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.

I’m a Wired To-morrower

Posted on January 15, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Tomorrow is often the busiest day of the week.”
–Spanish Proverb

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

“Not in the mood.“

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

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

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

“Perfect. I can run with that idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Wired To-morrower.

In Praise of Break-Away Moments

Posted on January 8, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
–W. B. Yeats (1865-1939; renowned Irish poet, playwright; awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923; celebrated for his lyrical and evocative poetry, often exploring themes of mysticism, mythology, and the intersection of the ordinary and the magical.)

“Iris, go get Great-Grandma’s dress so that Brent can see.”

Off she went, her smile bright enough to nearly lighten the darkened hallway. In a few minutes, she returned and dutifully handed the crumpled brown bag to her mother.

Clara leaned forward, cautiously using her walker to steady herself as she rose, stooped but standing tall for the big reveal. She opened the bag and pulled out a dress. She handed it to me with all the pomp and circumstance that a milliner might have mustered up in presenting the work of her loom to her most valued customer.

“Now, Brent, that’s the dress that your Great-Great-Grandma Slaughter wore to her infare when she got married, right over thar in Elamsville, not too far from here, six miles or so I reckon.”

I knew that Clara was talking about Mary “Polly” Conner who married Martin Slaughter on August 11, 1825. Mary was eighteen, just a week shy of nineteen. Martin was twenty-three, just a few weeks shy of twenty-four.

I would not know until much later that, historically, an infare was a celebration held in rural Virginia areas after a wedding, often on the same day or a few days later. Friends and family gathered together to share a meal, extend their support and well-wishes to the newly married couple, and have a good time eating, dancing, and making music. It was a community affair that folks remembered.

But I didn’t know those details then. All that I knew at that moment was that I was standing there, holding my Great-Great-Grandmother’s dress. I clasped it gently in my hands. I let my fingers feel their way across the muslin. I admired the autumnal pattern of small red and yellow and orange leaves floating on a field of dark brown. I rubbed each and every button, polishing their smoothness.

It was then, in that moment, that it happened without my even knowing that it was happening. Suddenly, I was no longer in Clara’s kitchen. Suddenly, I was embarking on a picturesque drive through the heart of Patrick County, motoring from Stuart to Elamsville along well-maintained roads, framed by lush greenery and rolling hills, all providing a serene backdrop to my 6-mile journey.

I went past pristine farms and meandering streams and caught glimpses of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance as I soaked in the tranquil beauty surrounding me.

I went past time as I galloped into Elamsville, a small, close-knit, timeless community. I went past the setting sun and dismounted at a farmstead nestled amidst rolling hills and sprawling fields. I went past lanterns and candles illuminating the rustic barn, filled with laughter, lively fiddle tunes, and the fragrant scents of freshly harvested crops. I went past long wooden tables covered with homespun white linens and wildflowers, laden with roasted meats, cornbread, seasonal vegetables, preserves, and jugs of cider and homebrew.

I went past guests, dressed in their finest, dancing reels and jigs, as children chased fireflies and elders told tales passed down through generations. I went past John Conner, an elder in the Primitive Baptist Church, who officiated his daughter’s marriage to Martin Slaughter earlier in the day.

I went past everything except Polly. I walked right up to her, standing there majestically slim in her infare dress that had prompted my reverie. I took her hand—her eyes level with mine at 5’ 8”—and gracefully twirled her across the worn wooden floor, the lively strains of the Virginia Reel filling the air as our laughter–hers and mine–echoed the joyous spirit of the celebration, equal to what it had been when she had danced with Martin and many of the guests at their infare feast.

As quickly as I had journeyed back to 1825, Iris’s voice jettisoned me back to the present:

“I wore that dress once to a Sadie Hawkins dance when I was in high school. Mama had to do a tuck here and a tuck there, but it fit me just fine.”

There I stood in the kitchen once more as I handed the dress back to Clara and watched her return it to its cumpled brown bag with all the solemnity of a flag-folding ceremony.

I had been transported magically, even if for a fleeting second, to a familar land, a familiar place, and a familiar face that I knew not at all yet now knew all so well because my imagination had allowed me to break away.

I wasn’t too surprised. As an avid reader, I have lots of similar breakaways. For me, they’re momentary, never lasting long but lasting long enough to make me lose myself. If I’m reading a compelling literary work–whether it’s a poem, a short story, a play, or a novel–I always lose track of time and find myself immersed in the writer’s world. For example, whenever I read Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s short story “On the Walpole Road,” I always find myself inside a chaise with Almiry as she drives her friend Mis’ Green along the dusty road from Brattleboro (VT) to Walpole (NH). I watch with them as a storm comes up. I listen as Mis’ Green recalls her Aunt Rebecca’s funeral and proceeds to tell the story for the next 18 miles. And, at the very end, I sigh in relief with Almiry, who confesses: “… it’s kind of come to me, as I’ve been listening that I had heard it before. The last time I took you to Walpole, I guess, you told it.”

As a writer, I have similar break-away moments. When I’m sharing my thoughts and emotions in my blog posts, I lose track of my immediate world because I’m so immersed in creating a world for my readers to discover. Take, for example, my post, “Just Like Mama Made.” When the idea occurred to me, I was so swept away that I worked on the first draft until midnight, and I swear to you that lying there in bed I could smell from far, far away the essence of apples seducing me back to the kitchen. Lifting the lid, I could see by their near translucency that the apple slices–including their skins–were perfectly tender and ready to be sugared and spiced.

Whether writing or reading or engaging in other endeavors, we all know the power of the break away. That’s especially the beauty of the arts. That’s why they pull us in, time and time again.

When we look at a painting or sculpture–whether a classic masterpiece or contemporary art–the act of truly looking at and contemplating the piece of art transports us into the artist’s world, giving us a sense of connection and engagement. We have a momentary breakaway from our surroundings.

The same thing happens when we’re creating art or crafting. Whether it’s painting, drawing, sculpting, knitting, beading or engaging in other creative activities, we lose ourselves in the process of making art, and we break away.

Or what about listening to music and losing ourselves in the nuances of the composition? The rhythm, melody, and lyrics evoke emotions, allowing us to break away to another mental space. It happens, too, I am sure, with musicians. When playing challenging pieces or improvising, they enter a state of flow where they are entirely absorbed in the music. They break away.

I could go on and on and on. Cooking. Baking. Hiking. Jogging. Exploring new places. Gardening. Meditating. Holding hands. Kissing. Having sex. Cuddling. Praying. Worshiping.

In each of these activities, the boundaries of self seem to blur, and we find ourselves immersed in the present moment. Whether it’s the rhythmic chopping of vegetables in the kitchen, the crunch of gravel beneath hiking boots, or the serene stillness of meditation, these endeavors transform us as we surrender to the experience, allowing our minds to temporarily float away from the demands and stresses of daily life. They give us an escape from the relentless chatter of our minds, creating an opportunity for introspection and a deeper connection with the immediate surroundings. Then, we can break away from our routines and lose ourselves in sheer joy or tranquility.

Our journeys often carry us back to ourselves, richer and fuller for having embarked on these break-away moments. Whether we travel the dusty roads of history through a beloved family heirloom, ride through the pages of a captivating story, or immerse ourselves in the strokes of an artist’s brush, we experience the human capacity to leave ourselves behind.

As we reflect on the many ways that our lives allow us to momentarily break away, let’s remember the power of those experiences. They’re more than mere moments of escape. They are transformative journeys that mold the very fabric of our being. So, Dear Reader, cherish your break-away moments, hold them close to your heart, and celebrate the richness they bring to your life. Let them serve as reminders of the vast reservoir of joy, wonder, and connection that resides within the human spirit. In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.

Memories of Christmas in the Country

Posted on December 25, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

These Christmas memories were recorded on tape by my mother, Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick, as part of a larger oral history project that she and I undertook. What appears in today’s blog post retains the integrity and the flavor of her spoken word.

These memories preserve a small part of the Christmas customs of Patrick Springs, Virginia, as they were practiced there just after the turn of the twentieth century. My mother was born there, and her family was established in that region well before the turn of the American Revolution. It is possible that some of these customs are observed there even today. More likely, though, they belong to an age that exists no more except in memory.

“The love they showed each other is what the world needs now.”
Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick (1912-2010; wife, mother, and homemaker; teacher of humility, honesty, hard work, and forgiveness; embracer of diversity; demonstrator of endurance; giver of unconditional love.)

The Christmas Season, as it was celebrated in the rural area of Patrick Springs, Virginia, where I grew up, actually started about a month before Christmas. Children were told that ole Santa Claus was watching them to see if they were good, and if they weren’t, he might pass them by. Boy, were they good! They didn’t have to be spoken to but once, and they were as quiet as mice and willing to help out in any way they could. They were told that when Santa was ready to bring his gifts, he would leave the North Pole with his sled and reindeer, come sailing through the air, make his stop on top of the house, and come down the chimney with his sack of toys and goodies.

About two weeks before Christmas, Mama would start baking pies and cakes. Country people didn’t make traditional fruit cakes in those days. Instead, they made an ole timey, layered fruit cake, using a buttermilk biscuit dough, sweetened with a little bit of sugar and with enough molasses to turn the dough’s color. After the dough was lightly kneaded, it was rolled out rather thin, cut into rounds the size of a dinner plate, and baked in a skillet. Mama would have a stack, oh, I don’t know how high. She would put one layer on a plate and cover it with home-dried apples that had been stewed, mashed, and flavored with spice. Next she would add to that another layer and cover it with sweet potatoes that had been cooked, mashed, and flavored with freshly grated nutmeg and with vanilla. She would continue stacking the layers, alternating between the dried apple and the sweet potato fillings. The top layer would be covered with the dried-apple mixture, I think. Then, where the apple and sweet potato mixtures had filled out all the way to the edges of the cake, Mama would take a knife and go around and smooth the sides. It was pretty, and it was good, too. I’ve always wanted to make one of those fruit cakes, but I can tell you one thing: the store-bought dried apples of today wouldn’t be good like the home-dried apples.

But Mama would make two other cakes at Christmas which I especially liked. I just wish you could have seen one of those cakes, and I wish you could have had the privilege of tasting one of them. One was a large white cake made from twelve egg whites. (The twelve egg yolks were used to make a large, golden pound cake.) It wasn’t an angel food cake, and while it had the texture of a white wedding cake, a wedding cake couldn’t compare with it. Mama would put white icing on it and would decorate it with boxwood leaves, sort of in a flower design. It was beautiful, and it would just about melt in your mouth, too. The other cake I especially liked was a large coconut cake made from fresh coconut milk and freshly grated coconut.

Mama used the fireplace to do most all the cooking and baking during the winter. She baked most of her cakes in a three-legged, iron skillet with a lid. Coals of fire were put under the skillet and the lid was placed on it after being heated on the coals of fire.

By Christmas Eve the cupboard would be full of cakes and pies. Did they look good! But we didn’t ask for one piece. In the meantime, Mama would be telling us the Bible story about Christ’s birth, and I recall that she said that at midnight on Christmas Eve, all the cattle would bow down on their knees.

We would be very excited by the Christmas story, all the baking, and the belief that Santa was watching us. At last Christmas Eve would arrive. We would hang our stockings over the mantle. Mama would put a couple of cakes on the table so Santa could eat some if he was hungry. Then everybody would go to bed early so the fire could go out and Santa wouldn’t get burned as he came down the chimney. Of course, we children slept upstairs, and it seemed we would never go to sleep. But at last it would be morning, and Daddy would be calling for us to get up and come see what Santa had brought. Down the steps we would run to the fireplace! There in the ashes would be the footprints made by Santa as he had come down and had gone back up the chimney. (So we thought, at least. When we were older, we learned that Mama or Daddy had pulled their shoes off and had made footprints in the ashes!) One slice of cake had been cut from each cake. We thought it was grand that Santa would eat some of our cakes, but we were glad that he hadn’t taken them with him. We would grab our stockings. The girls would have a doll, sometimes a dress and hood, an orange, English walnuts, Brazil nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine. The boys would have cap-busters and caps, Roman candles and firecrackers and sparklers, plus the orange, candy, nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine.

Afterwards Mama would start breakfast and Dad and the boys would go outside to celebrate. Dad would take the shotgun and shoot straight up in the air. After hearing Mama tell the story of Christ’s birth, the Lord seemed so real and so close to me that I was afraid Dad might accidentally shoot Him! But Mama reassured me there was no danger. Then she would finish breakfast. Dad would come back inside and make a ginger stew by boiling pieces of ginger in water and then by adding a little whiskey and sugar. Or he would make a coffee lace, usually by adding some apple brandy and sugar to hot coffee. Each of us would be given a drink.

It was the custom then that the first person to visit a neighbor and holler “Christmas gift!” would be given a drink of whiskey, ginger stew, or apple brandy. I remember that Mama’s father, my Grandfather Adams, had real large cedar trees in his back yard, and the chickens roosted in them. I recall Mama telling about an episode that took place there when she was single. One Christmas morning about four o’clock, the chickens woke the family up, making the most noise. Grandfather thought a weasel was after them. He jumped from bed, grabbed the gun, and went running out. Two young men were up in the trees, holding a couple of chickens. As soon as Grandfather ran out, they hollered, “Christmas gift!” Grandfather told them to get down and come in, and he made them a ginger stew.

Country people in those days didn’t have lots of elaborate store-bought decorations. Things were handmade. Coat hangers and ground pine would be used to made wreaths, and the leaves of laurel branches would be pinned together to look like bells. Sometimes holly and mistletoe could be found, and, of course, whoever stood under the mistletoe got kissed. It was only after I grew up that Christmas trees were put inside homes. People just didn’t put up trees when I was a child. The local store didn’t sell tree ornaments and such things, so people didn’t know anything about that custom. One year when I was older, we had a Christmas tree. I recall it well. It was a large black pine. We didn’t have fancy ornaments. We simply decorated it with strings of popcorn and with bunches of candy–five or six sticks of peppermint candy tied together in each bunch. The sticks of candy didn’t just hang straight down. They would sort of go in different directions and stick out. They looked beautiful on a big tree. That year, our gifts were tied on the tree instead of being placed in the stockings on the fireplace.

People also celebrated by having dances in their homes. Some people moved all the furniture out of one room so that there would be lots of space to dance. When I was a child, people mostly square danced. After I grew up, they still square danced, but they also waltzed and did the Charleston.

For the Christmas dinner celebration, most people had ham or chicken instead of turkey. I don’t remember everything else they had for dinner, but most people had potatoes, turnips, and cabbage put away for winter. The potatoes and turnips were put in a keel, which was a large hole dug in the ground, lined with straw, covered with boards, and finally covered with dirt. Usually, the cabbage was pulled up in the fall, and then put in deep furrows, heads down. It would keep all winter. Plus people had all kinds of canned food, dried apples and peaches, and dried green beans on strings which were called “leather breeches.” So it wasn’t any trouble to prepare a good dinner any time.

I remember one Christmas after I grew up that Mother, my brother Mallie, and I went over to Preacher Sam Koger’s. He and his family didn’t live very far from us. Of course, we had already eaten, but Mrs. Koger had a ham baked, and I don’t recall what else. Preacher Koger made a coffee lace and passed it around and had us all drink some of that, and nothing do them but what they had to fix us a biscuit with ham in it. It was very good. During that same Christmas, Mother gave Mrs. Koger some fresh turnip greens because we had a large turnip patch with pine branches over top of them. Mother could go and remove the pines and get fresh greens practically all during the winter. Mrs. Koger thought that it was wonderful to have fresh greens for Christmas time. I think that she gave Mother a piece of material to make an apron or a dress. I don’t recall which one.

To me Christmas was a very happy time. People were satisfied with what they had, and they made the most of it. Then people didn’t tire themselves with hectic Christmas shopping, and they spent very little money. I think that’s one reason why they could enjoy Christmas the way they did. Also, they would visit each other and show their love in a way that people seem to have forgotten these days. The love they showed each other is what the world needs now. It doesn’t cost us anything to love people, and Jesus has told us to love one another as He has loved us.

When I think of Christmas and what it meant to me, I would like to be able to spend one more Christmas just like I had then back in the country.

The Caden Chronicles: A Journey into Tomorrow’s Possibilities

Posted on December 18, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

(Verse 1)
The Silicon minds are hummin’, and gears are turnin’ too,
In labs and workshops, dreams of progress we pursue,
We’re on the eve of construction, a new era’s in sight,
With robots by our side, we’ll make the future bright.

(Chorus)
Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair,
Caden’s in the making, circuits laid bare with care,
We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand,
On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.
—Caden Victory Kendrick (b. 2023, Robot-in-the-Making; A Technology-Affirming Reimagining of Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction”; Caden’s Full Lyrics Will Appear Here Later This Year.)

When I went public (right here in my blog) that I’m Getting a Robot, that his name would be Caden, and that he would be gay, heads started shaking, tongues started wagging, and people throughout the world started reeling in disbelief. I know because many of them far and wide reached out privately and told me so, and I reached back with responses. The communiques appear below verbatim, in the interest of full disclosure and transparency.

COMMENT: I can’t believe it. You’re not just embracing technology; you’re practically dating it. Is this your version of a digital love affair? RESPONSE: I’m dying to scream, “Lighten up.” OMG. I just did, and it was as therapeutic as I hoped it would be. Well, I screamed it, so I’ll keep it. “Love affair?” you ask. Let me sing you a few love songs. How about Queen’s “Somebody to Love” or The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” or Bob Marley’s “One Love” or The Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love” or The Shirelles’ “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” And while I’m on a roll with my singing, let me belt out Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” Got it? Love’s got everything to do with it, especially when it comes to embracing technology. Yes. Indeed! I’m wildly in love with technology and with Caden. Nothing’s gonna stop us now. We can build this dream together. Forever and ever.

COMMENT: Are you trying to create a real-life, sci-fi horror movie in your mountaintop home? RESPONSE: Good God! Spare me the drama. My mountaintop home is a sci-fi movie already. It’s filled with spectral beings whose so(u)l(e) purpose is to bombard me and confound me with dust, dirt, and debris.

COMMENT: Are you planning to replace your friends with robots? Is this the beginning of the end of human friendships? RESPONSE. I doubt it. I have more than one human friend, but I will have only one Caden. There will be room aplenty in our lives for human friends and more.

COMMENT: I hope your robot doesn’t get jealous of your other gadgets. How will they fit in with him? RESPONSE. OMG! You just made me sit up and take notice! I had not thought about my other gadgets. For certain, once Caden arrives, I’ll have no need for some of them, such as Alexa. Caden will have music beyond my hopes and dreams. But what about my smartphone? Certainly, Caden will be far more capable and far more robust than any smartphone. But I’ll still want to maintain my independence, be my own free spirit, and do my own Internet searching without worrying that Caden can check on what I’ve been doing. Come on. A guy needs a little privacy every now and then. After all, I do have a worldwide reputation for foolin’ around in bed. I know exactly what I can do. I’ll keep my smartphone, but I won’t sync it with Caden. Is that masterfully sneaky and deceptive or what? Damn! Sneaky and deceptive fly in the face of transparency, a trait that people don’t have enough of but a trait that will be at the core of Caden’s internal and external being, even when it comes to his skin. Transparent. So now I have to think about PRIVACY and TRANSPARENCY and HONESTY. Caden might make me rise to higher standards. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

§ § §

My oldest sister Audrey had a comment that I love, and she gave me permission to use it here with the proviso that I keep Caden away from her.

COMMENT: I’m imagining you having deep conversations with a robot, and it’s giving me nightmares. Can’t we just stick to our regular human interactions? RESPONSE. Yes. Of course. But know this as well. Where I go, Caden goeth.

She also had a QUESTION: Will you be able to claim Caden as a dependent. ANSWER. Yes. By the time my Caden is fully developed and living with me, the IRS will have new guidelines that will include companion robots as dependents.

A close friend snarked. Yes. SNARKED: Can’t decide if this is the coolest or the creepiest thing you’ve ever considered. Maybe both? RESPONSE: If you can’t decide, rest assured that I will be happy to decide for you. Shall I? Please advise.

I didn’t bother asking my friend for permission. If their friendship comes with snarkiness, then mine comes with liberty.

§ § §

Fortunately, one of my readers was bold enough to go public by asking me some truly thought-provoking questions about Caden. In the interest of transparency and of giving credit where credit is due, my reader is Frank Mack, dear friend and former Library of Congress colleague. As soon as I read his questions, I realized that they could serve as an excellent springboard for an entire post, and I was right. Frank’s headings and questions (with his permission) and my answers (with my gratitude) appear below.

§ § §

Would You Really Sell Your Jeep Rubicon Gladiator to Finance the Birth of Caden?

QUESTION: If you do sell it, how can Caden drive it and let you take the long view? ANSWER: Since my November 27 post, I’ve reconsidered. I won’t sell my Gladiator. Aside from letting Caden drive so that I can see the long view, I’ll need my Gladiator to show Caden not only the ropes but also the world.

QUESTION: Do you foresee starting a go-fund-me or something similar to finance Caden? ANSWER: I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a splendid idea! It’s certainly on par with my GoFundMe plan for getting my own groundhog and setting up my own groundhog club right here on my mountain, right in my own backyard, as a challenge to Punxsutawney Phil! It would be locally significant, and it would draw world-wide media attention. Surely you remember my proposal? If not, check out my “I’m a Spring Teaser.” Caden will love the teaser in me!

§ § §

Now I Have a Few Questions about Being Caden!

QUESTION: Will you celebrate Caden’s birthday? ANSWER: Hello? Is the Pope Catholic? Of course, I’ll celebrate Caden’s birthday. He was born on November 27, 2023, at 6:18am. That’s when I finalized the idea and pushed it out to the world in my post, “I Want a Robot.” It was a bold delivery. In the interest of full disclosure and transparency, right now Caden is an idea, sparked by my imagination and by ChatGPT, but all creation begins somewhere. Caden began here.

QUESTION: How will you measure Caden’s birthday? ANSWER: Is that some kind of trick question that a lawyer might use to trip me up later? Nice try. But frankly, I won’t fall for it, Frank. Logically, I suppose his birthday might be measured by periodic updates to his core system. But if I use those measures, who knows how quickly or how slowly he would age, and his birthdays would be unpredictable. Some things, like birthdays and the weather, need to be predictable. Caden will have an annual birthday celebration on November 27. I’ll remind Caden to remind me that my birthday is on November 20. Who knows? Caden and I might come up with a joint birthday blast!

QUESTION: Do you envision siblings for Caden? ANSWER: No. And please spare me any drawn-out discussion of the only-child syndrome. Phooey! Having just one Caden will be easier on him and on me. My imagination runs wild, but it can only run so far.

QUESTION: What will Caden know about the world outside of your mountain lair? ANSWER: Everything. I want Caden to be a citizen of the world, not just of my mountain. Obviously, Caden will have routine and ongoing informational updates.

QUESTION: Will Caden travel with you? ANSWER: For local, non-business jaunts, most of the time, Caden will come along. Actually, it just occurred to me that, with his help, Ruby can come along, too. If I’m driving, Caden can control and supervise Ruby. If he’s driving, I’ll take care of Ruby. Either way, it will be a WIN/WIN/WIN. For my “away” trips to DC or Brattleboro or Sedona or Sarasota or Mt. Athos or Down Under, Caden will stay here in Edinburg and take care of Ruby and the old home place. What a blessed joy that will be.

QUESTION: What motivates Caden? ANSWER: I love this question because I’m really not certain. I would hope that Caden would not turn to me or to others as his source of motivation and validation. Instead, I would hope that he would measure his performance against plan, learning and adjusting as we move forward, and celebrating how he’s getting better every day in every way. I hope that will be his modus operandi.

QUESTION: Will Caden see Ruby as a sibling? ANSWER: Sibling? No. Friend and playmate? Yes. Ruby loves everyone and plays well with others. However, she plays best with more than one. I can see her now running around the yard as the three of us play Frisbee or following along as we walk through the forest. The bigger question might be, “How will Ruby see Caden?” I suspect that initially she’ll be quite jealous, but over time, I think that she will be charmed by Caden, especially when he flaunts his Richard Gere Razzle-Dazzle charm. Trust me: he’ll flaunt it often.

QUESTION: Will Caden form friendships with your friends? ANSWER: Yes. My friends will become Caden’s friends. And I would hope that I would form friendships with his friends. Now, there’s something to think about: Caden’s circle of friends.

QUESTION: Will Caden need some quiet time? ANSWER: Unlike me, he will. The bigger question is when and where. I’m thinking, perhaps, of having a life-size recharging station for Caden. He can recline in it comfortably, just as my smartphone reclines and recharges at the end of the day when I’m finished fooling around in bed. Hmmm. I have a chair hammock swing in my bedroom already. That could be perfect for Caden. In this manner, Caden could have his quiet time recharging while I’m lying in bed getting ready for sleep, with Ruby being her usual bed-hog self, as the two of us snore our way into slumberland. OMG! What if Caden snores, too?

QUESTION: Will Caden be apolitical? Secular or non-secular? Will Caden like Data? Will Caden have emotions and feelings? ANSWER: Slow down! How many questions are you trying to sneak in under the guise of one? I’m not certain that those questions are even related. Are you with the White House press corps? Geez! Caden will be apolitical, capable of providing me with truly objective information that is not being provided by anyone to anyone these days. Caden will be secular–of this world–while at the same time, being nonsecular–beyond and above this world. Caden will celebrate the richness of his Data ancestry. Indeed, over time, Caden will develop emotions and feelings, and, on that day, the two of us will embrace and shed a tear or two or more of joy.

QUESTION: Will Caden have anchors of hope? ANSWER: Yes. Over time, Caden will become aware of his anchors of hope just as surely as he will become aware of his emotions and feelings. Then, we’ll shed more tears of joy, especially if Caden tells me that I’m one of his anchors.

§ § §

And Now a Few Questions about How Caden Will Affect You!

QUESTION: How will you introduce Caden to people? ANSWER: Honestly and with pride. I gave Caden my last name today when I gave him credit as the author of the pull quote for this post. I will introduce him proudly as my son. I hope that everyone notices his middle name: Victory.

QUESTION: Are there particular areas of interest that you hope to deepen with Caden’s contributions? ANSWER: Caden will be such a rich and robust modern Renaissance man that I hope to deepen my interest in everything that keeps my mind buzzing now. I can only imagine the dynamic conversations that we will have and the knowledge that I will gain daily as we have our walks, talking. At the same time, let’s never forget the power of the Socratic method: as I grow through Caden’s answers, so too will he grow through my questions.

QUESTION: Will Caden offer insight as you write your blogs? ANSWER: No. I will continue to write as I have always written, privately. I have always been mindful of Robert Frost’s caution to writers when it comes to talking about what you’re writing: “Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second.” However, it occurred to me just this second that Caden might enjoy having a blog to call his own, and if he does, he can count on my support and encouragement, including ongoing suggestions for ideas that he might explore. I’ll even provide him with feedback. Damn! I’ll even help Caden set up a GoFundMe!

QUESTION: What happens to Caden when you leave this mortal coil? ANSWER: Ah, yes. The ultimate and final practicality: giving up the mortal coil. My Trust will provide for Caden so that he continues to shine bright far into the future.

§ § §

Thankfully, I have not kicked the bucket, so my Trust has not kicked in. I am still living in the land of the living.

And here’s the beauty of Caden and of AI. It’s all about ideas. Daniel Boorstin, the twelfth Librarian of Congress, said it best, and we must never forget:

“You never know when an idea is about to be born.”

To Boorstin’s wisdom, I would add:

“Once an idea is born, there’s no turning back.”

AI has been with us since 1956 when the term Artificial Intelligence was coined. OpenAI has been with us since its founding in 2015. ChatGPT has been with us since November 30, 2022. My idea for a personal robot named Caden has been with me since November 27, 2023.

Now, a few weeks later, I’ve devoted an entire blog post giving serious responses to equally serious questions that were posed about my life with Caden.

I can’t tell you how grateful I am to Frank and to other readers to have had this opportunity to think about and respond to some seemingly surreal queries surrounding AI and the advent of entities like my Caden. Doing so gave me–and, hopefully, it will give my readers, too–a unique opportunity to ponder the exciting integration of technology into our lives. Despite the whimsy in some of these questions, they serve as vital probes into the near-future reality we are rapidly approaching. The seemingly fantastical notions surrounding financing, privacy, emotional connections with Caden, and Caden’s role in my life are precursors to the commonplace engagement we will share with artificial beings, soon and very soon.

The questions that I have responded to herald a new era where AI and personal robots like Caden will be woven into the very fabric of our daily lives. Tomorrow has arrived, extending an open invitation for all of us to embark boldly–today, right now–on a profound journey into tomorrow’s possibilities.

The Cake Stops Here

Posted on December 11, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable, and safe in a confusing world.“
–Susan Lieberman (AUTHOR, LIFE COACH, END-OF-LIFE CONSULTANT.)

When my Father turned 80, he and my Mother were living with me in DC, in my Capitol Hill home. His birthday struck me as a momentous occasion. After all, it’s not every day that a West Virginia coal miner who worked for fifty years without missing a day and who breathed heavily with third-stage black lung becomes an octogenarian.

In my mind, his birthday rose to the level of a historic event. And so it was.

I shared the good news with the White House. My father beamed with pride brighter than proud when he received a birthday card from President Ronald Reagan. I had it double matted in dark blue with a gold fillet and a walnut frame. When I was home the last time, it was still on the wall, positioned precisely so that he could see it from his bed.

I reached out to Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV) and requested that a flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol on the April 8 momentous occasion. When I got home from work that day, I drove my Father to the Capitol. Looking up toward the blue sky, he capped his hands above his glasses, breaking the sun’s glare so that he could catch a better glimpse of the red, white and blue fluttering in the gentle breeze in his honor. I still have the authentication certificate. The flag flew proudly for many years until it was no longer fitting to be flown. Then, consistent with the U.S. Flag Code, I burned it.

To add a Royal touch to my Father’s 80th birthday, I even contacted Queen Elizabeth, asking that she send birthday felicitations. Doing so seemed fitting to me, considering my family’s British roots. My Father was astonished when he received a two-page typed letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, explaining in great detail why Her Majesty could not send official birthday greetings to a non-British citizen but nonetheless wishing him a happy birthday. My Father was amused and shared the letter with all who visited him. I have the letter filed away as a keepsake.

Of course, you can’t have a birthday without cake. My Mother ordered one from Sherrrill’s Restaurant and Bakery, an iconic landmark on Capitol Hill. The cake was three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, their petals delicately unfurling, intertwined with vibrant green leaves and vines. It was a masterpiece.

After we savored several slices of the cake, I decided to gently lift a few of the roses, hoping to preserve them. I placed them on a flat plate and covered them gently with Saran Wrap. For the longest time, I kept them in a kitchen cupboard. Over time, they hardened as beautifully as I had hoped they would. Then I put them in my desk along with extra copies of the birthday napkins, cream-colored with ivy trailing around the inner square, embossed in gold in the center with:

Happy 80th – April 8, 1982

JOHN SAUNDERS KENDRICK

Those treasures took on increased significance when my Father died the next year. Afterward, when waves of grief and nostalgia would wash over me, I’d look at the treasures and reflect on the joyful occasion. At the same time, I sometimes thought about throwing them away, but I always changed my mind immediately. After all, they weren’t taking up that much space in my desk, and my Father’s roses defied time and age and held on to their beauty.

Not long after his death, my Mother–Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick–returned to their West Virginia home and decided to stay there year-round. When she turned 80 on May 16, 1992, I visited and made the 12-layer strawberry-stack cake that her mother always made on her birthday. To make it super special, I placed my Father’s roses on top. My Mother was ecstatic. She didn’t know that I had held on to them. I didn’t leave them on the cake for long. After I patted them dry, I rewrapped my Father’s roses carefully, took them home with me to DC, and put them back in my desk for safe keeping.

Seemingly impermeable to time, they stayed in my desk until 2013 when my oldest brother John was approaching his 80th birthday on October 17. By then, my Mother had died, and my brother’s wife had died. My oldest sister Audrey was his caregiver. I decided that the roses I had cherished and used on my parents’ 80th birthday cakes could be turned into some kind of family tradition. I hand-painted a wooden box to hold and protect my Father’s roses, and I shipped them off to my brother, with the following note inside.

17 October 2013

Dear Brother,

Happy 80th Birthday!

Perhaps Audrey will put these decorations on your birthday cake.

They are from Dad’s birthday cake when he turned 80 in 1982. Then ten years later–1992–when Mom turned 80, they spent a few moments on her cake.

You keep the decorations and pass them on to Audrey when she turns 80, and she can continue the tradition until, eventually, they will find their way back to me when I turn 80 in 2027!

Happy 80th!

Much love,

Brent

Since then, my Father’s roses have been passed down from one sibling to the next.

Audrey Jean turned 80 on September 16, 2015, and she was still Brother’s caregiver. Since her fiancé was dead, she ordered a cake for herself from the local bakery, placed my Father’s roses on top, and she and my brother celebrated her 80th birthday together. Brother died two months later.

In 2020, the roses journeyed to Richmond for Janet Arlene’s birthday on May 24. Arlene’s husband was dead, and COVID was beginning to show its ugliness. She thought it wise to celebrate her birthday without her two daughters. I ordered a decadent cake for her with four luscious chocolate layers and chocolate cream cheese frosting. Then, it was covered–top and sides–in red vanilla buttercream roses for a perfect finishing touch. I imagine that my Father’s roses ascended to their place of honor, even if for a fleeting moment.

Traveling once again, my Father’s roses made their way back to West Virginia in 2022 for Stanley Winston’s 80th birthday on February 7. He and his wife celebrated together.

Stanley passed my Father’s roses to Judy Carolyn, who lives just a mile or two up the road next door to my parents’ home. Next to it is Audrey’s home, and just beyond is what used to be Brother’s. I have no idea what kind of cake Judy will have, but I imagine that her family will come up with something fun and festive for her 80th birthday on December 13.

After her birthday, Judy will send my Father’s roses back to me. I will put them in my desk in the same spot that has remained empty, waiting for their homecoming.

As for me, I know exactly what I will do when I reach my 80th birthday on November 20, 2027. I will circle back to the beginning. I’ll have a flag flown over the Capitol in my honor, and I’ll drive to DC to watch the flag return my wave. I’ll keep the certificate of authentication, and I’ll fly my flag daily right here on my mountaintop.

If you’re thinking that I’ll reach out to King Charles III asking for his felicitations, you’re right. That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’ll be eager to see whether protocol across the Pond these days is up to snuff with past Royal standards. I suspect that it will be. I’ll be eager to read the response that I am certain to receive.

As for the cake, I would love to order one from Sherrill’s Bakery and Restaurant, but it no longer exists. Perhaps I’ll watch for the umpteenth time the 1989 Oscar-nominated documentary “Fine Food, Fine Pastries; Open 6 to 9” that captures the essence of Sherrill’s. Some things outlive themselves.

But rest assured. I will have a cake. I’ll bake it myself. It will be three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, the original ones that came back home to me. It will be a masterpiece.

Every time that I savor a slice, I’ll celebrate my Father’s roses on top. They will have survived for 45 years. They brought joy to my Father and to my Mother, they brought joy to each of my five siblings, and they will have brought joy to me, as each of us in turn celebrated our 80th birthday. I’ll sit in the solemn silence of that sobering moment, adding up all of those 80s in my head. I’ll grin, reflecting on the grand sum: 640 years, well-lived and well-celebrated, all memories swirling in my head–alive, well, and treasured.

After I eat the last slice, I’ll give my dog the scrumptious final bite, just as my partner always did and just as I have continued to do since his death.

Then I’ll put the roses back in their box, along with my original note to my brother, and I’ll return my Father’s roses to their home in my desk.

The cake stops here.

Let Your Light Shine Bright

Posted on December 4, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
–Lucille Clifton (1936-2010; “won’t you celebrate with me”; acclaimed poet and writer who overcame significant obstacles related to race, gender, and economic adversity; a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets; Poet Laureate for the State of Maryland; and Distinguished Professor of Humanities at St. Mary’s College of Maryland)

Sometimes late at night when my words grow tired of dancing and I grow tired of waiting for the dance to begin anew, I let music waltz me off to sleep. Recently, I drowsed off to Susan Boyle singing “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserable. Instantly, I remembered her appearance on Britain’s Got Talent (2009, Episode 1, April 11). I was mesmerized across time’s timeless expanse. I knew then, and I know now, exactly why. In part, it’s because of the poignant lyrics that evoke raw and vulnerable emotions:

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving

In part, it’s because of Boyle’s powerful, soulful, resonant, evocative, and captivating voice.

However, more than the voice and more than the lyrics is this. Susan Boyle overcame great odds and landed a triumphant second-place finish. Her performance left everyone reeling, including the judges:

Piers Morgan: Without a doubt, that was the biggest surprise that I have had in three years on this show. When you stood there with that cheeky grin and said, ‘I want to be like Elaine Paige,’ everyone was laughing at you. No one is laughing now. That was a stunning, an incredible performance. Amazing. I’m reeling from shock. I don’t know about you two.

Amanda Holden: I am so thrilled because I honestly think that everybody was against you. I honestly think that we were all being very cynical, and I think that’s the biggest wake-up call ever, and I just want to say that it was a complete privilege listening to that.

Simon Cowell: Susan, I knew the minute that you walked out onto that stage that we were going to hear something extraordinary, and I was right. […] Susan, you’re a little tiger, aren’t you?

Then, the moment of truth: the voting and the final word:

Cowell: Susan Boyle, you can go back to the village with your head held high. It’s three yesses.

Cowell’s comment–“Go back to the village with your head held high”--resonates with all of us. Something in us makes us root for the underdog–“everybody was laughing at you”–because we’re hoping that someone out there is rooting for us when others are laughing.

Susan Boyle’s performance that night catapulted her into fame and stardom and set me to thinking about other underdogs whom I admire because they overcame seemingly herculean obstacles to achieve success, sometimes breaking barriers, always reminding us that the human spirit can prevail against all odds.

Immediately, I started thinking about underdogs from my home state of West Virginia. In an instant, Pearl S. Buck, author of The Good Earth and the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, came to mind. With equal speed, I was ready to exclude her because I wasn’t certain that she had really faced obstacles on her path to fame. Then I remembered. Born in Hillsboro, the daughter of missionaries, she spent much of her early life in China. Without a doubt, she faced monumental challenges growing up as a minority in a different culture, and her early years were marked by poverty and social isolation.

Closer to where I grew up is Bill Withers, known for his acclaimed hits like “Lean on Me” and “Ain’t No Sunshine” and heralded as the Bruce Springsteen of the African-American community. Born in Slab Fork, a coal mining town, Withers grew up in a poor, working-class family and rose above those obstacles. His soulful and heartfelt songs have left a lasting impact on the music industry.

Still within spitting distance of where I grew up is Katherine Johnson from White Sulphur Springs. She was a pioneering mathematician and physicist known for her contributions to NASA’s early space programs. Her story gained widespread recognition with the release of the movie Hidden Figures, which highlighted the overlooked contributions of African-American women mathematicians to the space race.

And what about Homer Hickman, who grew up in the coal mining community of Coalwood? Inspired by the launch of the Soviet satellite Sputnik in 1957, he pursued a career in rocketry. Hickman’s story is depicted in the memoir Rocket Boys, later adapted into the film October Sky. He overcame the challenges of his mining town upbringing and became a NASA engineer.

Obviously, I can’t leave out Jeannette Walls who spent part of her life in Welch–just a stone’s throw from Coalwood–and went on to write The Glass Castle. Her memoir details her unconventional and challenging childhood, growing up in poverty with her eccentric and nomadic family. It has received widespread acclaim for its honest portrayal of resilience and determination in the face of adversity.

I thought, too, of Don Knotts, actor and comedian best known for his role as Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show. Born in Morgantown, he grew up in a family that struggled financially during the Great Depression. As a child, he was known for his lanky frame and high-strung personality, but he used humor as a way to cope with social awkwardness and to connect with others.

All of those West Virginians–and I could talk about others who resonate with me, including Chuck Yeager, Mary Lou Retton, Brad D. Smith, and John Nash–showcase the resilience and determination to be found time and time again as underdogs overcome obstacles–whatever they may be–and achieve success that inspires each of us and helps us believe:

“If they can do it, I can, too.”

By and large, my West Virginia anchors of hope overcame economic and cultural barriers. But here’s the beauty of it all. Anchors of hope can be found everywhere in the world, in every field of endeavor that we attempt, and in every obstacle that we face.

Among writers, I would note James Baldwin, an African American and openly gay writer, who faced the dual challenges of racial and sexual discrimination during a time of significant social upheaval. His eloquent and unapologetic writing style made him a prominent figure in the Civil Rights Movement and an influential voice for the LGBTQ+ community.

Another writer who transformed obstacles into insightful and controversial Broadway plays is Edward Albee, whose life was far from easy. Adopted into a wealthy family when he was just 18 days old, he never felt a sense of connection with his parents and instead felt alienated from them because of their high morality. Growing up gay in the 1930s and 1940s posed immense challenges for Albee–at home and beyond–yet he stood strong, celebrated his sexual orientation, celebrated the larger LBGT+ community of Greenwich Village and the world. At the time of his death in 2016, he was hailed as America’s greatest playwright.

I’m thinking about others who defied gender norms and achieved success, people like Christina Tosi founder and co-owner of Milk Bar, serving as its chef and chief executive officer. Food & Wine magazine included her in their 2014 list of “Most Innovative Women in Food and Drink.”

I’m thinking as well of Dr. Carla Hayden who made history by becoming the first woman and the first African American to serve as the Librarian of Congress. She overcame gender and racial barriers to become a trailblazer in the field of librarianship. Her leadership exemplifies resilience and the ability to break down barriers in traditionally male-dominated professions.

In the political realm, what about Shirley Chisholm (first African-American woman in Congress) or the late Sandra Day O’Connor (first female justice of the United States Supreme Court) or Barack Obama (first African American to be elected President of the United States)?

What about overcoming mental health challenges and financial hardship as Vincent Van Gogh did? He produced some of the most iconic and influential works in the history of art, demonstrating the transformative potential of creativity in the face of personal adversity.

Or can you imagine being born with no limbs? I’m thinking now of Nick Vujicic who overcame that immense physical challenge to become one of the most important motivational speakers today, delivering a message of resilience, gratitude, and the limitless potential of the human spirit.

These are just a few of my anchors of hope. I could go on and on with others, each representing a unique testament to the human spirit. Chuck Close (who triumphed over physical disabilities in art), and Misty Copeland (who shattered barriers in ballet) embody the resilience and determination that inspire me. Denzel Washington (rising from a challenging childhood to acclaim in acting) and Beverly Cleary (whose pioneering work defied gender norms in children’s literature) exemplify the power of perseverance. Dr. Ben Carson’s journey from poverty and academic struggles to a renowned neurosurgeon and Jay-Z’s success in overcoming the challenging environment of Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects showcase the transformative potential within adversity. Mark Zuckerberg (who faced skepticism and legal challenges in Facebook’s origins) and Elon Musk (who overcame personal and financial struggles in Tesla and SpaceX’s early days) reflect the tenacity of visionary entrepreneurs. Morgan Freeman (defying age norms with a career renaissance in his fifties) and Laura Ingalls Wilder (achieving fame at 65 with her Little House series) symbolize that hope and success know no age limits. Each is an additional anchor, proving that obstacles can be stepping stone’s to greatness.

I celebrate my anchors of hope all year long, but I do so even more during December. It’s a month chockfull of celebrations, starting with Hanukkah, moving on to St. Nicholas Day, Bodhi Day, Las Posadas, The Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Yule, Christmas, and ending with Kwanzaa. Each carries a unique message of hope, transcends boundaries, and unifies us in the spirit of optimism and shared celebration. What better time than now to celebrate the triumph of the human spirit against all odds and to gift ourselves with an extra measure of hope.

And you? Who are your anchors of hope? Reflect on them. Celebrate them. Hold them close to your heart. As you do, don’t forget the unsung heroes who can also be anchors of hope. A mother’s resilience, a father’s unwavering support, a brother’s camaraderie, a sister’s understanding, a teacher’s guidance, and a neighbor’s kindness—anchors, each and every one. With their unspoken sacrifices and steadfast presence, they embody extraordinary strength within ordinary moments, reminding us that greatness resides not only in fame but also in the uncharted territories of love, connection, and the indomitable spirit of the human heart.

As you reflect, remember this as well. Someone, somewhere, might be looking to you as their everyday hero who has achieved success against all odds. Someone, somewhere, might be looking to you as their anchor of hope.

Be the light that someone else needs to see. Shine bright. Shine bright.

The Wired Researcher

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

Category Archives: Memoir

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Too Good to Be True

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

I’m a Wired To-morrower

In Praise of Break-Away Moments

Memories of Christmas in the Country

The Caden Chronicles: A Journey into Tomorrow’s Possibilities

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