes. You don’t even have to like fruitcake to be intrigued by such a hefty intellectual pursuit, especially if you like literature–as I do–and even more especially if you like fruitcake, too, and I do (but only the ones that I bake using my mother’s legendary recipe).

The first literary work involving fruitcake that popped into my mind was Truman Capote’s 1956 autobiographical short story “A Christmas Memory” featured in the pull quote to this post. Even if you haven’t read the short story, I’m betting that you’ve seen a movie version. I’ve seen several, but my favorite is from 1966, featuring Geraldine Page, one of my favorite actresses. (No actress can evoke heartfelt longing and nostalgia with a scrunched face better than she, and she did it at my tearful best in her Trip to Bountiful.)

What popped into my mind next wasn’t a literary work at all. Instead, it was a writer–one of my favorite poets: Emily Dickinson. Though famous and acclaimed today, she was an obscure poet in her lifetime–with only 10 of her poems known to have been published while she was alive–but she was highly regarded as a baker. Her father would only eat bread that she had baked. Recluse though she was, children in Amherst (MA), where she lived from 1830 to 1886 and only left on three occasions, would stand in the yard beneath her bedroom window as she lowered baskets of her freshly baked gingerbread. She was especially known for her black Caribbean Christmas cake. Houghton Library at Harvard University owns Dickinson’s handwritten recipe and the tradition of baking her cake continues today. It is so important that Canadian poet M. NourbeSe Philip wrote an essay, “Making Black Cake in Combustible Spaces.” She will read it as part of a moderated conversation from Dickinson’s home on December 12, 2022: “The Emily Dickinson Birthday Tribute.”

I’ve never made Dickinson’s black cake, but just this past weekend, I baked a Jamaican Black Cake that’s close to hers. My home is still redolent from more than four cups of rum and port that I soaked all the dried fruits in for several weeks before my bake. The cake is a beauty! I will let it age probably until Valentine’s Day 2023. After I taste sweet success, I may reach out to Houghton Library and invite myself to join Team Cake, a group of Houghton bakers who recreate Dickinson’s cake, rigorously adhering to her recipe, and share it with colleagues and friends on Dickinson’s December 10 birthday. Wouldn’t that be a grand culinary adventure. Look out Houghton. Here I come.

The next writer with a fruitcake recipe is none other than Eudora Welty–American short story writer, novelist, and photographer. Her fruitcake is on the opposite end of the spectrum. It’s a White Fruitcake that sounds similar to mine. (For mine, I use brandy to soak the fruits before baking and to preserve the cakes after baking. If a little brandy is good, a little more is better, especially when it comes to fruitcakes.) Welty redeems herself, though, by adding a cup of bourbon to the batter. She redeems herself further with the note at the end of her recipe:

“From time to time before Christmas you may improve it with a little more bourbon, dribbled over the top to be absorbed and so ripen the cake before cutting. This cake will keep for a good white, in or out of the refrigerator.”

Her fruitcake recipe–given to her by a friend, Mrs. Mosal–was immortalized in the 1971 Symphony League of Jackson cookbook for which Welty wrote the “Foreword,” commenting:

“I often think to make a friend’s fine recipe is to celebrate her once more, and in that cheeriest, most aromatic of places to celebrate in – the home’s kitchen.”

See there. Books give life everlasting to everything, even fruitcakes.

Dare I confess that those three literary fruitcake associations–Welty, Dickinson, and Capote–were the only ones that I knew readily.

I suppose that I could end the post now, but I can’t. Not just yet. If I did, I wouldn’t get to share the fruits of my research.

So let me start by sharing when the word fruitcake was first used as a reference to a type of cake. 1687 is a long time ago, but, candidly, I expected the word to have been coined far earlier. I was a little disappointed. But, anyway, it appeared that year in a heading in J. Shirley’s Accomplished Ladies Rich Closet of Rarities:

“Instructions for a gentlewoman in making of marmalade, paste of fruit … fruit-cakes, honey ” (vi. 38).

Since I was perusing the OED already, I decided to see when fruitcake was first used to suggest extreme eccentricity or insanity, as in nutty as a fruitcake.

It was first used in that context on March 5, 1911, in the Chicago Sunday Examiner :

“Isn’t Ethel a sweet girl, as sweet as a piece of cake?”

“Why, I think that she is as nutty as fruit cake” (v. 5/2).

At this point, my research into fruitcakes in literature took a turn that surprised me. Really surprised me.

I browsed “famous short stories about fruitcakes.” No famous ones.

Then I tried “famous poems about fruitcakes.” No famous ones.

In a search of desperation, I tried “famous novels about fruitcakes.” Again, no famous ones.

At last, I tried something straight forward: literary fruitcakes.

O. M. G. What I found left me trembling in my virtual research tracks.

I landed on an article with nearly that exact title: “The Literary Fruitcake” written by Don Webb. It chronicles the literary travels of one specific fruitcake, from its first gifting in 1843 all the way up to its being stolen on Christmas Eve, 1993.

The story line alone is powerful. Imagine. A fruitcake–whether beloved or maligned– deemed important enough to have survived for 150 years, without having been eaten; to have been passed on from one writer to the next; and to have been documented meticulously with every gifting. It is nothing short of amazing. I doubt whether most of us could document our own family lineage that far back with the precision that Webb achieves in his first-person narrative.

Aside from being a story of surviving against all odds, it’s made all the more fascinating simply by the famous writers associated with the cake. They are beyond belief, but they are the very reason I kept reading the narrative. How could I not be aware of the fruitcake associated with so many famous writers?

Well, I was not. So I kept reading. In fact, once I started, I could not stop.

Queen Victoria, it seems, gave the fruitcake to Charles Dickens in 1843 after the first dramatic reading of his A Christmas Carol.

Some years later–in 1865–Bram Stoker stole the cake at a publication party for Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend. For years afterwards he showed the cake to friends every now and then. But eventually the spell of the fruitcake novelty wore off.

When Stoker published his Dracula in 1897, he passed the cake on to Arthur Machen (The Great God Pan) who passed it on to Algernon Blackwood (The Willows).

Wouldn’t you agree that this is deliciously fascinating? Yes, indeed. It is captivating. And to think that I still have to share how the cake was passed on through more literary hands for another hundred years.

Not to worry. I’ll speed it up. This fruitcake was old to begin with and it’s getting older by the word. But before speeding things up, let me state–just for the official record–that my interest in this narrative lies not with the fruitcake but rather with its famous literary owners.

After Algernon Blackwood, the fruitcake ended up with Gertrude Stein (The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas) who didn’t really want it, but her partner Alice Toklas persuaded her to keep it. It might amuse you to know that it was around this same time that Alice came up with her famous recipe for hashish fudge. It might amuse you even more to know that the “recipe” wasn’t hers after all. When her The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook was about to be published in 1954, the book had empty pages. The publisher added filler recipes, including one for Hashish Fudge submitted by avant-garde artist Brion Gysin. Alice was clueless and had never tested the recipe! Read all about it in the Scientific American. Yes. Scientific American. Whoever says that the humanities don’t matter needs to read “Go Ask Alice: The History of Toklas’ Legendary Hashish Fudge.”

But let’s get back to our famous, traveling literary fruitcake.

Stein gave the cake to Ernest Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea) who then passed it on to James Joyce (Ulysses).

When Joyce died, the fruitcake went to Samuel Beckett, prior to the publication of his Waiting for Godot.

Then in 1959, William Burroughs went to Paris to finalize publication plans for his Naked Lunch. While there, he managed to meet with Beckett–his literary hero–for 30 minutes or so. When he left, he wanted a memento and took what he believed to be a brick in the bottom of Beckett’s closet.

As you might have guessed, it wasn’t a brick at all. It was the famed fruitcake. Burroughs gave the cake to Allen Ginsberg (Howl) who gifted Jack Kerouac (On the Road) who passed it on to Thomas Pynchon (Gravity’s Rainbow) who traded it to Mary Denning in exchange for her knowledge of Pre-WW II chemistry.

(Dayum! I didn’t know that I could go so fast. Note to myself: Leave out all the nitty, gritty details and hasten the pace every time.)

Don Webb–the narrator of “The Literary Fruitcake”–bought the cake for $150 dollars, took it home to Austin, Texas, and eventually decided to eat it on Christmas Eve, 1993.

Sadly, when he and his wife came home that evening, they discovered that their home had been robbed. The thieves had taken the fruitcake along with other valuables.

The police never located the fruitcake. Over the next few months, though, graffiti began to appear on wall after wall throughout Austin.

And then I read:

“… the driven thief released the intensity of his soul. … We never sought out the writer, for we feared our presence might interfere with his process, but we grew fiercely proud of the words that covered our walls. Soon all of Austin was obscured by the words by the words of perfection:

“‘We, who dwell in the holy shrines, will preserve this treasure unto the ends of time.'”

It was not until then–not until the very end–that I realized: I had been had. I had been had big time.

I could not believe it: I, the English professor who knows fully well–and even warns his students–not to trust first person narrators, especially in first person accounts of fruitcakes passing through the hands of royalty and an incredible number of auspicious British and American writers.

If it seems too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

But it’s okay. It’s really quite okay. I’ve been had many, many times down through the years. Sweet Scorpionic revenge is always mine.

I just made reservations to fly to Manitou Springs, Colorado, so that I can participate in their January 28, 2023, Great Fruitcake Toss. I have reached out to Collin Street Bakery to see whether they will sponsor me.

Here’s what I’m going to do for my Fruitcake Toss Extraordinaire that will make world-wide headlines. I’m going to wrap Duper Don Webb up real tight in all the printed and virtual copies that I can find of his “The Literary Fruitcake.” And then I’m going to give a celebratory “Heave-Ho” as I catapult the nuttiest fruitcake of them all–the author who pulled off the biggest fruitcake heist ever and told the biggest fruitcake joke ever–as far into the thin air as possible.

For once, I’ll let a fruitcake fly with glee.

Ten Guaranteed Tips to Increase Blog Traffic | Top-Rated and 100% Unproven!

Posted on August 8, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

How far that little candle throws his beams!
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice (Act 5. Scene 1)

Without a doubt, you will recall my post from several weeks ago: “Take Four | Living with a Writer: Modern Applications of Ancient Writing Artifacts.”

It was characterized as “destined for fame … for greatness … for glory … the most historic and historical blog post ever published.”

It received rave reviews:

“Hilarious!”

“Hysterical. I would have laughed harder if I hadn’t been so horrified at your undertaking.”

“This is one of your most entertaining, funniest posts, and I thank you for … sharing it with the world.”

And it was LIKED by a comedian and a college president–two entirely different people, with two entirely different occupations, although the college president knows that humor is a close ally to successful and dynamic leadership.

All right. In the interest of partial disclosure and full but muddy transparency, I’m the one who characterized my post as “destined for fame … for greatness … for glory … the most historic and historical blog post ever published.”

And it was just one faithful follower who called it hilarious.

And it was just one faithful follower who called it hysterical.

And it was just one faithful follower who said that it was my most entertaining and funniest post.

But I believe in the power of one. If it’s good enough for a bank, I suppose it’s good enough for me, especially cents that bank does not have one cent of my money.

The good thing, however, is that those three rave reviews came from three entirely different followers with three entirely different occupations.

But enough of my noncents. I will, post mortem, return to my serious side instanter.

A stand-up comedian really did LIKE that post. Thank you! Please: feel free to sit down. (And, just as an aside to the stand-up comedian: I’m giving up my 25-year teaching gig at the end of this coming fall season. Do you need a jokester–I mean a writer? You know. Just hinting.)

And a college president really did LIKE that post. Thank you! Please: feel free to preside. (And just as an aside to the college president: I’m giving up my 25-year teaching gig–I mean professorship–at the end of this coming fall season–I mean semester. Do you need a Visiting Professor? A Visiting Scholar. Both? I’m good at wearing two hats at the same time as long as they don’t mess up my hair. You know. Just hinting.)

And again, just as an aside to the comedian and to the prez–who must be reading this post, right? I mean, you just don’t LIKE ’em and then leave ’em, do you?–it’s not like I’m desperate or anything, because, hey, I’ve got this blog, and after today’s unviral post, I’ll have talent scouts unlined up my ungraveled, rutted country road all the way to my no-parking space in the uncleared forest, assuming, of course, the scouts have four-wheel drive. Good talent these days is not easy to get to.

And let me not forget to mention what one other faithful follower advised me to do: “Perhaps you shouldn’t discard the legal pad and #2 pencil. … To help your nightly challenges of writing in this manner, I can offer you … a backlit pen.”

Well, as you know from many previous posts, I listen to my followers. So I immediately ordered myself two backlit pens from Amazon. You can get anything these days from Amazon, yesterday. Someone told me day before yesterday that I could even get a husband from Amazon, as soon as tomorrow or three days before. Dayum! Imagine that. I checked immediately. Unfortunately, Amazonian husbands are backordered. Unfortunately, too, they are not backlit.

My pens, on the other hand, were not back ordered, and they are backlit. They arrived just when I started writing this post, so what you see here was written in bed at night on a yellow legal pad that isn’t legal, using a pen that is legally lit.

Wow! Using this pen to write in bed in the dark is amazing. I am transfixed if not transformed. If I had known about these backlit pens decades ago before they had never been invented, by now I would have written the Great American Novel that has never been written. Or not. I’ll be dealing with that topic in a future post.

But I can’t deal with any of that right now. Right now, I am so enamored of this little backlit pen that all I can think about are little light quotes. Most are from songs, so I’m humming–can you hear me? Let me give you the links (below, in unalphabetical order) in case you want to hum along or sing along. It’s a FREE perk for being a FREEloader–I mean follower! Get someone else to follow, and I’ll let you hum along or sing along forever, for FREE.

“This Little Light of Mine.”

“Glow Little Glow Worm, Glimmer, Glimmer.”

“How far that little candle throws his beam.” (Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice. Act 5. Scene 1)

“Let the Lower Lights Be Burning.

“Light My Fire.”

“A light unto the world.” (John 12:46)

Well, good grief. Why on earth did Euterpe muse me up like that? Your guess is as good as mine.

So let me hie myself back to the business at hand–sharing with you my ten guaranteed tips to increase blog traffic, top-rated and 100% unproven. Is that a deal or what? But before I do, don’t you just love that word: hie. I do. I love verbs and verbiage. (But I shudder to think about conjugating hie.) Anyway, I love that word. I’m not sure why. Maybe I saw it somewhere once, probably in a romance novel that I never read. Clearly, then, I have no idea who was doing what to whom in the novel that I did not read. I don’t think that anyone in the novel uttered the word either. But I happened to think of it just now, and I thought that it would be an awful lot of fun for me to use it right here. Now I feel funfilled.

Well, gracious me. Now I have to hie myself back once more. I guess all this is going down because my muse likes the fact that my pen is lit. That’s right: my pen.

As I was saying, the initial accolades calling my post historic and historical and the initial reviews hailing it as hysterical and hilarious and entertaining and funny got me all pumped up and gave me great expectations that my viewer stats would jump off the charts.

I had such high hopes, especially since the views on the day that I published the post were 555% higher than the day before. Talk about being pumped. I was beyond pumped. I had such heightened expectations that I set my alarm clock to awaken me hourly throughout the night for the sole purpose of watching my stats skyrocket.

Sadly, nothing skyrocketed. Nothing. Not one thing. Except my blood pressure and my stress from waking up every hour to check on my stats. My blog stats, mind you. I don’t need to check my personal stats. My Fitbit does that for me without even asking. And let me tell you: my personal stats dropped big time, especially my sleep score and my readiness to exercise score.

They were so low that I vowed that I would never do such a wired stunt again. I doubled my vow–Never, Never–when I charted my blog stats over the course of the next few days. It goes without saying that you can’t increase your blog traffic unless you chart it. Right?

So that’s precisely what I did on a flip chart–using royal blue and royal purple magic markers–to capture how the traffic plummeted. Those lines went so low that they fell all the way down to the floor where I continued to chart them all the way across the room.

When I finished the chart, I taped the unfloored part of it to my office wall–I write my blog in bed; I chart it in my office–and since then I have been waiting ever so patiently for my blog traffic to increase. It should. Right? I just charted it, and as I said in the preceding paragraph–or somewhere–you can’t increase your blog traffic if you don’t chart it.

And if you don’t believe me, you surely believe Kevin Costner. Who doesn’t? I know that I sure do, so much so that emblazoned on my chest–not too unlike Hester’s scarlet letter A–is the famous line from his Field of Dreams: “If you chart it, they will come.”

Now, listen up. Without further adieu–you wish, but not yet!–I am proud to share the ten hollow tips that lured you here, just like a moth lured to a flame. Yep. Ten tips. Guaranteed to increase your blog traffic. Top rated. 100% unproven. Trust me. They are unreal doozies.

Tip #1. AERIAL ADVERTISING. I cannot guarantee that this would work for you, but I am fairly uncertain that it would work for me because my mind is always up in the air. Why not skywrite my blog URL up there, too, maybe all up and down the California coastline where folks are more unwired than they are on the East Coast.

Tip #2. BILLBOARDS. Again, this might not give you more blog traffic at all. But, after I float down from my aerial habitation and walk once more upon terra unfirma, I am fairly certain that billboard advertising will be worth the cost. I plan to keep it short and simple, the same way that I keep my weekly blog posts short and simple.

I’m thinking something along the lines of:

Feeling WIRED???
Me, too. I’m here to help! Check out: thewiredresearcher.com
FREE Lifeline Subscription

Tip #3. DOLLAR BILL PROMOS. This tip would probably work for everybody, but only the bold and courageous should try it. Actually, it’s been around for years. I’ll bet you’ve seen one: a dollar bill with a Biblical reference written on it? Maybe even a phone number–call me? What I’m thinking is simple: Write your blog URL on the edge of a dollar bill. A dollar bill changes hands about 110 times a year. Wow! Write your blog URL on the edge of lots and lots of dollar bills and see how your blog traffic increases. I wonder, though, whether your increased blog traffic will be following you directly to jail. If I am not mistaken, writing on money is considered defacement under Title 18, Section 333 of the United States Code. Blogger beware!

Tip #4. BUSINESS CARDS. These can’t be just any business cards. They need to be all glamour and glitz and gimmick. Maybe something like: Limited time only. FREE Access to a blog destined to be featured in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the defunct Saturday Evening Post, True Grit, and the 1931 first edition of The Joy of Cooking. But it won’t be enough to just have those cards printed. You’ll need to find someone to hand them out. In my case, my Linden (VA) and Front Royal (VA) correspondent–Yes. No s. She’s one and the same person–has been given the right of refusal to pass them out at all the unlarge stores in our unmetropolitan area as well as at the five churches located at each corner of a four-cornered crossroads in one of our unknown villages near us both.

Tip #5. FOOD TRUCK. This one seems perfect for me since I like to bake. You might get a rise out of it as well. I’m thinking about renting a food truck for a few weeks and customizing it, using temporary paint. A pale tan, maybe, about the color of lightly browned, crusty bread. With a slight stretch of anyone’s doughy imagination, the food truck might look like a loaf of bread. And for those who don’t have a doughy imagination to stretch, I plan to paint on one side of the truck, Oh, No! Sourdough. And on the other side, Baking Up My Past. On both sides, of course, I’ll paint my blog’s URL. I’ll offer up my full range of sourdough baked goods–regular sourdough bread, multigrain sourdough bread, as well as parmesan and black pepper sourdough bread, along with doughnuts, scones, biscuits, and dinner rolls. I’ll also offer up my full range of cakes including, but not limited to, my Chocolate Weary Willie Cake and my Chocolate Prune Cake. But here’s where the sweet part comes in. On both sides of the truck, FREE will be prominently lettered. Yep! Anyone who stops, gets one of my goodies FREE, with absolutely no wires attached–absolutely none, not one–other than signing up as one of my blog followers right then and right there on the spot while I watch. If this works, I promise to keep the FREE in subscription. (“Say whaaat? Are you lit?” Nope. See Tip #1.)

Tip #6. CHAIN EMAIL. Chain emails go all the way back to ye olden days of 1990. They waned but then returned with a boring resurgence during the pandemic. Their predecessor, of course, was the famed, infamous, and ancient artifact known as the litterae. Chain letters go all the way back to the 1930s when people included a dime in their chain letters. Later, they included recipes. And one of my Virtually (Anywhere) but nonetheless trustworthy correspondents tells me that chain emails these days often focus on sourdough starters and that she is certain that she unraveled the original Egyptian sourdough starter recipe cryptically hieroglyphed in the soon-to-be-famous post Oh, No! Sourdough. Well, to be honest and to be as transparent as the windowpane test that dough must pass, I’m not sure how a chain email could be used to promote blog traffic. I’m told, though, that chain emails are “Unstoppable.” If you figure it out, come back to my blog and send me a reply. Ka-stats, ka-stats, ka-stats!

Tip #7. CHALK WALK. I like this one a lot. It’s so cheap that it’s nearly FREE. Plus, it brings out the kid in me. Chalk my blog’s URL on sidewalks, using glow-in-the-dark chalk. It would bring an unsensational light unto an unliterary world. (I’m just kidding.)

Tip #8. CUSTOM BUMPER STICKERS. I am probably the only one alive who remembers this. But maybe not, so I will ask. Do you remember the streaking craze that struck the nation in the 1970s? I’m reminiscing about one super special, balmy spring evening in 1975. I had a hard time keeping up with the others–1,000 or so, all of us students–streaking ~~our~~ their stuff across the USC campus. It’s a wonder that I didn’t get trampled or worse. The best part came a few days later. It was hilarious to see genteel Southern ladies and gentlemen in their 70s and 80s driving around Columbia, totally unaware that a “I’m a Streak Freak” sticker had been proudly stuck on their rear …

… bumpers.

I’ve often wondered how they got there. (I probably still have one of those stickers somewhere in my loft.) Mind you: I’m not suggesting a streaking revival, but bumper stickers promoting a wired blog would certainly stop some traffic. (Hopefully, not the traffic headed to your blog.)

Tip #9. PENCILS PACKAGED WITH YELLOW LEGAL PADS. This is another one that would be perfect for me. I could go to all the bookstores at the colleges and universities where I don’t teach and hand out #2 pencils embossed with my blog’s URL packaged with a yellow legal pad, referencing my Take Four | Living with A Writer: Modern Applications of Ancient Writing Artifacts, destined to go down in the annals of history as the most historic and historical blog post ever published, all because it was written in bed on a yellow legal pad using a #2 pencil.

Tip #10. DO NOT SEARCH FOR GUARANTEED WAYS TO INCREASE BLOG TRAFFIC. This is the most important tip of all. That’s why I saved it for last. Articles claiming to have ten guaranteed, top-rated but 100% unproven tips for increasing blog traffic are nothing more than bogus attempts to increase traffic to their own blog. Such hyped-up, sensational articles seem to be the unnormal norm these days. Don’t look for them, and, for God’s sake, if you do look for them, don’t tell anyone that you looked. Such articles lack the unmuddy transparency needed to be included in Wikipedia.

Please, though, finish reading this post before you wisely decide to follow my advice.

And–please, please–if you enjoyed this post, send the link to seven of your unfriends and ask them to do the same, starting with you at the top.

And–pretty, pretty please–if you enjoyed this post, share it via WordPress, Twitter, Facebook, Email, and Reblog. And, for God’s sake, LIKE it. (I’m Beggin’.)

Go now with heartfelt thanks from the bottom of my blog. May the traffic be with you.

Take Four | Living with A Writer: Modern Applications of Ancient Writing Artifacts

Posted on July 18, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

We are always yapping about the “Good Old Days” and how we look back and enjoy it, but I tell you there is a lot of hooey to it. There is a whole lot of our past lives that was not so hot.
–Will Rogers (1879-1953; American Vaudeville Performer, Actor, and Social Commentator)

Hey, everyone! Listen up! Make certain that you keep a copy of this post in a safe, virtual folder. Maybe even the Cloud. It is destined for fame. It is destined for greatness. It is destined for glory. It will go down in the annals of history as the most historic and historical blog post ever published.

You will discover why as you continue to read. But let me start with one reason and that one reason alone will earn this post its deserved historical distinction. For the first time in my life, I am at a loss for words. I am. My students would be thrilled beyond thrills because they consider me to be exhaustive and, no doubt, exhausting when I start talking about anything that is near and dear to my heart.

No doubt, you–dear reader–are wondering why on earth I am at a loss for words. Let me explain. My post last week focused exclusively on me: “Take Three | Living with a Writer: Owning Up to My Own Eccentricities.”

One of my eccentricities that I felt comfortable sharing was the fact that I had drafted the general introduction and the introductions to the five sections of my The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman on yellow legal pads, using #2 pencils without erasers. The really quirky part of that eccentricity was that whenever I made a mistake, I ripped out the page and started over.

One of my faithful followers challenged me to write my next post on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, and to share with you what happened as I wrote. Dear reader, you are so undeserving of the suffering that you will surely suffer as you continue to read. But please do continue to read. Remember: no pain, no gain. (Because I love you so much–whoever you are and wherever you are [including you, Mrs. Callabash, wherever you are]–I have timed the read-time for this post. You are now 6 minutes and 36.3 seconds away from full fatigue and brain drain.)

It was a commendable challenge, so much so that I really should quote it verbatim, and I would, but I can’t. I am lying in bed writing my post on a legal pad, using a #2 pencil, as challenged–I am such a sucker for challenges–so I don’t want to lose my grain of thought by switching over to my Smartphone to look at last week’s post so that I can quote the comment in its entirety the way that it deserves to be quoted.

Therefore, starting with the next paragraph I will use placeholders for anything that I would normally have the good sense to look up instanter on my Smartphone. I will use this placeholder convention throughout this post. My very first one follows.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Insert faithful reader quote from last week. I believe the reader signed herself “J.”

I responded to “J’s” challenge by asking whether yellow legal pads were even manufactured these days. I noted that if they had fallen out of usage, not to worry: I had seen such writing artifacts at the Smithsonian Institution and, perhaps, I could arrange for a Docupost: Modern Applications of Ancient Writing Artifacts.

My reply to “J.” was far more brilliant than it appears here, but, again, I can’t easily switch over to my Smartphone.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Insert my dazzling reply to “J.” Make sure to capture the correct title of the Docupost that I plan to propose to the Smithsonian Institution.

Not long after “J’s” comment, another faithful follower–“soyfig”–informed me that she had some yellow legal pads and #2 pencils that I could have.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: insert “soyfig’s” actual comment, especially since, as I recall, she used some figurative language.

I responded, of course. I respond to everything, seen and unseen, heard and unheard. But, sadly, I do not remember my exact reply, but I am sure that it was a beauty.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Insert my beauty-of-a-reply to “soyfig” who writes so figuratively.

Obviously, I accepted the challenge because, as I noted earlier, here I am writing about what it’s like writing a blog post on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, while lying in bed.

I should be euphoric, I suppose, because I am certain–and history will confirm my certainty–that what I am developing right here and right now is a new Creative Nonfiction genre. To mirror its counterpart in the world of fiction, I hereby announce–with all the power and authority that is not vested in me–that this new genre will be dubbed Creative MetaNonfiction.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Check the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) to see whether the word and the genre exist already. If not, notify the editors immediately. “by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum,” fame awaits.

I believe that I have said so already, but I will say so again: writing my post on this yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, is not making me euphoric. I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for me. My bed is a place of immense pleasure. Trust me. This is not pleasurable. I’ve got a stupid yellow legal pad–six times larger than my Smartphone–propped up on my knobby knees and the stupid pencil does not have the same quality graphite that I recall. Yes: I still recall the quality–or lack thereof–of everything going all the way back to the cold and snowy day of my November birth. If that be true–and it is–then fast forward with me and you will know that I speak the truth when I say that recalling something from the 1970s is a piece of graphite for me.

Morever, lean in and listen carefully: the damned yellow legal pad is not backlighted. Why am I whispering? For one good reason. I’m whispering because I don’t want anyone to steal my idea! If an ancient writing artifact like a yellow legal pad is going to continue to plague us, at the very least it should be backlighted so that it will not plague us in the dark.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Check the dictionary. Backlighted? Backlit?

I just heard someone ask, “Why does it matter if your yellow legal pad is not backlighted?” [See above Placeholder.]

Well, that’s a splendid question. it matters a lot. It’s starting to get dark outside. My overhead light makes a glare on the yellow legal pad, so I can’t use it. My nightstand lamp is not bright enough, so I can’t use it either. I must be blunt. I can no longer see what I am writing. And, like my pencil, let me be blunt again. If I can’t see what I’m writing, how do I look into the heart of what I’m thinking?

Thank you very much for your suggestion. I expected it. But, as much as I appreciate it–and I do–I will not run out tomorrow to buy a lamp to attach to my headboard. Simply explained: I won’t be needing it. I will never write another blog post on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, while lying in bed at night. Never. Never. Never.

However, I will figure out a way to finish this post since I accepted the challenge, sucker that I am.

Already I can think of three possible solutions.

Solution 1. Fill a Mason jar with fireflies. They might illuminate my yellow legal pad sufficiently.

Solution 2. Jerry-rig a flashlight to the headboard of my bed, with the light beaming down on the yellow legal pad propped up against my knobby knees.

Solution 3. Go to bed at 6pm so that I can work on my post for several hours before it gets too dark for me to see.

“Too dark for me to see” reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s first-person account of death, “I Heard a Fly Buzz.” The poem ends, I believe, with: “And then I could not see to see.”

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Find the Dickinson poem and make sure that my quote above is accurate.

I am back to report that my tentative solutions–even though brilliant–were abysmal failures. That’s too kind. They were duds.

Firefly Solution. It was fairly easy to catch a jar full: they are everywhere in my yard. And, oh, my! Such a golden glow as they put out. For a while my bedroom looked almost like a nightclub dance floor with strobe lights. But it didn’t last long. The glow became dimmer and dimmer and dimmer. And, even more quickly, I grew a guilty feeling for having captured all those helpless little fireflies and for having put them to work against their will Contra Naturam. I set them free. Shine bright. Shine far.

Jerry-rigged Flashlight Solution. I thought for sure that this solution would work. However, I couldn’t figure out a way to mount the flashlight to my headboard, especially at the required angle. I considered duct tape which seems to work for everything, but when I recalled what I had paid for my Henkel Harris bed, I froze with tape and flashlight in mid-air. It took me hours to free myself.

Going to Bed at 6pm Solution. Forget it for one reason only. I have worked long and hard to earn the reputation that I now proudly hold as a wild, night-owl party animal. My friends and my colleagues have grown so proud of me as I have, over time, extended my bedtime from 8:00pm to 8:30pm to 9:00pm. And I have now, after years of practice, mastered the 10:00pm hour. When a party’s going down, I want to be found, and I certainly won’t be found if I am in bed at 6pm.

But I have come up with another solution that had not occurred to me initially. I will take the first hour of my morning routine to write my blog post on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil.

Well, I tried it. Let me just say that this is not what anyone might hooey it up to be. Now I am wishing that I had challenged my two faithful followers to this challenge. Thankfully–and luckily for them–I am not that cruel. Absit iniuria.

They wouldn’t like all these disruptions either. Up until now, I have made perfectly good and methodical use of a sensible and calming way of writing my post in bed on my Smartphone. Even though I have willingly taken on a momentary stay against my ever-so sane method, I will remind myself–in mantra manner–that I am blazing new trails into Creative MetaNonfiction. History and literature demand that I continue. History and literature demand that I see this stupid stint through to a stupendous end.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Look up Creative MetaNonfiction to see whether such a genre exists. Oh, no. I remember that I have placed this placeholder in the post already, but since I cannot erase or scratch through, I will build upon the redundancy and puff it up as best I can. Have I actually stumbled upon–simply by stupidly accepting a challenge–a new genre? Oh, joy! Maybe I will enjoy a footnote in the annals of something–anything, please–after all.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Revisit Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wall-Paper.” As I recall, the unnamed narrator who goes insane–always be suspicious of unnamed narrators–may have written HER journal on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil. Well, I am fairly certain that she did not, but look it up anyway. Adding that twist to the original story would be masterful for an updated version. The narrator escaped from the yellow wallpaper. But I wonder: would she be able to escape from her yellow legal pad as masterfully as I am about to do, soon and very soon. You’re welcome.

What’s ironic about all of this is that when I accepted this challenge, I did so fully expecting fun, even if nothing more than hearing my pencil graphite its way across the page.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Can graphite be used as a verb? Well. Duh. I just used it as a verb in the preceding paragraph. Therefore, it can be. Therefore, I really do not need to follow through with this placeholder. I will keep it anyway in the interest of not ripping out this yellow page which is otherwise perfect.

But verbs notwithstanding, my pencil is not making those nostalgic sounds that I had longed for, not even when I bend my ear way down close and personal to the page. Instead, it glides along like a waxy crayon. And, in fact, my box of pencils is labeled, on one side of the box, Crayon. Oh, dear. I forgot. Crayon means pencil in some language. An esteemed English professor–a colleague–took great joy in beaming that to me when I showed the box to her. Well, never mind.

I do mind, however, that the only yellow pads that I could find anywhere were 8 1/2 by 11 inches, even though they were marked Legal Pad. Well, excuse me. If it’s not 8 1/2 x 14 inches, it’s not legal, and shorties like the ones that I ended up with ought to be illegal.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: (1) What companies still manufacture these so-called legal pads? (2) Do they come in true legal size? (3) Is it true, as I seem to recall, that courts no longer allow 8 1/2 x 14-inch legal pads because they do not fit readily into filing cabinets–not even virtual ones?

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Do a comparable search into #2 pencils. Focus especially on what kind of graphite manufacturers are using for these crayons–I mean pencils–these days.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: I need a pull quote for this post. What’s the one about a sucker is born every minute? How perfect would that be!

Okay. I need to wrap this post up–Maybe in a yellow graphite bow?–but before I do, I simply must achieve a sense of order with this post–the very first example ever of Creative MetaNonfiction. The annals of history await my final word. I do, too.

I know exactly what I will do. I’ll number the pages that I have written on this yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil. And while I’m doing that, I’ll write AMDG just to the right of each page number, just as a Jesuit lawyer friend of mine did on all his labor relations notes, always written on a genuine yellow legal pad, using a genuine #2 graphite pencil.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Look up AMDG to see what that acronym means. Marty had a perverse sense of humor, but, surely, he would not have penciled anything obscene or scandalous, especially since he knew that I would see what he was writing because I almost always leaned over him at the bar. But be sure to look it up anyway before publishing this post.

Wow! I have written 11 pages already about nothing more than what it’s like to write my post on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, while lying in bed. Maybe this Creative MetaNonfiction thingy is not as bad as I have graphited it up to be. Well, if I can type it up, I can certainly graphite it up. But lo and behold! Here I’ve gone and coined still another word: graphited. Who knows? Maybe a Creative MetaNonfiction Novel looms in your future.

I suppose the only thing that might have been more fun than numbering the pages would have been ripping each one out and then taping them all together. I seem to recall a writer who typed one of his books on a continuous roll of paper, created by carefully taping each page together. This would have been, of course, back in the good old, hooey typewriter days.

Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: Try to find out the writer who did this. I think that it was Jack Kerouac. I am certain. Yes. I recall it as vividly as if I had helped him! (Oh, how I wish.) He sellotaped enough pages to create a 120-foot roll when he wrote his On the Road. Check just to make sure. I would never dare publish anything without verifying all the facts before I spew forth. And also look up hooey. It looks like phooey to me.

As for any rhythm that I might be achieving while writing on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil, forget it. Forget. It. Trust me. This post is not riding along on its own melting like a piece of ice on a hot stove. Frost itself wouldn’t work. And Frost himself wouldn’t be able to make it work either. I am so focused on paper and pencil that any semblance of thought has wisely flown far, far away to someone sensible enough to write a blog post sensibly on a Smartphone.

Worse, perhaps, I feel as if I am straddling an immeasurable and unfathomable chasm between the 1970s (when I enjoyed writing on a yellow legal pad, using a #2 pencil) and day before yesterday (when I lost my sanity and sold my writerly soul to the Devil by selling myself on the idea of accepting this challenge). To be certain, the image of such a straddler is an intriguing one. Conjure it up if you can. I double dare you. You will see for yourself. But let me assure you, post haste, that my legs–metaphorical or otherwise–are not nearly long enough to bridge such a chasm, and even if they were, I would not stand for it. I would object vehemently for all the world to hear, as, hopefully, all the world is hearing now.

Hear me and hear me well. What I am about to say is quotable, so go ahead and quote me: Phooey to all this hooey.

I object to it so much that I will end it all right now, in one final declaration!

This is a nonsensical challenge up with which I will not put.

FINAL Placeholder for When I Return to My Sanity and My Smartphone: As I recall, Winston Churchill came up with the above quip as an objection to an editor who wouldn’t allow sentences to end with prepositions. Churchill’s retort memorialized the folly of editors who foolishly adhere to grammatical rules rather than to common sense and to the sense of sound. Try to find the specifics. Was it in a memorandum? I’m sure that it was, perhaps in 1941?

Halleluiah! I have freed myself at last from this yellow legal pad and from #2 pencils. I have returned to my sanity. (Wisely, however, I will not change one thing–not one hooey-phooey word–that I have written so honestly and so painfully as I soared my way to and through the heights of this challenge. “The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on.” (No. I will not put a placeholder for that Shakespearean quote. You may kindly–if you please and if you need–google it yourself to obtain the specifics: play, act, and line.) And, thankfully, I have just returned to my Smartphone where I have just had joy beyond measure restored to every fiber–and even every fibre–of my being by doing nothing more than tap touching this post through to completion–one character at a time, using just one finger. Is that inefficient or what?

But the greatest joy ever is the knowledge that I have just written–and you have just read–the first example ever of Creative MetaNonfiction. May it not last forever in the annals of history and literature. May I be spared such notoriety. May I be remembered in far better ways. But, hey. What the heck. If you insist, I accept: better to be remembered for something, I suppose, than for nothing. Either way, it’s all hooey to me.

The Wired Researcher

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

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