Confessions of an Editor: THE INFANT SPHINX Reviewed. (From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink. Part II.)

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A letter is a soul, so faithful an echo of the speaking voice that to the sensitive it is among the richest treasures of love.”
—Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850; French novelist and playwright whose works are considered foundational to the realism movement in literature; the quote is from his novel Père Goriot.)

Last week, I unveiled the captivating and downright riveting backstory of my The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, highlighting the book’s serendipitous journey from manuscript to publication. I recounted my bold encounter with the president of Scarecrow Press at an American Library Association conference, leading to the acceptance of my manuscript. I shared with you the details of preparing my own camera-ready copy to ensure that the letters I had spent ten years locating, transcribing, and annotating were faithful to their originals when they were published and sent out into the world for all the world to read.

I ended the post with a teaser, hoping to lure you back this week!

In my Scarecrow Press folder that I had forgotten about, I found a forgotten copy of a review that I wrote of my own book. How preposterous is that? Well, it sounds exactly like something that I would do. I’m always telling friends and colleagues that I know no shame. I guess I didn’t back then either. However, I can not for the life of me remember whether I sent my self-review out for publication. I must have because what I discovered in my dusty folder is a photocopy, and it’s so faded that I struggled to read it.

But read it, I did. Dare I say that I enjoyed doing so? I did. Even this many years later, my review strikes me as fresh and refreshing. I’m surprised that I seemed to have found my writer’s voice relatively early in my career, and it has not changed that much at all. Dare I say that I have worked hard down through the years to keep my writer’s voice–even in academic publications–from sounding snotty? I have. Simplicity is always a suit that fits me perfectly in all ways.

By and large, I stand by everything in my review, except for two points. When I wrote the review, I really liked the book’s title, The Infant Sphinx. However, since then, I’ve come to like the title less, and I have come to know Freeman more. Let me explain. In the review, I commented that “I confess to a deep-down-inside wish that a cache of letters secreted away somewhere would be made public and smash to smithereens my claim of having yielded up all there is.”

A cache of letters has not appeared, but enough individual letters have surfaced here and there that I’m working on an updated two-volume work that will use a name more to my liking and more to the liking of Freeman’s closest friends–and presumably more to Freeman’s liking as well– since it’s the name they called her: Dolly. The book title will be Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Vol. I: The New England Years (1852-1901). Vol. II: The New Jersey Years (1902-1930).

Now, Dear Readers, I know no shame as I share with you my review of my own scholarly book, written 39 years ago and published for the first time right here, right now..

Enjoy!

**Confessions of an Editor: The Infant Sphinx Reviewed**

The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.
Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick.
(Metuchen, N.J. and London: Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1985)
634 pages Illus. ISBN 0-8108-1775-06 $35.00

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, American short-story writer and novelist with more than forty fictional volumes to her credit, has been so long and so unjustly neglected by twentieth century readers that I don’t even blush as I write my own review of her collected letters. A contemporary of Mark Twain, she shared with him the honor of being one of America’s most beloved writers. She was the first recipient of the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction. She was among the first women elected to membership in the National Institute of Arts and Letters. She was the one posthumously honored when the American Academy of Arts and Letters installed its bronze doors in 1938: “Dedicated to the Memory of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and the Women Writers of America.”

Obviously, Freeman deserves attention. Twenty-two of her books are in print today. It is fitting that her collected letters should join those volumes rightfully hers and that they should join the slight biography of her that is in print and the equally small critical study.

Freeman was herself described by her townspeople in Randolph, Massachusetts, where she was born in 1852, as “a tiny person, all in brown, like a little mouse.” This volume of her letters is similarly attired: brown buckram covers with gold stamping. But its 634 pages make it somewhat more than tiny. I confess a fear, though, that despite its size and its wealth of information, it might go unnoticed in as unjust a fashion as Freeman herself has gone. I hope not. Once letters appear in print, people are compelled to consult them.

Forgetting this feat, however, it seems to me that a review by a book’s editor (or, for that matter, by a book’s author) is rather innovative and not such a bad idea after all. Who better knows what went into its making? Who better knows why it appears as it does? The answer, of course, is the editor.

The Infant Sphinx was conceived in September 1972. I had just read my first Mary E. Wilkins Freeman short story, “On the Walpole Road.” Before then I had never heard the author’s name. That story so impressed me with its technique, its humor, its characters’ steadfastness in the face of obstacles that I recognized an unusual combination of realism with an inherent belief in man’s thrust toward greatness. Here was a peculiarly American story that was truthful yet positive.

I liked that story so much that I wanted to read more. I moved on to Freeman’s A Humble Romance (1887). The selection was accidental. Little did I know at the time that it was her first collection of adult short stories. Little did I know that it made her a near-overnight success. I learned both facts later. What I knew after finishing that volume was that I liked this author more and more. Then, I read her second collection, A New England Nun (1891). My initial opinion was confirmed: here were powerful stories and powerful characters. Here was a thematic thrust toward greatness. Or, as Freeman said herself in “The Revolt of Mother,” “nobility of character manifests itself in small loop holes when it is not provided large doors.”

I was so intrigued that I wanted to know more about the author. Her biography had been written. But it reduced her entire life to only 194 pages. In fact, it skimmed over her last 30 years in a mere 36 pages. And possibly, worst of all, it had not one photograph of the writer who had so won my attention.

Solace came in the belief that biographies are not always that insightful anyway. So, I resolved to read her letters. I immediately went to a local university library. When I found no catalog entry for Freeman’s correspondence, I attributed it to underdeveloped collections. I checked Books in Print. No luck. I perused guides to our nation’s libraries. Again, no luck. Ultimately, I faced up to the bittersweet fact: Freeman’s letters had never been published.

I resolved at once to undertake the task. I did not dream that it would require nearly ten years. But little did I dream that the letters were deposited in more than fifty library collections (public and personal). They are. Or, perhaps more accurately, were. They are physically still with their owners, of course. But the beauty of an edition of letters is the bringing together of so many separate parts into their rightful whole. That which was scattered becomes united.

A total of 517 items of correspondence were brought together in The Infant Sphinx. Although the last numbered letter in the volume is 510, seven others are “hidden” in between: 110a, 194a, 260a, 281a, 282a, 293a, and 439a. I confess some embarrassment. But what else could I do? All along I had prided myself in including all Freeman letters, even some so scant and some so poor they hardly deserved inclusion. But I wanted the title collected to be accurate. I wanted my claim of having include all letters to be true. So, when these seven wayward epistles were sent to me late in the editing stage, I felt compelled to place them in their proper chronological places.

I confess that I wish there were more. How can it be that a woman who lived so much of her life before the existence of the telephone began to deprive us all of letters wrote so few of the same? Or how can it be that those who received letters from one so popular and so famous kept so few? How can such a woman be survived by a mere 517 letters? I suggest in the edition that Freeman was so busy with her fiction that she did not have much time for letter writing. I point out too that many of her letters were deliberately or accidentally destroyed. I account for the dearth in other ways as well. But I confess to a deep-down-inside wish that a cache of letters secreted away somewhere would be made public and smash to smithereens my claim of having yielded up all there is.

Obviously, it did not take me ten years to collect and edit so few letters. I spent more than half that time gathering biographical material to include in the introduction. The Infant Sphinx has six. The “General Introduction” provides a broad overview. Then there are five others, one for each division. I did not plan it that way initially. But in the end the book took its own shape despite my predetermined wishes. I found myself following the natural biographical divisions of Freeman’s life. Part One, for example, focuses largely on Brattleboro, Vermont, where she launched her literary career, and it traces her shift from a children’s writer (poetry was the genre; children, the audience) to a short story writer for adults. That part, like each of the remaining four, has its own title: “Raising Wonders in a New Literary Field.”

I can take no real credit for those titles. As any perceptive reader will discover, each comes from the letters themselves. I simply selected the quote most appropriate to the section. I remain pleased with the choices. During the years covered by Part One, Freeman did raise wonders on both sides of the Atlantic, and it was in a new literary field. She shifted from poetry to short stories. Her audience changed from children to adults.

“Deviations from My Usual Line of Work” was her title for Part Two. It seemed fit. It was a period of artistic experimentation as she tried her hand at both dramas and novels. I’ve never really cared for her efforts in either direction. I would except from that blanket statement her first two novels, Jane Field (1893) and Pembroke (1894). As for her other thirteen novels, I have not bothered going back to see whether they are any better the second time around. High praises are sounded for her The Shoulders of Atlas (1908). Its probing into homosexuality was a pioneering effort for the time.

Part Three is called “A Hopeless Sort of Chase of Myself.” It was precisely that. Freeman was terribly overworked. She was overworked all her life. How else could she have written over forty volumes in a fifty-year career? But that was not the real reason she was engaged in a hopeless sort of chase. Somehow, she came up with the idea that she should marry even though she was nearly fifty. She decided to leave her native New England where her daily life (and her neighbors’, too) had become almost inseparable from her fiction. Marry. Move. She did both. But she did neither before going off to Paris, presumably to think things over. The trip only made her seasick. It did not change her mind.

She married Charles Manning Freeman, a non-practicing physician, who owned and operated a lucrative coal and lumber business. She moved to her husband’s hometown of Metuchen, New Jersey. Both took place on New Year’s Day, 1902.

That new beginning occupies Part Four, “Tiptoeing Along the Summit.” The quote has nothing to do with the early years of their marriage which were quite happy enough. Neither does it relate to the building of their colonial mansion, “Freewarren,” built with money earned from The Shoulders of Atlas. Nor does it have any relevance to the many volumes of fiction written during that time. Rather, it was prompted by Freeman’s belief that her novel Jerome (1897) was to be made into a movie. On that particular point, Freeman probably tottered from the summit. I was never able to locate a movie version of that novel. Perhaps it appeared under some other title. If so, the underlying work was not credited. Two other movies, however, were made from her books. One was An Alabaster Box (1917) based on the novel of the same name written collaboratively with Florence Morse Kingsley. The other was False Evidence (1919) based on Madelon. That Jerome was not preserved on celluloid hardly matters. Two other novels were. She could rightfully tiptoe.

Earlier in this review I claimed satisfaction with the letter quotes as subtitles. That is, I confess, only four-fifths true. I waivered with Part Five. I changed its title just a few weeks before the volume went to press. Originally, it had been called “Exigencies of Existence.” I had reservations from the start. In the first place, I like words that are easily pronounced and easily understood. Exigencies is neither. But I kept it because it pointed in the direction of truth. Freeman’s final years were difficult. She wrote less and less. Or, more accurately, she wrote quite a lot, but her work was rejected more and more. She had never enjoyed good health, and with age she did so even less.

But most difficult of all was the tragic ending of her marriage. Dr. Freeman had always been fond of his scotch. By 1917 he was so addicted to alcohol and drugs that he was committed to the New Jersey Asylum for the Insane at Trenton. He was released ultimately. Fearing for herself and her servants (of which she usually had several maids and a chauffeur), Freeman obtained a legal separation. Imagine her shock when the doctor died suddenly of heart failure on March 7, 1923, in the home of his chauffeur. Imagine again how she and her four sisters-in-law felt when the chauffeur brought forth a will, naming him as sole executor and heir and leaving Freeman with only $1.00. They fought and broke that will. It required many years and thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees. All the details are in The Infant Sphinx. Little wonder that Freeman spoke of the exigencies of existence.

But that title bothered me beyond my dislike of the word exigencies. The title conveyed only partial truth. Tragedy loomed large in Freeman’s final years. But so did glory. In 1919, Harper & Brothers, her principal publisher all along, brought out a Modern Classics edition of her New England Nun. In 1926, she was the first recipient of the prestigious William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction. Also, in 1926, she was among the first women admitted to membership in the National Institute of Arts and Letters. In 1928, Henry Lanier brought out The Best Short Stories of Mary E. Wilkins. Honor came from her Metuchen neighbors as well. They made her an honorary member of the Borough Improvement League. The mayor even proclaimed a “Mary E. Wilkins Day.” “Exigencies of Existence” simply would not do. I fretted. I looked. I looked and I fretted. Finally, I saw a phrase appropriate to the English language and in keeping with a conscience bent on telling the truth. At the last moment, it was selected for Part Five: “Obstacles in the Path of Pleasure and Duty.”

I can’t claim the book’s title either. Neither can Freeman. Henry Mills Alden takes full credit. One of her closest friends and also editor of Harper’s Weekly, he felt that she was so old and wise in some ways and so young and infantile in others that he called her “The Infant Sphinx.” She had visited in his Metuchen home for nearly a decade before moving there herself. The town immediately dubbed itself “The Brainy Borough.” Afterwards the Freemans and the Aldens dined together often. They played bridge together with even greater frequency. And the Aldens regularly critiqued her work. That is, until she became so sensitive that they dared voice only approval. Henry Alden was certainly qualified to give the transplanted spinster an epithet. His certainly outdistanced “Pussy Willow,” the nickname given her by Mary Louise Booth, another close friend and editor of Harper’s Bazar. Equally inferior were three other endearments: “Mamie,” “Dolly,” and “Cherie.” Alden certainly knew best.

The range of possibilities underlying his epithet comes across strongest in the analysis of Freeman as a businesswoman. I confess that there were times when the dollar sign loomed so large and so often in the letters that Freeman’s artistic integrity was called into question. Such bargaining. Such quibbling. Such subtle strategies to get higher and higher prices. Such skill in financially pitting editor against editor. But I confess at the same time that I enjoyed a restoration of faith when I read in the letters that such actions panged her own New England conscience and that they were prompted by harsh necessity.

Here was no Harriet Beecher Stowe with a family and husband to back her. Here was no Sarah Orne Jewett with a doctor for a father. Here was Mary Wilkins. To be sure, she came from good New England stock on both sides. But there was no money. Her father had been a housewright in Randolph, Massachusetts. Later he was a dry goods merchant in Brattleboro, Vermont. But, when he died in 1883, Mary was left alone. Her inheritance was $969 in cash and one-half interest in the Steen/Wilkins block in Brattleboro, Vermont. She was forced to earn her own living. Writing was her second occupational choice. Years later, she recalled, “I did not want to write at all. I wanted to be an artist. But for lack of paint, etc., and sufficiency of pens, ink, and paper, I wrote” (Letter 478). She did a splendid job. One novel alone brought her outright $20,000. With that money she built a grand colonial house. With royalties earned from other fiction, she bought expensive automobiles and antique oriental rugs. She purchased emerald and diamond rings, just to cheer herself out of moods of depression. But she also invested wisely in stocks ranging from American Telephone and Telegraph to Bohemia Gold mining Company. After her death on March 13, 1930, the auctioned value of her estate came to $118,099. Obviously, this was one American writer with a clear business head. What I can’t quite understand is how such a good businesswoman could die and not leave a last will and testament. Freeman did just that.

I confess that I take great pride in the volume’s 16-page special photographic insert section. Here can be found photographs of Freeman, the men, the houses, and the honors in her life. Elsewhere in the volume can be found facsimiles of Freeman’s letters and an architectural drawing by her father.

And now I have my final confession. Writing a review such as this has been tremendously rewarding. I dare hazard it is just as objective, just as honest, and hopefully just as helpful as one by an outsider would be. I’ve never paid much attention to reviews. I’ve always wanted to make up my own mind. I’ve even known of reviews written by reviewers who had not even read the books. That certainly is not the case here.

A review is intended to whet the appetite, to encourage readers to read, to encourage books to sell. I hope this one scores a big success on all three counts. This much I know. Anyone interested in Mary E. Wilkins Freeman is compelled to read this edition, or risk being criticized for not exploring all the primary and secondary sources. Anyone interested in women’s studies would do well to take notice. Before Freeman’s time, she had no equal among American women writers. She very well may not have had since then. Anyone interested in nineteenth century American literature can find enough here of significance to merit consulting the volume’s thirty-page index at least. More than a hundred letters are to the House of Harper. There is also extensive correspondence to early American newspaper syndicates. Those individuals whose interests aren’t covered by these categories should read The Infant Sphinx just for the sake of their own enlightenment.

When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)

Posted on April 22, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The intersection of art and artificial intelligence is where imagination meets innovation, sparking a revolution in human potential.”
–Attributed to Ray Kurzweil (b. 1948; prominent American inventor, futurist, and author known for his groundbreaking work in artificial intelligence and technological forecasting.)

When I opened my kitchen door one morning last week, I knew that my lilacs had bloomed overnight. Their fragrance washed over my mountaintop world, signaling their presence long before I laid eyes on them. Amidst the whispers of spring’s arrival, my garden became a canvas painted in hues of lilac. Delicate clusters of lilac-colored blooms burst forth from slender branches, their petals unfurling like tiny, fragrant clouds against the blue sky. Each blossom carried a mesmerizing hue, ranging from soft lavender to rich violet, casting a gentle spell over the landscape. As the sunlight danced upon their petals, they seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly radiance, infusing my yard with tranquility and beauty. In their ephemeral splendor, my lilacs evoked a sense of wonder and awe, reminding me of the fleeting yet profound magic of nature’s creations.

At the same time, my lilacs transported me instantly to “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Walt Whitman’s poignant elegiac response to the 1865 assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.

It’s a long poem–16 free-verse stanzas, totaling 206 lines–that I remember from high school. I never made any attempt to memorize the entire poem, but I vowed to carry the first stanza around with me in my head forever so that I could forever celebrate Lincoln and Whitman whenever life gave me lilacs:

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

I have been faithful to my vow down through the years. These days, here on my mountaintop, whenever my lilacs bloom, I linger–sometimes standing, sometimes pacing, sometimes kneeling–and I recite Whitman’s lines, inhaling deeply as I anchor myself to the deep roots of then, of now, and of eternity.

This past week, when the heady fragrance heralded my lilacs blooming, I felt an urgency to share what I experienced on Facebook. I posted several photos of my lilacs along with a brief sentence or two leading to the full text of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Even as I uploaded the poem, I thought to myself:

“Way too long. Not many followers will read the poem.”

As soon as I hit POST, my doubt weighed even heavier. By now, I know. FB folks like photos. FB folks like short. FB folks like clever. Of course, we do. I can relate. We need to move on so that we can LIKE whatever it is that we choose to like (or not) next.

I sat there nearly wishing that I had simply provided a summary of the poem for those who didn’t have time to read it all. I could have done so with ready ease, especially since I often taught the poem in my college-level American Literature courses. Even though it’s a long poem, it’s not hard to grasp. Through vivid imagery and lyrical language, Whitman mourns Lincoln’s death and explores themes of grief, nature, and the passage of time. The lilacs in the poem symbolize mourning and renewal, while the thrush’s song serves as a solemn requiem. Whitman’s elegy reflects on the impact of Lincoln’s death on the nation and contemplates the enduring cycle of life and death. The poem is considered one of Whitman’s greatest works and a masterpiece of American literature, capturing the profound emotions surrounding a pivotal moment in our nation’s history.

Of course, I had the option to edit my FB post and include a summary comparable to the preceding paragraph as a way perhaps of teasing my FB followers to read the entire poem. As I considered that option, an unthinkable thought strolled across my mindscape.

“See what kind of summary ChatGPT can write. Better still, ask ChatGPT to write a sonnet that captures the essence of Whitman’s poem.”

I know. I know. How dare I write about a famous elegy and pull AI into the same discussion? I confess that even for an ardent AI lover like me, bringing the two together felt almost like a sacrilege. Yet, there I was, grappling with the intersection of technology and poetry. I felt uneasy, yet the idea was already planted in my brain. I had to do something with it, and ignoring the idea was not an option.

It seemed to me in that moment–and it seems to me now–that I could let AI fool around with “When Lilac’s Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” without in any way diminishing my reverence for the original poem, for Whitman, or for his morning of Lincoln’s death. It seemed to me that I had an obligation to explore the idea that had grabbed hold of me just as intensely as the heady fragrance of my lilacs had commanded my respectful attention.

It was from that perspective that I set out not only to see what AI might do but also to see what I might learn. I knew, at that point, that I didn’t want a summary of the poem. I wanted to see whether AI could write a sonnet that would capture the essence of the original poem.

I started with ChatGPT, asking them to rewrite Whitman’s poem as a sonnet, keeping its message and Whitman’s poetic style. Below is ChatGPT’s untitled sonnet:

When lilacs bloomed in dooryard’s sacred space,
And starry heavens wept with evening’s dew,
I mourned, embracing nature’s tender grace,
For Lincoln, lost, in death’s embrace so true.

The thrush’s song, a solemn requiem,
Through leafy boughs, did echo sorrow’s call.
As cedars wept, o’er fields and stream, with them,
I wandered, grief’s heavy cloak did befall.

Yet midst the mourning, there bloomed a light,
A radiant orb, in darkness’ deep domain.
A symbol of hope, amid the endless night,
In death’s embrace, new life shall yet attain.

Though Lilacs fade, and time’s cruel hand may sever,
In nature’s cycle, life renews forever.

As I reached the end of the sonnet, I wondered what ChatGPT would have to say about their own poetic flight:

“Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?”

While I aimed to capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem, it’s important to note that translating a work as rich and complex as “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” into a different poetic form inevitably entails some loss of nuance and depth. My sonnet attempts to convey Whitman’s themes of mourning, nature’s solace, and the cycle of life and death within the constraints of the sonnet form, but it necessarily condenses and simplifies the original work. Whitman’s poem is expansive and deeply personal, and my sonnet can only offer a glimpse of its profound beauty and significance.

So, there you have it. Well, actually, you don’t have it all, not yet. There’s another chatbot that Microsoft launched on February 7, 2023. Copilot is billed as “your everyday AI companion” that searches for specific information, generates text such as emails and summaries, and creates images based on text prompts.

If I had committed a sacrilege by asking ChatGPT to turn Whitman’s famous poem into a sonnet, then I had just as well enjoy my transgression more fully by putting Copilot through the same hoops. I had to do so. I had no other choice. Read Copilot’s sonnet below:

When Lilacs Bloomed

When lilacs graced the dooryard, skies aglow,
And stars, like tears, descended in the west,
I mourned, and shall, as seasons come and go,
With spring’s return, my heart forever pressed.

Perennial lilacs, fragrant and profound,
Their purple blooms a balm for grief and pain,
While stars, once bright, now hidden in night’s shroud,
Evoke memories of love that still remain.

O fallen star, your absence veils the land,
Yet lilacs whisper solace to my soul,
In heart-shaped leaves, a tender touch, a strand,
A sprig of hope, where grief and memories toll.

So let this sonnet bloom, a lilac’s grace,
A tribute to the lost, in time and space.

You may have guessed what’s coming next. Yep. I asked Copilot the same question that I asked ChatGPT: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Copilot responded as follows:

Indeed, my sonnet endeavors to echo the essence of Walt Whitman’s original poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Like Whitman, I pay homage to loss, memory, and the natural world. The lilacs, stars, and grief remain central, albeit in a condensed form. While my sonnet may not encompass every nuance, it seeks to honor the spirit of Whitman’s elegy.

Done? Not quite! We’ve got a new kid on the block, and they deserve a chance, too: Meta AI. They’ve been rolled out across various social media platforms: WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook, and Messenger. They can answer questions, create animations, and generate “high quality” images, according to Meta’s CEO, Mark Zuckerberg. Also, they’re built on the company’s latest large language model called Meta Llama 3.

Sounds impressive, no? Obviously, I had to see what kind of Whitmanesque sonnet they could create, using the same guidelines that I had been using. Here’s Meta AI’s poetic flight:

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d and fell,
A solemn requiem for the fallen chief,
The nation’s sorrow echoed, a mournful knell,
As death’s dark veil shrouded the presidential seat.

The fragrant blooms, like memories, did cling
To Lincoln’s legacy, a bittersweet refrain,
The thrush’s song, a dirge, did sorrowfully ring,
As nature mourned with us, in sympathetic pain.

Yet, in the midst of grief, a glimmer shone,
A hope that death may not forever reign,
For just as lilacs bloom again, so may be known
A resurrection, a new birth from pain.

And so we’ll hold the memory of him dear,
And cherish every bloom that dooryards bring near.

Obviously, too, I asked Meta AI the same question that I had asked their counterparts: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Meta AI responded:

My sonnet attempts to distill the essence of Whitman’s original poem, but it’s a challenging task to condense the complexity and nuance of Whitman’s poetry into a shorter form like a sonnet. Whitman’s poem is known for its free verse style, which allows for a more fluid and expansive exploration of themes and emotions.

My sonnet aims to capture the core themes of mourning, memory, and the cyclical nature of life and death, but it necessarily leaves out some of the richness and detail of the original poem. Whitman’s poem is also deeply rooted in the context of Lincoln’s assassination and the American Civil War, which adds a layer of historical and cultural significance that my sonnet can only allude to.

That being said, I tried to stay true to the spirit of Whitman’s poem by using language and imagery that evokes a sense of reverence, sorrow, and hope. I hope that my sonnet can serve as a tribute to Whitman’s original work and inspire readers to explore the beauty and power of his poetry.

So, there you have it. For now. Yes? Actually, no. We never really have it. Not ever. We’re constantly growing and learning and changing. Isn’t that what makes life worth living?

But, for now, let’s pretend that you really do have it all, everything that you need to transport yourself magically to somewhere that only you can decide and that only you will know whether and when you reach your destination.

● You’ve got Whitman’s original masterpiece, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” I wonder: will you read it, the entire original version? I wonder: will you let one line linger longer with you than all of the others? I wonder: what line? why?

● You’ve got three AI-generated sonnets, each one a 14-line version of Whitman’s original 206-line elegy. I wonder: will you revisit them and decide which one is best?

● You’ve got their own assessment of their sonnets. I wonder: which one do you think is most insightful?

● You’ve seen three AI generators in action, tackling the same task. I wonder: which one would you want as your “everyday AI companion”? ChatGPT? Copilot? Meta AI?

As for me, I’ve gone and fooled around for another week, and now, I’m leaning back on my pillow with a wider than wide smile on my face. This has been as much fun as being in class, giving my students exactly what I have given you, asking them to think about our conversation until we meet again.

Right now, though, I’m thinking about one thing, and I’m chuckling. When my lilacs bloomed last week, I never dreamt that their fragrance and their sight would take me on a journey into the intersection of Walt Whitman’s poetry and artificial intelligence. Yet it did, and I’m glad that the magic happened. It gave me a platform to champion once more the ever-growing role of AI in shaping our understanding of the world around us. AI is not a novelty or a passing trend. It is a powerful tool that is here to stay. We must embrace its capabilities, harness its potential, and use it to deepen our appreciation and gain new insights into even the most sacrosanct aspects of human experience, including poetry. By engaging with AI-generated content, we open ourselves to new perspectives and new opportunities for learning, challenging us to reevaluate our assumptions and to expand our horizons.

However, as we navigate this complex landscape, let’s remember that AI is not a replacement for human creativity. It is a complement to it, a tool that amplifies our capabilities and extends the boundaries of our imagination. By embracing AI as a partner in our inquiries, we can unlock new avenues of expression and deepen our appreciation for the beauty and complexity of the human experience. As we move forward, let us continue to embrace the possibilities of AI, recognizing its capacity to enrich our lives and enhance our understanding of the world we inhabit.

One more thing, Dear Reader. If you haven’t read Whitman’s “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” please read it in its entirety. If you have read it before, please read it once again. In either case, I hope that you read the poem, appropriately, amidst lilacs, and, as you read, I hope their heady fragrance washes over your world and refreshes your soul.

Introducing The Wired Researcher Series: Where Wit and Wisdom Meet

Posted on April 18, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

Dear Readers!

I have some exciting news to share! After a fruitful conversation with my publisher, I’m thrilled to announce the birth of The Wired Researcher Series!

Starting with last year’s beloved In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around, this series promises to deliver a delightful blend of wit and wisdom through creative nonfiction essays. And in just a few weeks, get ready for my new collection of essays, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed. I’ll let you know when it’s available so that you can order your copy.

But this series is more than just a collection of books. It’s a community—a space where readers can find familiarity, camaraderie, and a sense of continuity. Join me on this journey of joy and enlightenment as we explore the intricacies of life, love, and laughter.

Spread the word! Let’s continue our journey together with The Wired Researcher Series!

My Taxing Review: A Reality Post

Posted on April 15, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The past is a source of knowledge, and the future is a source of hope. Love of the past implies faith in the future.”
–Stephen Ambrose (1936-2002; American historian and biographer. The quote is from his Undaunted Courage: Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West, 1996).

No doubt you’ve heard me own up to the sad reality that I am a packrat. I keep everything. Letters and all other forms of personal correspondence including holiday cards. (Scattered here and there; some loose, some bundled). Canceled checks. Remember ye olden days? (Scattered here and there; some loose, some bundled–the canceled checks, silly, not ye olden days, though they’re certainly scattered and shattered to smithereens, sometimes for the better.) Emails going back to forever. (Scattered on flash drives by and large; some printed; both courtesy of my good friend of longest standing with whom I have exchanged more than 23,000 emails since we first met. She’s hoping that if our virtual world disappears after our real world does, someone might be guilted into keeping the printed emails as proof that once upon a time we were.) Tax returns. (Organized by year, as I recall, in two filing cabinets–one in my office; the other, in a teeny-tiny space, with slanting ceiling parallel to the slant of the descending stairs above.)

I have held on to all of these treasures in the full belief that by now I’d be unrich and unfamous and that the tax returns, emails, canceled checks, and letters/correspondence/cards would be helpful to the unbiographer who isn’t with me working on the unbiography that they’re not writing.

Now, however, I confess that more than once, I’ve been tempted to toss it all into the fire as of no worth, but I dare not do so until I review it all carefully. Since I keep everything, who knows what other valuables I might have tossed into a folder knowing that the best way to hide anything is in plain sight, but over time, I forgot what I put where.

However, with Federal Tax Day upon us, what better time than now to scrutinize all of my tax returns going all the way back to 1969. My God! I must be deranged to have kept all those tax records, especially since the IRS has no such requirement. I don’t think it does, at any rate. Let me check. BRB. Okay. Here’s what the IRS says:

“1. Keep records for 3 years if situations (4), (5), and (6) below do not apply to you.
“2. Keep records for 3 years from the date you filed your original return or 2 years from the date you paid the tax, whichever is later, if you file a claim for credit or refund after you file your return.
“3. Keep records for 7 years if you file a claim for a loss from worthless securities or bad debt deduction.
“4. Keep records for 6 years if you do not report income that you should report, and it is more than 25% of the gross income shown on your return.
“5. Keep records indefinitely if you do not file a return.
“6. Keep records indefinitely if you file a fraudulent return.” [Emphasis supplied. Leave it to the IRS to take us from the ridiculous to the sublime. Let me make it perfectly clear right here, right now: I kept all of my returns and not one–no, not one–is fraudulent. Wouldn’t that be stupid. I mean to file a fraudulent return and keep a copy of it on file. “Excuse me, your honor. Right here in Exhibit A is proof that my tax return for 19– is fraudulent. I’m so glad that I kept a copy so that I could have my day in court and prove my point, your Honor. A fine plus five years? But, your Honor, I kept all of my records. Don’t they count for anything?]
“7. Keep employment tax records for at least 4 years after the date that the tax becomes due or is paid, whichever is later.”

OMG! I have no idea what any of the preceding means. Maybe I never did. Maybe that’s why I kept all these damned documents all these years.All I know is this. Right now, I’m so dizzy that I’m about to faint. Excuse me for a sec while I chant. You’re dizzy, too? I understand. Let’s do it together:

● Let’s close our eyes.
● Now, let’s take a handful of deep, calming breaths.
● Let each exhalation be a “letting go” of any tension or worry.
● Let’s take a slow, deep breath.
● On the out-breath, let’s chant the single word: “Ohhhhhhhmmmmmmm.”
● Let’s repeat again and again and again until we can no longer say IRS.

Ahhhh. I’m feeling much better now, and I’m enjoying my desired Ohhhhhhhhhhmmmmm outcome. In fact, my tongue is tingling so much that I couldn’t say IRS if all of my unfraudulent tax returns depended on it.

Thank you so much for chanting with me. To reward you, I’m going to give you a rare treat, probably never heard of before in all the annals of blogging. I’m going to review all of my tax records and treat this post exactly as a producer would treat a reality TV show. You know, where ordinary people do extraordinary things, like argue over who forgot to buy the milk or dramatically flip a pancake for the camera. My words will be my mic and my camera, and what you read will be me, live, unscripted, minute by minute, as I open tax folders that have not been opened in decades, and it all unfolds right here on my Mountain top in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley: ordinary me going through my ordinary, real-life tax files, hoping for your sake and mine that I find something extraordinarily extraordinary, but whatever I find you’re going to get it: the good, the bad, and the whatever. (But not all. Some things must be left to the imagination. Just sayin’.)

Hot dayumm! Is this exciting or what? Shall we start? Are you ready? Yes? Me, too! Let us go then. You and I. A lifetime of tax returns awaits us.

OMG! I can’t believe it! I opened the file cabinet drawer in the closet beneath the stairs, and the folders are arranged in perfect alphabetical order, just as I knew they would be. I see a folder with a typed label: INCOME TAXES. I am surprised, doubly. First, this folder is thick, about an inch or so. Second, unlike the other tax folders, the label on this one does not specify a year. I am intrigued. I have no idea–absolutely no idea–what’s inside this generic, non-date-specific folder.

Good God! I know that I’m a packrat, but I didn’t know that I’m apparently a moron, too. It’s no wonder this folder is so thick. I kept not only my tax returns but also the instruction booklets. But hold on here just a minute. Maybe I’m not a moron after all. I wonder, Dear Reader, whether you have an original IRS instructional booklet from the 1960s? Do you? Be honest! I bet you don’t. I’ll bet the IRS doesn’t. I’ll bet that even the Library of Congress doesn’t. I just did a quick review of all of my tax folders. It appears that I have the original instruction booklet for each year since I first filed taxes. I have an entire “run.” I’m betting that these booklets are worth a fortune. I see a golden future ahead of me. Soon and very soon, I’ll be featured on Antiques Road Show.

Now, I’m really wired, but I can’t continue. For now, I must cease and desist. I have some shopping to do. It’s clear to me that these moronic tax folders of mine deserve the White Glove treatment.

I’m back from shopping. But here’s the thing. In reality, sometimes we don’t get what we think we deserve, and sometimes, historically significant tax folders don’t get what I’d like to think that they deserve, either. I couldn’t find any white cotton gloves that would fit me, and I’m not about to slip on latex.

So here I am, perusing these tax folders with my bare hands. Actually, I love being able to feel the texture of the paper. Papers do differ, you know. The instructional booklet paper is thin, lightweight, and porous. The tax return paper, on the other hand, is a little thicker, heavier, and smoother, intended to be kept, perhaps indefinitely for anyone who might have filed a fraudulent tax return.

At this point, I’m so glad that you’re reading me rather than watching me on reality TV. I don’t think crimson is quite my color, and yet my blush right now is even deeper. This is so embarrassing, but since I promised to reveal all, I shall. Bear with me.

Down through the years, and even at the start of this post, I’ve told anyone and everyone–even rank strangers–that I had kept all of my tax returns going back to 1969. Looking back, I wonder why I thought those files started then. Undoubtedly, it’s because 1969 was when I began my 25-year career at the Library of Congress. But what I discovered in the one-inch folder that I’m exploring now is that I actually filed my first return in 1967, two years earlier than I remembered.

Guess what else I discovered? Apparently, I didn’t keep a copy of my 1967 tax return. I have to confess the same for my 1968, 1969, and 1970 returns. Goodness. This is far more embarrassing than I ever dreamt that it would be!

Oh. Don’t worry. I have copies of those returns that I had forgotten about! Here’s why and how I got them. For tax year 1971, I used the Five-Year Income Average method. However, since I hadn’t kept the prior four years, I had to write the IRS and request copies! I have a copy of my original request. It’s a handwritten, carbon copy on onion skin paper. A few months later, I sent the IRS a follow-up request. It’s a typed carbon copy, again on onion skin. I guess I thought that a typed letter might result in the requested action that my handwritten request had not achieved. It did. My copies arrived, I filed my return, and here I am, looking at them nearly six decades later.

No doubt, you’re wondering about my taxable income for those years. I promised bare reality, so here goes:

● 1967: $1,604 (Student)
● 1968: $404 (Student)
● 1969: $2,932 (MARC Editor)
● 1970: $7,838 (MARC Editor)
● 1971: $9,002 (Library Editor)

Now you know.

I have to say that as I looked at my tax records, I wasn’t focusing at all on income. Instead, I was focusing on the memories that washed over me as I looked.

Take, for example, my 1967 return. By today’s standard, $1,604 isn’t much, but it was a small fortune for me as a sophomore at Alderson-Broaddus University. The income, though, is totally eclipsed by the work experience that gave me my earning opportunity. As an undergraduate, I was required to have two off-campus experiences. I could have opted for the university’s educational programs in Switzerland or Mexico. Instead, for my first one, I decided to orchestrate my own internship experience that would let me live for a few months in our Nation’s Capital. Looking back, I’m not certain how that notion found its way into my head. Further, I’m not certain how I ever came up with the idea of an internship with Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV).

But I did both, and of this, I am certain. With unwavering determination, once I had lined up my internship with Senator Byrd, I knew that I’d be moving to DC and that I had to have somewhere to live. Looking back, I am surprised by my ingenuity and my boldness. Equipped only with DC Yellow Pages and a rotary telephone and undaunted by the challenge, I found myself an apartment at McClean Gardens in northwest DC, right off of Wisconsin Avenue and just a few blocks from the Washington Cathedral, St. Albans School for Boys, Sidwell Friends School, and the Washington Ballet. In my mind, an apartment near those landmarks meant one thing: I’d be discovering city life while living in a safe neighborhood. Then, armed with courage, I further surprised myself when I packed up my bags, got a one-way Greyhound ticket from Philippi (WV) to DC. When I arrived late at night, I took a metro bus from downtown out to my McClean Gardens apartment. For three glorious spring months, amidst the bloom of new beginnings, I enjoyed living in the shadow of the Washington Cathedral and working in the hallowed halls of Senate Office Buildings, House Office Buildings, and the U.S. Capitol.

Or what about my 1969 return. Again, the taxable income of $2,932 is anything but impressive. But I will always remember that summer, that fall, and the opportunities that allowed me to earn that income.

The summer months found me immersed in my second internship in DC, at the former Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, Division of the Two-Year College. It was an extraordinary transformative opportunity that shaped my perspective on education and the world, but amidst the whirlwind of learning, one moment stands out above all others: the historic July 20 Moon Landing. I vividly recall the anticipation and excitement as my fraternity brother and I, sharing a modest apartment in Capitol Heights, MD–just across the DC line–resolved to witness this monumental event. Strapped for cash and lacking a television, Tim and I scrounged together enough change to afford a single beer each at a local bar on nearby Marlboro Pike, nursing it patiently through the evening until American astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin made history by setting foot on the lunar surface. Armstrong’s immortal words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” reverberated through the air, etching themselves into the annals of human achievement and forever echoing in my mind.

The fall months, starting in September, found me beaming with pride when I was my appointed to a position at the Library of Congress as a MARC Editor. (Yes. I was appointed, not hired. Yes. It was a position, not a job.) I gave up my apartment in Capitol Heights, I sold my Chevrolet Bel Air, and I moved into an apartment at 200 C Street, SE–now Capitol Hill Hotel–a block away from the Library of Congress. Days found me as an Editor in the John Adams Building, at that time known as the Library Annex. Evenings found me as a Reader/Researcher in the Library’s Main Reading Room of the Thomas Jefferson Building, where the grandeur of its architecture served as a backdrop to my dreams. As I immersed myself in the serene ambiance of the Main Reading Room, I couldn’t help but be captivated by the intricate architectural details. The soaring ceiling, adorned with elaborate frescoes and intricate carvings, seemed to reach towards the heavens, instilling within me a sense of awe and wonder. As I wandered through the upper-level alcoves, tracing my fingers along the spines of ancient tomes, I found solace in timeless beauty.

I could continue looking at my 1971 Five-Year Income Average tax return, and I could share with you other memories from those early years. Then, I could keep right on going with all of the subsequent tax returns that I have held on to down through the years, along with their counterparts: the emails, the canceled checks, and the various forms of personal correspondence.

However, just by examining one small section of one thick tax folder, I’ve unearthed a treasure trove of significance. These tax files, meticulously kept over my lifetime, hold a value far beyond what I initially anticipated. They serve as far more than just financial records; they are windows into the chapters of my life. Each line item, each deduction, anchors me to specific moments and places, serving as poignant reminders of my journey—where I’ve been, who I’ve become, and the person I continue to evolve into.

As I reflect on the journey through my tax records, I realize that these seemingly mundane documents hold far more than financial data. Through the haze of numbers and figures, I glimpse moments of triumph, of uncertainty, and of growth. In these records, I unearth not just financial transactions but the very essence of my existence, woven into the fabric of time itself.

In preserving these records, I’ve safeguarded not just financial history, but personal narratives. They serve as markers of my evolution, from the eager college student navigating the halls of power in Washington, D.C., to the budding professional finding my footing in the corridors of the Library of Congress.

Each tax year returns a story, not just of income earned or taxes paid, but of experiences, challenges, and aspirations that shaped me. They are reminders of the resilience and resourcefulness that carried me through moments of courage, doubt, and uncertainty.

Taxing though we may be, let’s give a shoutout to the packrats, the keepers of memories, the custodians of personal history. May we never underestimate the value of our archives, for within them lies the essence of who we are, where we’ve been, and the dreams that propel us forward.

As I close these tax folders–Just for now, mind you; I will open them again moving forward–I do so with a newfound appreciation for the richness they contain. In the end, it’s not just about the numbers, but the stories they tell, and the legacy they leave behind. I’ve discovered treasures far beyond what I ever imagined. I am grateful for the journey they’ve allowed me to relive and the memories they’ve helped me preserve and hold tight.

Dear Reader–whoever you are and wherever you are–may your own archives be a source of inspiration and reflection to you, too, reminding you of the moments that define you and the dreams that fuel your journey. May your own journey through personal records echo the profound discovery and appreciation that mine has evoked, reminding you of the richness of your own narrative.

From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition

Posted on April 1, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul.”
—Alfred Austin (1835–1913; English poet who served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1896 until his death.)

The love of gardening runs deep in my veins, pulsing and pumping from my father and my mother.

As far back as I can remember, we always had a garden, even in the coal camp of Cherokee (WV) where I was born. Most folks wouldn’t have been impressed by those gardens. They weren’t much to look at, and they were scattered all over the place. A patch of lettuce here. A patch of scallions there. Potatoes over yonder. Tomatoes somewhere further beyond. Yet, in the midst of the coal dust, the slate dump behind our house, and the rugged landscape, those humble patches of green were our oasis, our source of sustenance, and a testament to the resilience of our family.

We moved away from McDowell County when I was seven, marking a shift in our endeavors. Our gardens transitioned from scattered patches to full-sized plots, big enough to be tractor tilled in early Spring, big enough to lay out rows with a push plow, and big enough to raise high hopes for a bountiful harvest.

While gardening was always a family affair, my father and mother took the lead in deciding what to plant, where. But we all shared in the labor. My dad always headed out to the field after dinner, even though he had worked in the mines all day. He was there on weekends, too. But my mom and all of us kids who were home worked the garden as well. I believe my love for gardening surpassed my siblings. If anyone happened to be looking for me, they knew they could always find me in the garden. Putting in the seeds. Pulling the weeds. Hoeing rows of corn and green beans. Hilling potatoes. Strawing watermelons and cantaloupe. Sitting in the cucumbers, saltshaker in hand, having an any-time snack or watching the night sky fill up with stars.

I cherished everything that we grew in our garden: fiery banana peppers, ribbed bell peppers, towering broccoli, robust cabbage, beige-netted cantaloupes, lacy-topped carrots, creamy cauliflower, towering cornstalks, prickly cucumbers, English peas, slender green beans, curly kale, leaf lettuce, peppery mustard greens, thick pole beans, Irish potatoes, globed radishes, sprightly scallions, juicy tomatoes, and striped watermelons.

Although every garden that we ever had was my most favorite, ever, the one that we had the summer before I turned ten was my favorite of them all. It’s the one that I remember most. To my childhood eyes, that garden was huge, and even now, it looms large. I would say that it was a whole two acres of rich loamy soil, open field, without too many rocks, large or small, woods remaining on one side, reminder of things past.

Besides its size, I recall the mathematical precision in how my father laid it out. After it had been tilled, the garden magically turned itself into a checkerboard of stakes and strings that my dad and I, working together, spaced equally apart, declaring what vegetables belonged where. Then, day by day, sections of stakes and strings came down except for the perimeters defining places that specific vegetables could call home. Each vegetable had its own plot, with the largest reserved for potatoes. Next came sweet yellow corn, all twined and tangled with Kentucky Wonder pole beans reaching for the tasseled tops. And so, it was. Every vegetable had its own place, based not only on our family needs but also on its soil and light requirements.

Adding to the garden’s charm were the meticulously planned paths, a good three feet wide, separating the interior vegetable plots and hugging the garden’s outer edge. My mother and I bordered all the paths with flowers. Most were annuals–zinnias, four clocks, nasturtium, cosmos, and marigolds. Two were perennials–dahlias and gladiolus–boastfully standing sentinel in square clumps on the four corners.

Occasionally, I’d steal away to the garden, finding solace amidst the rows of corn. Lying between them, I’d watch birds circling overhead, imagining how our garden appeared from their lofty perspective. To them, it must have resembled a patchwork quilt with neatly arranged squares against the backdrop of greenery. Paths crisscrossed the landscape, separating plots, while vibrant flowers added bursts of color along the way. The orderly rows of crops, interspersed with flowering plants, spoke of meticulous planning and dedication. In my youthful innocence, I believed the birds were admiring our garden—a harmonious blend of practicality and beauty, a testament to our family’s care and effort.

By mid-summer, when the crops were beginning to peak and the flowers were showing off their heads of brilliant colors, word spread, and people came from miles around to take in its beauty. That summer, our potato harvest was the best ever–thirty bushels or so–most shared with neighbors or admiring passersby. That summer, one potato weighed in at five pounds, caught the attention of a local reporter, and a photograph of my father, proudly holding the potato, found its way into our local Raleigh Register newspaper. That summer, my father put up shelves in our basement so that my mother could proudly display the 3,000 or so quarts of garden harvest she canned not only to meet our needs but also to share with others in need.

Apart from the care we lavished on our gardens, I’m uncertain why they yielded such abundant harvests. However, I thought then–and I think now–that it might have been because my parents always planted according to zodiac signs, moon phases, and long-standing traditions. Regardless of the signs, my father always planted potatoes on Good Friday, believing that it would ensure a bountiful harvest, and it did. But with other crops, I have fond recollections of him and my mother discussing at considerable length the best signs for planting. Cabbage, in the head. Corn, in the arms or thighs. Cucumbers, in the fingers and toes. On and on it went, always piquing my curiosity and making me wonder: Could there be something to this age-old practice that they followed almost religiously?

All of my family’s gardens linger in my mind as fertile fields, ever growing, ever growing. And the spirit of those gardens has followed me wherever I have lived. I have always had my own garden patch. It might have been as simple as a potted plant in my college dorm rooms. It might have been a larger patio patch in the city apartments and homes. Now, it’s my mountaintop, patchworked with specimen evergreens and iris and peonies and hardy banana trees and bamboo. Regardless of the garden’s size and location, the soil has always reached out to my soul just as lovingly as my ungloved hands have reached down into the soil.

Aside from my own love of gardening, I have harvested so much more from those fertile fields that sustained us so joyfully from one summer season to the next when I was growing up. Lessons learned in the fields have sustained and nourished me for my entire life.

I learned all about patience and perseverance as I waited for seeds to sprout, nurtured plants as they grew, and dealt with setbacks such as pests or weather. What an impact that lesson had on other areas of life, including my education and my career.

I learned all about responsibility and commitment. Watering, weeding, and caring for garden plants taught me the value of follow-through, dedication, and fulfilling obligations and commitments.

I learned about teamwork and collaboration as I worked with my family, planning, planting, and maintaining our gardens. Those communication skills and cooperation skills remain among my strongest assets.

Perhaps more important than those invaluable practical lessons, I learned about hope and optimism. Witnessing the cycle of growth and renewal in our gardens taught me that even in difficult times, there is potential for growth and transformation. It fostered my hopeful outlook on life and my perpetual belief in possibilities for positive change.

Above all, this. Gardening as a child and now as a man on the other side of childhood taught me to honor the Divine presence that’s all around us. Gardening connects me to the creative forces of the universe and gives me a sense of reverence for the sacredness of all life. Gardening is a form of prayer that deepens and enriches my spiritual connections and anchors me to a certainty of purpose.

For me, my childhood gardening transcended the mere act of planting seeds and tending crops. It served as a powerful crucible for forging my character and cultivating values that have endured well beyond the gardens that I once knew and still know. Embracing the earth beneath my feet, I learned patience, responsibility, and resilience, laying the groundwork for purpose and meaning. The tender shoots of my childhood gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world. The seeds sown in my childhood have illuminated my path all along the way, and I am confident they will continue to brighten the paths I have yet to trod.

Unveiling the Cover: Get Ready for More Wit and Wisdom!

Posted on March 16, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The joy of publishing is in sharing your stories with the world and knowing that they’ll live on long after you’re gone.”
–Maya Angelou (1928-2014; a renowned American author, poet, and Civil Rights activist whose works explore themes of identity, race, and resilience.)

Dear Readers, gather ’round!

The moment we’re all eagerly waiting for is just around the corner. That’s right—my new book, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed–is getting closer and closer to its grand debut in late April, and boy, oh boy, do I have some juicy updates to share with you!

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve personally PDFed every single one of the 380 interior pages, ensuring that each word, each sentence, shines as bright as a star in my mountaintop night sky. Proofing? Poof! Completed!

Whoever you are and wherever you are, your unwavering support means the world to me. More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed isn’t just ink on paper. It’s a journey shared across 88 countries with 7,320 readers from the Shenandoah Valley to Okinawa.

But wait, wait! Don’t go! There’s one more thing. Feast your eyes upon the cover art for this new upcoming literary escapade. Just imagine it gracing your bookshelf, waiting to be cracked open and devoured, page by page. It will be available in hardback and paperback from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and, hopefully, your own hometown bookstore. (Drumming up anticipation yet?)

**Grand Publication Debut of a Soon-to-Be American Classic Expected by the End of April 2024. (Cover** **art** by **acclaimed** **illustrator**, **Mike Caplanis**.)

A Cautionary Tale

Posted on March 11, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”
–Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; a towering figure in the fight against apartheid in South Africa and a symbol of resilience, reconciliation, and forgiveness worldwide.)

Have you ever found yourself sitting in front of your computer, fingers poised over the keyboard, eyes locked on the blank screen? The cursor blinks, mocking your indecision. The room holds its breath, waiting for your next move.

Of course you have. We all have. I have, too.

Actually, I had that happen not long ago. I was sitting in front of my computer, enveloped in a curious trance as I looked at my PowerPoint options. Each was a digital beacon of possibilities, beckoning me into a realm where creativity and innovation might dance hand in hand.

My seasoned fingers, once adept at coaxing brilliance from the keys, hovered hesitantly over the mouse, betraying the uncertainty that clouded my thoughts. The screen gazed back at me with patient anticipation, as if urging me to breathe life into the blankness into which I stared.

But as I peered into the depths of the display, my mind became a whirlwind of memories. How many lectures had I crafted with this very tool? How many minds had I ignited with the flicker of a well-placed slide or the resonance of a perfectly timed transition?

And yet, despite my seasoned expertise, I found myself transfixed, caught in the labyrinth of my own imagination. The cursor blinked mockingly, a silent reminder of the silence that echoed through my mind.

I sat there, staring, waiting, realizing that in the digital world of ones and zeros, the true magic lies not in the tools we wield, but in the stories we choose to tell.

Indeed, I had a story to tell. Gina Byrd, Executive Director of the Friends of Handley Library System, had invited me for an “Author Talk” at Bowman Library (Stephens City, VA). My topic? “Reinventing Yourself: Writing Your Next Chapter.”

Several weeks before my talk, Gina and I met at the library so that we could go over logistics.

“Will you be using PowerPoint?”

“No, I don’t think so. I like to walk around the room while I talk.”

It was settled. No PowerPoint.

But when I got back home, the notion swept over me that perhaps I should use PowerPoint. I hesitated for a moment before deciding to reach out to Gina. After all, I had initially dismissed the idea, preferring the freedom of movement without slides. But as I mulled it over, I realized that visual aids could enhance the audience’s understanding of my topic. With a sense of uncertainty If I can keep from it, I fired off an email to Gina:

It occurs to me that I might want to use PowerPoint after all, especially if you all have a remote clicker that I could use as I walk around.

Gina’s prompt reply reassured me:

That’s fine! We have the Clear Touch Panel (it’s basically a huge iPad) and a clicker you can use. If you can bring your presentation on a thumb drive, that would be easiest.

The next day, I talked myself into tackling the PowerPoint presentation.

“Piece of cake. You’re an expert on reinvention. After all, you’ve been reinventing yourself for a lifetime. You’ve got this.”

Sure. Right. Self-talk works most of the time. However, this seemed to be one of those times when it wasn’t working. There I sat, once again, staring at my blank computer screen while PowerPoint stared back at me. Even though I had more than a week to complete the PowerPoint, my mantra was immediate:

“Go on. Just do it. Get it out of the way.”

The glow of the PowerPoint screen beckoned, but I found myself lured instead into chasing the indoor tasks awaiting my attention. The dust bunnies, like mischievous gremlins, taunted me from their hiding places, my laundry begged to be folded and sorted, and my houseplants drooped in silent protest against neglect. As I tackled each chore, a siren call steered me further away from the digital abyss.

The next day, I faced the blank screen once more. It was then that my fear looked back at me. I realized that I had not developed a PowerPoint presentation in more than two years. I realized that I was fearful simply because I was no longer familiar with a task that, in reality, was simple and straightforward.

That settled it. I sat down in front of my computer, determined to develop the presentation, slide by slide. I had no expectation that I would finish it that day, but I resolved to complete a draft. I knew that I had to get past my fear.

The next thing I knew, I found myself ensnared by the choices at my fingertips. Each transition, a delicate balance between subtlety and spectacle, whispered promises of visual delight. Each animation added movement and meaning to static slides. Each carefully selected photograph added depth and resonance to my narrative. The bullets, like soldiers marching in formation, stood ready to deliver their payload of information with precision and clarity. Every click held power, and I was in charge.

I finished my PowerPoint presentation the next day, and I was delighted with it. Actually, I was ecstatic because I had as much fun developing it as I had ever enjoyed in the past.

When I gave my talk at Bowman Library, I realized that my decision to use PowerPoint was a wise one. It helped me navigate my talk smoothly, and, more importantly, it kept everyone engaged. Afterward, several people commented on its effectiveness, with special praise for the transitions, which they felt reinforced the content.

As I drove back home, I started thinking about the PowerPoint battle that I had fought and nearly lost. It would have been so easy for me to have aborted my plan. After all, I hadn’t planned to use PowerPoint initially. But I had changed my mind. What a pity it would have been for me to have lost the battle to the dis-ease that I was experiencing simply because I had not used PowerPoint in more than two years.

Don’t get me wrong. If I were rating the level of my fear, I’d probably give it a 4 on a scale of 10, with 10 being the greatest fear. Actually, that’s not that bad at all, yet it was bad enough to lure me away from the task, not once, not twice, but multiple times.

Without a doubt, I’ve experienced far greater fears in my life. How well I recall getting back on a bicycle after several decades of not riding a bike. There I stood, at the trailhead to the Virginia Creeper Trail, nostalgia tugging at my muscles. The trail stretched downhill before me. I glanced at the path, comforted that Allen–my late partner, who also hadn’t ridden a bike in several decades–was facing the challenge with me. But as I considered the downhill descent, I could neither hide nor disguise my fear. With trembling legs, I pushed off, the wind carrying whispers of both fear and exhilaration. The trail unfolded. I pedaled. I kept on pedaling until I made it to Damascus, 34 miles later, safely past my fear.

More recently, I had a more frightening encounter with a chainsaw. I was finishing a day’s work of taking down some small trees behind my home. I decided to end the job by cutting a sapling. There I stood—a weekend warrior in faded jeans and work boots. The sapling seemed to know exactly how to make the saw bounce back, cut through denim, and rip through flesh, all the way down to but not through my patella—the hinge of leg movement, the guardian of joints. It took twelve stitches and nearly as many weeks to heal my knee.

It took me far longer to bounce back from the deep-seated fear that the chainsaw had instilled. Months passed. Every trip to my basement found me staring at the saw, wondering whether I would ever have the courage to use it again. Determined to conquer the fear, I ordered protective chainsaw chaps. When they arrived, I put them on hesitantly, started the Stihl, and cautiously but triumphantly took down a small tree. I tossed the wood and my fear into the stack for winter fires.

Experiencing fear, especially in certain situations or after a prolonged period of inactivity or after an accident, is a common and normal human response. Fear is a natural part of the human experience.

As a seasoned educator and as a man in his seventies, I’ve seen fear kick ass over and over again as people faced:

● Technology
● Change
● Failure
● Medical Procedures
● Public Speaking
● Rejection
● Regret
● Success
● Letting Go
● Driving
● Aging

The list is endless. But here’s the caution that we all need to hear regardless of who we are or where we are in life. As we navigate life, fear can often stand as a formidable barrier between us and our aspirations. Yet, as I’ve learned through my own experiences, it’s in confronting these fears head-on that we find the true essence of courage and resilience.

I urge you to take a moment to reflect on the fears that may be holding you back—whether it’s the fear of trying something new, the fear of failure, or the fear of the unknown. Embrace these fears not as obstacles but as opportunities for growth and self-discovery.

Just as I conquered my hesitation with PowerPoint, rode a bike after decades, and faced down a chainsaw, you too can overcome the fears that threaten to immobilize you. Step by step, challenge by challenge, you have the power to rewrite your story and embark on a journey of transformation.

I encourage you to take that first step today. Identify one fear that’s lingering in the shadows of your mind and make a commitment to confront it. Whether it’s signing up for that class you’ve been eyeing, reaching out to mend a broken relationship, or simply daring to dream a little bigger—embrace the discomfort, for it’s in pushing past our boundaries that we discover our true potential.

Remember: you are capable of far more than you know. Let’s rise above our fears, embrace the adventure of life, and write the next chapter of our story with courage, resilience, and unwavering determination. The blank page of possibility awaits. Let’s fill it with the triumphs of our bravery.

Go On. Do It. Back Yourself into a Corner.

Posted on February 26, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The unexamined life is not worth living.“
—Socrates (470-399 BCE; classical Greek philosopher best known for his Socratic method, which aims to elicit truth by asking questions and engaging in dialogue.)

One of my favorite short stories is Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” (1865). No doubt you’ve read it, too, and will recall how old garrulous Simon Wheeler traps the narrator with a long-winded tale about a man named Jim Smiley and his famous jumping frog. Wheeler’s rambling accounts of Jim Smiley’s exploits appeal to me, especially as they become increasingly elaborate and exaggerated. Smiley and Wheeler are portrayed as eccentric characters with idiosyncratic behaviors and quirks. Who can forget Smiley’s obsession with betting on animals or Wheeler’s folksy storytelling. The premise of the entire story—a man who trains a frog to jump competitively and then loses a bet because the frog has been tampered with—is inherently absurd, adding to the comedic tone.

More than any of those dimensions, however, I like the story’s situational humor. The narrator is “backed into a corner” by Simon Wheeler and unable to escape until the end of his monotonous monologue. If you look at the story closely, you will discover that everything from the fourth paragraph all the way up to and including the next to the last paragraph is enclosed in quotation marks. This setup creates a sense of trapped amusement. The narrator is helpless in the face of Wheeler’s relentless storytelling and remember, as well, that Wheeler physically corners the narrator with his chair, thereby adding a visual element to the absurd humor.

The juxtaposition of the narrator’s predicament and Wheeler’s obliviousness to his captive audience adds a richness to the subtle humor. Here’s why. Even if readers are not consciously aware of that aspect of the story–that the narrator is literally backed into a corner–it seems to me that they pick up on it intuitively because we can all relate to feeling trapped in real-life situations where we are unable to escape.

Twain succeeded in tapping into a universal experience that readers understand. It’s a perfect “been there, done that” moment.

No doubt, you’ve been there, done that, too. Remember that party where you found yourself cornered by the resident “over-sharer”? They regale you with the intricate details of their recent colonoscopy, leaving you desperately searching for an escape route while nodding along, trapped in a vortex of TMI. Hopefully, over time, you came to terms with your boundaries, and you’re comfortable with giving an assertive but diplomatic response:

“I appreciate your openness, but I have to admit, discussing medical procedures makes me a bit squeamish. Let’s shift the conversation to something more lighthearted.”

Such a response communicates your discomfort with the topic, sets a clear boundary in a respectful manner, redirects the conversation without dismissing the other person, and maintains a friendly and polite tone.

Or maybe your friends dragged you off to a karaoke bar, and despite your protests that you couldn’t carry a tune to save your life, they insisted that you join in. As you droned an off-key rendition of “Every Breath You Take,” you felt like a reluctant participant in a musical hostage situation.

Getting backed into a corner by peers happens over and over again until we take time to reflect on our personal boundaries with a determination to be more assertive. When we gain insights into those areas, we know our limits, we know how to stand firm, and we know how to say “no.”

Or maybe you got backed into a corner at a family gathering where you’re bombarded with questions about your career, relationship status, and future plans. Despite your discomfort, you navigated the awkward interrogations with forced smiles and vague answers, feeling trapped in a whirlwind of familial expectations and scrutiny.

How can you avoid feeling trapped in future family gatherings? Consider your comfort level with discussing personal topics. Set your own boundaries. Once again, by gaining insights into those areas, you can navigate future events with greater ease and respond to questions assertively and confidently.

Hopefully, you’re getting my point. We’re all backed into corners by family and friends in social situations where we never expected to be in the corner, feeling so uncomfortable.

But if we seize those encounters as opportunities to examine why we felt uncomfortable, to clarify in our own minds our beliefs, to understand the nature of our boundaries, and to resolve to assert ourselves, we can navigate future social situations like that with far greater confidence, simply because we took the time to examine ourselves.

I am reminded of something that acclaimed writer Mary E. Wilkins Freeman once said:

Sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man’s friends can do for him is to drive him in a corner with God.

Whoever, whatever, whenever, wherever or even if God is, we all know exactly what Freeman has in mind. It’s that final moment of reckoning when we are accountable unto ourselves.

But here’s the thing. Why wait for friends? More likely than not, our friends are too polite. More likely than not, our friends are too nonconfrontational. More likely than not, our friends are too diplomatic. Let’s not wait, then, for our friends to drive us in a corner. Let’s not expect God to be in the corner waiting for us, either. Let’s just go on and do it. Let’s just go ahead and back ourselves into our own uncomfortable corners so that once and for all, we have to address major issues that we can’t escape. Let’s not avoid them. Let’s not pay lip service to them. Let’s not talk out of both sides of our mouths about them. Let’s simply back ourselves into our respective corners, examine the issues, and discover where we stand.

God knows that I’ve lived long enough to back myself into lots of corners. For some, I’ve been in them so often and so long that they’re rounded. For others, I’ve just gotten in them, and I’m discovering their recency, their rawness, and their sharpness. Let me share some of my corners. As you read about mine, be mindful that I am not trying to convince you to share my beliefs. You’ve got your own beliefs and your own corners–soft or hard. At the same time, I am encouraging you to back yourself into your own corners and to examine your issues and concerns in private before the world forces you to examine them in public.

One of my corners deals with Racism and Discrimination. Growing up in West Virginia coal camps alongside African Americans, Whites, Greeks Hispanics, Jews, Italians, and Hungarians, I witnessed the power of unity and mutual respect. Our dads worked together in the mines; our moms cooked together in the kitchens; and we kids played together in the yards. We recognized each other’s humanity and worth. Today, I cringe when I witness racism and discrimination that cast a dark shadow over all of us. I am pained as I examine the harsh reality of ongoing injustices and the destructive impact of discrimination. Yet, I remain steadfast in my belief in the interconnectedness of humanity and our entitlement to equal rights. Simply acknowledging the problem isn’t sufficient; we must actively advocate for change and dismantle oppressive structures. By standing in solidarity with marginalized communities and confronting racism abd discrimination head-on, we can move towards a more just and cohesive society. Every individual, regardless of race or background, deserves to be valued and respected. It’s time to build a future where equality and inclusion are the cornerstones of our society.

The Russia-Ukraine War and the Israel-Gaza Crisis leave me speechless in disbelief as I examine the issues in my corner. How can this be happening in our world today? The unprovoked invasion by Russia into Ukraine and the attacks from Gaza into Israel are stark reminders of the fragility of peace and stability in our world. In these tumultuous times, I firmly believe that the United States and other nations must stand together on the side of justice and righteousness. We cannot turn a blind eye to aggression and violence. It’s imperative for the international community to rally behind efforts for peace, diplomacy, and the protection of innocent lives. We must advocate for dialogue, de-escalation, and respect for international law to ensure a safer and more just world for all.

Another corner that I’m examining is Artificial Intelligence (AI). As a staunch AI supporter, I’m deeply concerned by the lack of awareness surrounding its potential and our collective responsibility in shaping its trajectory for the greater good of mankind. AI has the power to revolutionize countless aspects of our lives, from healthcare to transportation, education to entertainment. However, without careful consideration and ethical oversight, there’s a risk of unintended consequences and misuse. We must advocate for transparency, accountability, and inclusivity in the development and deployment of AI technologies. By promoting education and fostering informed dialogue, we can ensure that AI is harnessed responsibly to benefit humanity as a whole, rather than serving narrow interests or exacerbating existing inequalities. Let’s work together to shape a future where AI serves as a force for progress and empowerment, guided by principles of ethics, empathy, and equity.

You’ll find me in a corner, too, with Global Warming. It terrifies me. Its effects are undeniable. Extreme weather and melting ice caps make it clear. Our planet is in crisis. I’m so alarmed that I even contemplate solutions like space colonization. But while this idea may gain traction, it shouldn’t be our first resort. Instead, urgent action is needed. Transitioning to renewables and reducing emissions are crucial steps. The time for change is now. We must prioritize Earth’s preservation, ensuring space colonization remains a last resort.

My next corner is a hard one because discussing politics has never been my cup of tea. But with a Presidential Election ahead of us–presumably between President Biden and Donald Trump–I feel compelled to examine where I stand. Key issues like the economy, world trade, green investments, race, and criminal justice weigh heavily on my mind. In those areas–and others–President Biden earns my support with his comprehensive plans and commitment to progress. However, there’s one more crucial factor that will sway my vote: morality and decency. In this election, every vote cast will shape the narrative of a major morality play. The character and integrity of our leaders matter deeply. It’s about more than policies; it’s about the soul of our nation. I believe President Biden embodies the values of empathy, integrity, and decency that are essential for effective leadership. While I may not agree with every decision or policy, I trust that President Biden will lead with compassion and integrity, prioritizing the well-being of all Americans. At the end of the day, my vote for him may just tip the scales towards a more just and compassionate future.

Economic Inequality hits home for me, too. As the son of a West Virginia coal miner whose family often lived from paycheck to paycheck, I know firsthand all about economic inequality. Despite some progress, I still see in my own community the struggle of living on an inadequate minimum wage. It’s frustrating to witness marginalized groups face barriers to advancement, especially when it comes to leadership roles and fair pay. Addressing these issues demands systemic change in workplaces. Additionally, the current minimum wage barely covers basic needs, widening the wealth gap. I firmly believe in raising the minimum wage, implementing fair tax policies, and investing in education as crucial steps. We must break barriers so that everyone can have a shot at a better future.

What can I say about my LGBTQ+ corner? I’m intimately familiar with the journey of self-discovery, self-examination, and the courage it takes to live authentically. Growing up, I carried the weight of my identity, aware of my differences before I even started school. All along my journey, I assumed that everyone knew that I was gay. However, it wasn’t until I reached the age of 50 and found my soulmate that I felt emboldened to “come out.” I had Allen’s support. I had Emerson’s backing, expressed so eloquently in his “Self-Reliance.” My colleagues, my students, and my friends made me know the warmth and authenticity of their embraces, yet I encountered unexpected pushback, rebuke, and rejection from some members of my own family. My personal journey underscores the importance of advocating for LGBTQ+ rights. While we’ve made significant progress, regressive actions both domestically and internationally threaten the rights and protections we’ve fought for. Discriminatory laws persist, jeopardizing the hard-won gains of the LGBTQ+ community. From rollbacks on protections for transgender individuals to the criminalization of same-sex relationships, the fight for equality continues. Despite the challenges we face, I remain steadfast in my belief in our right to live authentically, free from discrimination. We must persevere in our advocacy efforts, challenging discriminatory practices and demanding equality for all LGBTQ+ individuals. Together, we can work towards a future where LGBTQ+ individuals are fully recognized, respected, and afforded the same rights as everyone else.

In addition to these societal challenges, what about Women’s Rights? The persisting inequities within homes and workplaces, coupled with debates on reproductive autonomy, require examination, too. The burden of domestic responsibilities disproportionately falls on women, intertwining with workplace disparities like the unyielding gender pay gap. Conversations surrounding women’s reproductive rights, notably access to abortions, remain a contentious battleground. Addressing these issues isn’t merely a call for justice; it’s an urgent plea for societal transformation. Let us back ourselves into the corners of these crucial discussions, questioning norms, challenging biases, and advocating for a world where women stand on equal ground in every facet of life.

I’ve saved my overarching corner for last. Am I my brother’s keeper? Absolutely. Yes. It doesn’t matter whether you’re gay or straight; poor or wealthy; Democrat or Republication; believer in climate change or not; for or against AI; Russian or Ukrainian; Jew or Palestinian; African American, White, Greek Hispanic, Italian, Hungarian, or any other cultural group. My conviction runs deep and is rooted in my belief that we are all interconnected, all part of the same human family. My brother isn’t just a blood relative; they’re every person I encounter, every life I touch. Witnessing and examining the struggles and injustices faced by one or faced by all fuels my passion for advocacy and compassion. It’s not enough to stand idly by; I am compelled to act, to uplift, and to support those in need. Whether through lending a helping hand, speaking out against injustice, or simply offering a listening ear, I embrace my role as my brother’s keeper. Together, we can build a world where empathy and solidarity reign, where every individual is valued and empowered to thrive.

Obviously, numerous other issues weigh heavily on my spirit, too. Environmental Sustainability. Healthcare Access. Education Equity. Immigration Reform. Their significance is not lost on me. Often, I’m in my corner examining them, too.

I know all too well that life’s demands and distractions can easily cause us to sidestep uncomfortable truths and to skirt prickly issues that challenge our beliefs and convictions. However, I maintain that one of the most enlightening experiences we can gift ourselves is to willingly back ourselves into a corner, metaphorically speaking, where we are compelled to confront and examine the depths of our convictions and the authenticity of our beliefs. By immersing ourselves in situations that demand introspection and self-examination, we open the door to profound personal growth and a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

I didn’t intend for today’s post to end up being a call to action. Yet, it is. I’m asking that we examine our core beliefs about the issues that matter most to us. We don’t have to march out onto the world’s stage and be advocates if we’re uncomfortable being front and center, wearing the shield of our beliefs. However, when the world comes to us–as it most assuredly will, at parties, at family gatherings, among peers, or even at work–I hope that we are bold enough not only to share our beliefs but also to stand by them.

Today, I challenge you to examine your life and to examine the issues that surround not only you but also the rest of the world. Go on. Do it. Back yourself into a corner.

Too Good to Be True

Posted on February 5, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“All that glisters is not gold.”
–William Shakespeare (1564-1616; widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist. The quote is from his The Merchant of Venice, 1600.)

Aversion is a strong word, and I don’t use it often. However, on reflection, somewhere along the way, I may have said that I had a strong aversion toward something or other. My aversion must not have been too strong, however, or I would remember. But I don’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever used any of its synonyms either. I’m thinking of abhorrence, abomination, detestation, loathing, repugnance, and revulsion. Those words sound dreadful, and I’m certain that I’ve never been averse enough to anything to make me use dreadful-sounding words. I have a strong aversion to them all.

Besides, I don’t need to use those words. For me, it’s very simple. If I don’t like something, I come right out and say so. I’m not one to pussyfoot around. Let me give you an example of my directness.

I do not like to dust.

Got it? Well, in case not, let me be bold.

I do not like to dust.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind dusting every month or five or when houseguests come once in a Blue Moon. But dusting every week or–God forbid–every day is for Dust Bunnies or people who need to get a life.

I suppose that I might be more inclined to dust if the dust did not return so quickly. But it does, at least here on my Mountain. I can dust one day, and I swear on a stack of dust cloths that I can see the dust settling in and getting all comfy the next day. I stare. I glare. It stands its dusty ground on all my furniture while I walk around the entire house, staring and glaring and lamenting:

“Ruby, where does all this dust come from?”

Ruby’s my dog, and, of course, she does not care, and she does not answer me, but she Velcros me everywhere, looking every bit as perplexed as I look.

I have every right to be perplexed. After all, it’s just Ruby and me, and we live quiet lives. We are not rambunctious at all. Our walks through the house are calm and civilized as behooves a lady and a gentleman and cannot possibly be responsible for raising dust. Besides, I vacuum weekly, so while I may raise hell over that chore, after I finish vacuuming, there’s certainly no dust to raise. Moreover, now that it’s winter, my windows are closed, so I can’t blame my neighbors who rarely go up and down our dusty road anyway.

So, I can’t help but wonder:

“Where does all this dust come from.”

I have no idea, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way. I’ll just look the other way. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Still, though, I know that the dust is there, lurking and snickering, so from time to time, I’m a sucker for too-good-to-be-true products promising to take my dust away. More often than not, they take my breath away and my money, too.

I mentioned one of those times in “Sherlock on the Summit: Solving the Mysteries of My Mountain Abode,” noting that Pledge and I had had a good thing going for a long time. Then I saw an advertisement for Endust. The product gave me such royally high hopes that I stopped saying AD-ver-tize-ment as we Americans pronounce the word, and I shifted to the more highfalutin British pronounciation, ad-VERT-is-ment. I was incredibly eager to try Endust, and I did. Sadly, eager turned to anger. Endust did not end my dust, it caused me to end my fidelity to Pledge, and it caused more than one neighbor to raise an eyebrow as I sprinkled ad-VERT-is-ment into our conversations, standing there like a durned fool all garbed up for gardening with a weedwhacker in my hand. I discovered that my linguistic charades were as ridiculoos as Endust’s claim to end dust.

I didn’t get too upset because I’m a quick learner. I just kept my eyes open for other sure-fire products guaranteed to end my dust, and I resolved to do so with an open, dust-free mind, fiercely determined to evaluate the dusty claims objectively.

Then, out of the blue, I saw two AD-ver-tize-ments with real-life endorsements:

1. “I have a friend who doesn’t dust anymore. His secret? An air purifier.”

2. “Let us do the dusting. (Loved by Health, USA Today, Popular Science, Forbes.)”

Hot dayum. My unprayed prayers had been answered. An air purifier would be the end to my dust and to my Endust. Sure. Without a dust mite in the world, air purifiers carry with them some mighty high price tags, but I kept right on looking anyway. Next thing I knew, I started seeing a gazillion ad-VERT-is-ments for air purifiers. Clearly, if I did my homework and checked all the unboastful and unexaggerated product claims, I might never have to dust again, or at least not more than once in a Blue Moon.

If you’ve got your own dust, then listen up to some of the other claims that seduced me into a wanton afternoon or three.

“Once Cl-r-f–n is plugged-in, a small generator inside starts releasing negative ions [that] … attach to other floating particles until they may become too heavy to float [and] eventually fall out of the air and onto the floor.”

Hey! Is that great or what? I just love the cautionary may. But think about it for a minute. If all of those particles don’t fall out of the air, my house will be a veritable Dust Bowl. If they do fall onto the floor, I might be freed from my dust cloth, but I won’t be freed from pushing the vacuum. Sounds like a Lose/Lose to me.

Next, please.

“If You’re Sick of Cleaning Up Pet Hair Every Day, You’re Gonna Want to Check Out This Air Purifier.”

Well, I’m going from dreadful to more dreadful. Dusting every day is one thing, but cleaning up pet hair every day is something else. Anyway, Ruby’s old enough to clean up after herself.

Up next is one that’s gotta be legit because it traps fur and dander, and it touts itself as the Tesla of air purifiers.

“Removes 99.97% of pollen and dust from your air. True HEPA + Traps pet fur and dander so you can enjoy more furry together time.”

Okay. I’m beginning to see a pattern! All of this dust and stuff is because of our pets:

“Just because you have pets, doesn’t mean you should have to breathe in their hair. In laboratory studies, users saw cleaner air in just minutes. 99.99% reduction in pollen,
pet dander and dust. You’re just 30 minutes away from noticeably cleaner air quality.”

That’s all fine and well, but the next ad-VERT-is-ment made me stop dead in my dust.

“Put the dust rag down! Stop dusting in 2024. Let S-ns do the dirty work. No matter where you put it, S-ns gives you a happier, healthier home. Cleans 1560 sq. ft every hour. HEPA 13 Filtration eliminates dust, dander, + more. Activated Carbon removes odors, chemicals, + more. So quiet you won’t even notice it’s there.”

OMG! My prayed prayers have been answered. Dust no more. Well, it did not take me long to order my own personal, dust-no-more S-ns. When it arrived and I unpacked it, I thought I had died and gone to a dustless Heaven. It’s my own sleek obsidian marvel, with a surface as smooth as midnight silk under my fingertips. It emanates a gentle hum, akin to the soft resonance of “OHM” in a tranquil sanctuary. Its subtle blue lights dance like celestial whispers, casting a serene aura, while a symphony of purification unfolds within, whispering promises of crisp, purified air.

Lordy. Lordy. Dust no more. I love it. And I love how readily it reminds me of how pure and dust free my home is. It actually measures particles in the air, and I can see at a glance my Air Quality Index (AQI):

● 0-74. Good

● 75-149. Moderate

● 150+. Poor

Oh. Joi! My AQI from the start has remained more or less at 5! WOW! (I am a little disappointed that it doesn’t have an AQI rating that would show mine as Excellent. Good, like dust, has never settled well with me.) Sometimes, if I’ve moved my purifier from my bedroom to the kitchen, it will jump to 9 or maybe 16. The other day, I sounded silent alarm after I fried a pork chop. My chop was delicious. My air quality, with the sensor at 79, was moderate. Big deal. It sure did smell good! But with S-ns’ HEPA 13 filtration and its activated carbon, the air was clear in a jiff, and I was OHMing once again.

Most of the time, I keep my S-ns in my bedroom, along with a humidifier and a heat pump. The purifier hums softly like a flute, cleansing the air with delicate precision. The humidifier emits a gentle mist akin to the soothing chords of a harp, adding moisture to the atmosphere. Completing the trio, the heat pump thrums steadily like a bass drum, circulating warmth throughout the room. Together, they create a symphony of comfort, blending harmoniously to orchestrate a serene ambiance.

That’s what I tell myself at any rate. But what would I know? Ruby and I are sound asleep, snoring our duet, while my three-piece orchestra plays all night long. As for the dust, I have to tell myself the truth. If I don’t dust anymore, it sure as hell won’t be because my S-ns Air Purifier eliminated the need. Everything’s as dusty as ever, and to dust it all off, I’m now aware of dog hairs that had escaped my attention before. If I don’t dust anymore, it will be because I choose not to dust.

What can I say for myself? I still don’t like to dust, and there’s still not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way.

Having lived with my S-ns since Thanksgiving, I must declare that my thankfulness is far less than my pre-purchase hopes. I suppose that I could return it, but I’ve fallen in love with my little sleek obsidian marvel and its peaceful OHMing. Besides, I didn’t keep the box that it came in. What to do? What to do? I’ll just keep the dang thing as a reminder of the strong aversion that I have toward ad-VERT-is-ments that are too good to be true.

Flipping the Switch: Exploring Life’s ON/OFF Dynamics

Posted on January 29, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”
–Aristotle (384–322 BC; Greek philosopher whose foundational contributions to philosophy, science, and ethics profoundly influenced Western thought and continue to shape intellectual inquiry today.)

As a lifelong learner, I never cease to be amazed by the little things that I learn–more or less by accident or by trial and error–that have far-reaching significance when I apply them to my life.

One day last week, for example, I was in the kitchen after dinner, trying to make the biggest decision of the day. Do I use the dishwasher? Do I wash the dishes by hand?

It was hardly a decision. Actually, it was a no-brainer, especially since we had seven inches of snow on the ground, and I had spent a lot of energy that day clearing the stone walkway and the gravel driveway. It was a quick and decisive win for the dishwasher.

I loaded it systematically, popped in the little Cascade pod, selected NORMAL and SANITIZE, pressed START, and closed the door. Usually, at that moment, a red beam flashes on the floor, just below the dishwasher’s door. I never look to make certain, but this time, something made me look back. No light.

Hmmm. Maybe I didn’t press START. I opened the door, pressed START, and closed the door. Once again, the light did not shine its beam.

I opened the dishwasher and looked at the control panel more carefully. To the far left, I saw ON/OFF. Then I remembered the electrical hiccup earlier in the day. Maybe if I turned the dishwasher OFF and waited for a while, it would reset itself. If powering OFF works for computers and other gadgets, it might work for dishwashers, too.

Sure enough. Five minutes later, I pressed ON, NORMAL, SANITIZE, and START. The red light beamed on the floor, and my Bosch worked as beautifully as ever.

Imagine that! All that it took was turning it OFF, waiting a bit, and turning it back ON. One switch was all that it took to get it going again, just like new.

Somehow, I immediately started thinking about aspects of my life where I might need to press the OFF switch in order to come back ON again with greater vigor.

I wasn’t thinking about a major life reset, nudging me to step back in order to get back on course. I wasn’t thinking about having a day of unplugging my Smartphone, my PC, and my other electronics as people are challenged and encouraged to do on the Global Day of Unplugging.

What I had in mind was exploring some areas of my life that I could turn OFF long enough to allow me to step back, evaluate, develop new strategies, and then turn back ON with a new sense of purpose and joy.

Luckily, my life is simple. I do what I do by choice. I try to avoid extraneous activities or social connections that aren’t meaningful.

Luckily, too, I don’t need to push the OFF switch on areas of my life such as finances, friendships, reinvention, research, or writing. They can remain ON.

Luckily, I don’t have a lot of OFF/ON considerations to make. Nonetheless, I have a few things to consider.

The first thing that sprouted in my mind was gardening. How ironic considering the seven inches of snow on the ground. But, hey, my first gardening catalog had arrived from Plant Delights Nursery, and I had been in a lustful mood ever since. Who wouldn’t be with gorgeous specimens such as Philipp Hardy Ladyslipper Orchid and Gay Paree Peony staring at me, winking at me, and tempting me.

The shameless seduction went on, page after page. Every time I saw a hot specimen that I had to have, I dog-eared that page. The catalog had 113 pages, and that’s exactly how many dog ears I had. Don’t worry. With each wink, I mentally surveyed my snow-covered garden, planning where I would bed down this plant and where I would tuck in the next plant and the next and the next.

And the next thing I knew, I pressed my gardening OFF switch. Here’s why. My garden beds have always involved huge investments of time and money. For twenty years, my late partner and I took great joy in creating new beds and putting in new specimen plants. Each year, the gardens and our investments grew exponentially. However, since Allen’s death, I’ve had to do the “doing” alone.

What better time than right now in the dead of winter with snow on the ground to press the gardening OFF switch? Maybe my decision will provide unexpected emotional healing. Maybe it will allow me to acknowledge the weight of past investments and the changes that have occurred in my life during the last three years. By giving myself permission to hit the OFF switch and step back, maybe I’ll be honoring Allen’s memories while also prioritizing my own well-being. Maybe my ultimate decision will be to focus on garden maintenance and garden celebration instead of new projects and new plants. It might give me a deeper appreciation for the beauty of the present moment while laying the groundwork for continued growth and creativity in the gardening seasons yet to come.

Then, I started thinking about cooking and baking. Next to gardening, that’s probably the area in my life gobbling up the most time and money. Don’t get me wrong. I love my kitchen adventures. But here’s the thing. I like to cook daily, using fresh ingredients bought daily. While I like simple down-home foods, more often than not, I’m traipsing into the more complicated culinary wilderness of international cuisines, especially Thai and Vietnamese. To make matters more complex, I don’t like leftovers, especially if I’m going to pop them into the freezer to be thawed for future consumption. Sorry. It just doesn’t turn me on at all. On top of all that, these days I’m cooking and baking most of the time just for me. I still use my best linens, china, flatware, and stemware daily, but it can be a challenge even when I’m dining by candlelight or in front of the kitchen fireplace.

If it sounds lovely, it is. But I’m wondering what would happen if I turned my cooking/baking switch OFF for a while, maybe for just a week. Maybe stepping away from daily cooking and baking routines would prompt me to appreciate the simplicity of meals prepared with minimal effort. Or I might discover the joy of uncomplicated dishes and find satisfaction in the ease of preparation. Or maybe it would deepen my appreciation for the artistry and craftsmanship of professional chefs, especially if I ate out or (God forbid!) ordered takeout during my OFF week. It might inspire me with new culinary ideas and perspectives and enrich my future cooking endeavors. If nothing else, stepping away only to reaffirm my belief that home cooking always wins would be worth switching to OFF for a week.

Next up, my exercise routine. I’ve been biking indoors seven days a week for 20+ years. Obviously, I love my Schwinn. In addition, I have a LifeFitness weightlifting system, and I try to work out three times a week. However, if I had to pick one word to describe how I feel about my exercise routine these days, it would be boring. Yep. Boring. I really need to hit the OFF switch for a while. Even before I do, I know that I will be miserable and grouchy. Aside from needing physical benefits, I need the emotional centering that biking gives me. Maybe I need to “miss” it in order to rekindle the flame. But what about the weights? I ain’t missing them at all, yet I know that a man my age needs to lift weights to maintain muscle strength and bone density. Who knows what my OFF time will do? Maybe I’ll end up joining a local gym so that I have more structure, discipline, camaraderie, and even competition. OMG! Maybe I’ll end up with a personal trainer. Double OMG!! Maybe I’ll end up with a home sauna as an incentive to work up a sweat. Triple OMG!!! Maybe both, at home!

I have one last dimension of my life to think about. My spirituality. I like to believe that I know who I am. I like to believe that I know my core values and beliefs. I like to believe that I know how things stand between me and the universe and a snowy winter day. I like to believe that I listen to the constant whisperings of my inner voice.

Yet, even in the still and calm of my mountain world, the busy-ness of my daily life creates mind chatter that interferes with spiritual communication signals. It’s been a while since the flutter of angel wings, the sound of unknown voices, or the mysteries of Third Eye visions have made me pause, longing for lasting. I want those spiritual moments to be more frequent and more abiding.

To reach them, I won’t turn my spirituality switch to OFF. Instead, I will turn everything else OFF as I head off to a retreat–perhaps a day, perhaps a weekend, or perhaps a week–with nothing required of me other than honoring a vow of silence so that I might better hear the sound of my soul calling.

Flipping the switches to OFF will not redefine me. It will refuel me.

Flipping the switches to OFF will not weaken me. It will strengthen me.

Flipping the switches to OFF will ignite a more profound ON and will push me forward, nourished, rejuvenated and powered by newfound vigor and dynamics.

The Wired Researcher

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

Category Archives: Memoir