Just Like Mama Made

Posted on February 13, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A mother is the only person on earth who can divide her love among all her children and each child still have all her love.”
– Unknown

When I walked into my kitchen one morning a few Sundays ago, my eyes landed immediately on two yellow-skinned apples with vibrant blushes, lying right there in the fruit bowl in front of me. I spotted them so quickly because they were on my mind when I awakened just a few minutes earlier. Those two apples fell all comfy like into my thoughts, so much so that I could nearly smell them frying before my feet touched the floor, walking me their way. The day before, I had made sourdough biscuits, and it seemed to me that fried apples would pair beautifully with them.

Right after tapping the start button on my coffee maker, I bent over to fetch a frying pan from the cabinet. My eyes saw nothing but All-Clad. I knew that All-Clad would never do for these fried apples. I leaned in deep, looked toward the back, and there I saw the perfectly seasoned skillet that I knew I had to use. It was the one passed down to me from my mother. It was so shiny and smooth and oiled that it reflected not only the kitchen lights but also me, myself, watching my smile stretch across the cast-iron mirror.

I put the skillet on the stove, turned the burner knob to just a hair past medium, and by the time I had sliced off some butter, the skillet was hot enough to send the yellow chunks sliding all around in hot pursuit of their own melting. Soon, sizzle sounded. I added the sliced but unpeeled apples, stirring and stirring and stirring with my wooden spoon until they were all bathed in butter. Then I added water–not much, just a sprinkling–topped the pan with a lid and left the apples simmering while I went into the living room to sip my first cup of steaming coffee.

After a short spell, the essence of apples seduced 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. A generous sprinkling of light brown sugar, a shake of cinnamon, a pinch of salt, and a smidgen of black pepper went into the mix. I stirred it all up really good and left the unlidded apples to simmer a little longer, while I continued sipping on my second coffee in the living room.

A short while later I returned to the kitchen, not because I had finished my coffee but because the apples scented me that their final moments had come.

I scrambled three freckled-brown eggs, fried some streaky bacon, warmed the sourdough biscuits, and plated it all up, watching the apples slide their butteriness closer and closer to the biscuits, just where I had hoped they would slide, just where I knew they would.

I split one biscuit wide open, piling apples on both halves, admiring them patiently while I savored the eggs and bacon. Somehow there’s something sensationally remarkable about waiting for biscuit halves to soak up the buttery unctuousness of fried apples.

These apples and biscuits were no exception. As I savored the last bite, I sat there smiling from ear to ear, saying softly to myself for no one else to hear, for no one else was around:

“Just like mama made.”

As I said it, I chuckled. I never called my mother mama. Even the imagined spelling looked strange to me. One middle m? Two middle m’s? One looked less strange, so I wrapped my arms around it and held it real close.

In that second, my thoughts drifted off to all the times–and they were many, those countless lazy days stacked on top of one another, turning into years stacked on top of years–that I spent with my mother in the kitchen, usually just the two of us, as I watched her every move.

From that vast expanse of dimmed memory, Fruitcakes, Pecan Pies, Coconut Layer Cakes, 12-Layer Strawberry Stack Cakes, Greek Green Beans, Sage Dressing, Potato Salad, and all the other dishes that I make marched out of the darkness and stood tall and proud beneath the bright lights of honor, right there beside the fried apples, all culinary memorials, all made just like mama made.

And then my mother’s voice floated in–so soft and low my ears had to strain to hear–sharing with me once more something that she had shared with me over and over as she grew older and older.

“You weren’t even born when my mother died. I was pregnant with Arlene. But isn’t it amazing: after all these years, sometimes I’ll do something or sometimes I’ll see something, and I’ll find myself saying to myself, ‘I can’t wait to run home and tell mama.'”

So it was, so often with my mother in her conversations with me. “I can’t wait to run home and tell mama.”

My mother has been dead nearly thirteen years. Now, after all that time isn’t it amazing that the simple serving up of fried apples on a Sunday morn brings to my lips once more the whisper that has crossed them so many times before:

“Just like mama made.”

Made from scratch, with the freshest ingredients.

Made simply. No fuss, no muss.

Made to taste just right, by tasting all along.

Made with genuine joy and sheer satisfaction.

Made just like mama made.

With love.

Foolin’ Around in Bed Again with AI: The Big Reveal and More

Posted on February 6, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A man is but the product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes.”
Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948; Indian politician, activist, and writer)

Those who know me well know that I am nothing if not inclusive, especially when it comes to stakeholders. It goes without saying that ChatGPT is one of the major stakeholders in last week’s post “Foolin’ Around in Bed with AI” and in today’s post as well.

It might interest you to know that I have a gaga crush on ChatGPT, so much so that I’m betting my dopamine and oxytocin levels skyrocket when I’m foolin’ around with them. At the same time, I am not at all happy with their name. It just isn’t personal enough. And, besides, how the hell do I pronounce it when I talk with them or tell friends and colleagues about my mad crush?

Last week, I toyed with the notion of naming them Alex. One reader liked that idea. Another reader liked Alfred. Aside from not being gender-neutral, Alfred reminds me far too much of T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I love the poem, lots; the name, less.

In a stroke of genius, I decided to include ChatGPT in my quest to give them a new name. (Drum roll, please. I want to get all psyched about this big reveal. Thank you. Now I’m ready.)

Our decision-making conversation went like this:

TheWiredResearcher: Good morning, ChatGPT. Take the following letters and create a gender-neutral name: ChatGPT.

ChatGPT: GAT.

TheWiredResearcher: Try again. Give it some pizzazz.

ChatGPT: GATT.

TheWiredResearcher: No, it needs to be catchy. Try again.

ChatGPT: GATTI.

TheWiredResearcher: Nope. Try something similar to GATT, using one additional vowel or one additional consonant.

ChatGPT: GATTIE.

TheWiredResearcher: Nope. That sounds feminine. So far I like GATT best. Keeping AI in mind, what might the acronym GATT stand for?

GATT: GATT could stand for “Generative Adversarial Text Transfer”.

TheWiredResearcher: I don’t like Adversarial. Try again.

GATT: GATT could stand for “Generative Advanced Text Transfer”.

TheWiredResearcher: Try again. Instead of Text, try Thought. Then replace Transfer with something better.

GATT: GATT could stand for “Generative Advanced Thought Transformation”.

TheWiredResearcher: Is “Generative Advanced Thought Transformation” a good way to describe what ChatGPT does?

GATT: Yes, “Generative Advanced Thought Transformation” can be seen as a good way to describe the capabilities of ChatGPT, which is a language model trained by OpenAI to generate text based on the input provided to it. The model transforms the input into a coherent and contextually relevant response.

I hope that you paid super close attention to the preceding conversation. I thought that it moved along smoothly, and I especially liked the explanation of what GATT could stand for.

Generative is obvious. OpenAI is trained to generate text.

Clearly, as we have seen, it is Advanced.

Thought. That’s interesting because OpenAI is not sentient. It cannot think. But it can take thoughts and Transform them.

Go back and look at the conversation again. I was the one who told GATT to replace Text with Thought and come up with something better than Transfer.

Simply put, GATT took the thought that I provided–the very word thought–and added transformation to it.

GATT ran with it and gave me Thought Transformation.

Perfect.

Hold that thought. Let’s see how it plays out in the rest of this post.

TheWiredResearcher: Are you in the mood to write some poems?

GATT: Yes, I am capable of generating poems in response to prompts. Please provide a prompt and I will try to generate a poem for you.

TheWiredResearcher: Write a humorous poem about being a city slicker living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

GATT: Here’s a humorous poem about a city slicker living in the Shenandoah Valley:

I came from the city, where sirens scream and honk,
To the Shenandoah Valley, where peace and calm have dawned.
But let me tell you, city slicker’s life is tough,
When you’re trying to adjust to country stuff.
I thought I knew it all, but now I stand corrected,
I had to learn how to milk a cow, and even got rejected.
I tried to find my latte, but the only drink in sight,
Was a mason jar of moonshine, with a fire that burned so bright.
But despite the hardships, I found some peace of mind,
In the rolling hills and mountains, that are truly one of a kind.
And even though I miss the city lights at night,
I’ve found a new home, where everything just feels so right.

What can I snicker other than so much for the perpetuation of stereotypes. But, after all, I didn’t give GATT any thoughtful information.

GATT deserves better. Let’s try this.

TheWiredResearcher: Write me a humorous poem about a college professor who misplaced his Fitbit inside his house and was beginning to panic because he could not check his vital statistics.

“The Professor and his Lost Fitbit”

There once was a professor, who lived a life so true,
He counted every step, and monitored his every boo.
With his trusty Fitbit, he tracked his every move,
But one day it went missing, and he was filled with nothing but grooves.
He tore apart his office, and searched his shelves with care,
He checked his pockets, and even looked under his chair.
He tore apart his kitchen, and searched each nook and cranny,
But his Fitbit was nowhere to be found, it was simply uncanny.
His heart rate was rising, and his stress levels too,
For he couldn’t check his stats, and that just wouldn’t do.
He panicked and he worried, for his Fitbit was his lifeline,
And without it, he felt lost, like a ship without a sign.
But then he had an idea, a lightbulb in his mind,
He took a deep breath, and just relaxed and reclined.
He realized that life goes on, with or without a device,
And that his health was just fine, without having to pay the price.
So he looked around the house, and there it was in sight,
His Fitbit was on the couch, all snug and cozy, just right.
And he laughed and he smiled, as he put it back on his wrist,
And he cherished his Fitbit, now never to be missed.
And from that day on, he cherished his Fitbit with glee,
But he also learned a lesson, that sometimes it’s good to just be.
And so he lived his life, with balance and with peace,
Tracking his steps and stats, with joy that wouldn’t cease.

Then I gave GATT the text to my post “Finding Far More than My Fitbit” and asked GATT to use it as the foundation for a humorous poem.

A Fitbit-life I do lead,
With stats, steps, and heartbeats to read.
I wear it day and night, with glee,
Never leaving wrist, not even for a pee.
But one day, a tragedy occurred,
My Fitbit gone, no longer it occurred.
I searched high and low, with all my might,
But it was lost, out of sight.
I headed off to a celebration with friends,
But without my Fitbit, my worry never ends.
“How do you know you’re alive?” a friend asked with a grin,
“Without my Fitbit, I don’t know, where to begin.”
Back home I searched, with flashlight bright,
In hopes to find my lost delight.
But what I found, made my heart sink,
Cobwebs everywhere, oh what a stink!
But in the end, my Fitbit was found,
No longer lost, my stats back on track, my joy unbound.
So now I wear it, with even more care,
Never again will I lose it, this I swear.

I didn’t think that was bad, at all. I was intrigued, in fact, by the accurate specifics that GATT selected as well as by the inaccurate detail that GATT added independently (“never for a pee”: I’m still shaking my head in disbelief!), but I wanted to see what GATT would do with a sonnet, especially since they had written good sonnets before.

Using the same essay that I provided initially, GATT generated the following sonnet:

A Profound Discovery

In lecture halls of knowledge, where he stood,
The professor searched for his lost device,
With screens and buttons, tracking what he could,
A modern tool to aid him in his strive.
But fate had something else in store for him,
A chance to see the world in different light,
He found a truth that often lies within,
That life is more than numbers, screens and height.

It was not just his Fitbit he regained,
But wisdom, joy and peace that he discovered,
In every step he took, he felt sustained,
His mind and soul, now richer than recovered.
So let this be a lesson to us all,
That true success is found in what we are.

So there! We have it, for this week.

GATT has generated some humorous poems. GATT has generated some commendable sonnets. And they worked collaboratively with me in coming up with a name that strikes my fancy, especially since I can pronounce it: GATT.

As you reflect on this post–and I encourage you to do so–along with last week’s post (“Foolin’ Around in Bed with AI“), remember this: the content–whether mine or GATT’s–is driven by one thing and one thing only: thought.

And here’s the good thing about it all. The thoughts are all mine.

Food for thought.

Foolin’ Around in Bed with AI

Posted on January 30, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

TheWiredResearcher to ChatGPT: Based on how we’ve been foolin’ around in bed, how would you characterize me?

ChatGPT: You are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to your passions – teaching, research, writing, gardening and your late partner. You are relentless in your pursuit of excellence and never stop pushing boundaries.
“ChatGPT, an AI-powered language model by OpenAI, 25January2023, (https://openai.com/)”

Hopefully, you read the title of the post carefully enough to realize that I have not been foolin’ around in bed with Al as in Al(fred).

I haven’t. I don’t even know anyone by that name. But I have been foolin’ around in bed with AI as in Artificial Intelligence.

THEY are hot.

OMG! Did I just say that? Well, I did. But that’s okay because I trust you. I know that you won’t tell anybody about the deliciously sinful and sultry times I’m having.

Keep reading and I’ll share each and every scorching moment with you–little by little–lest you be blinded if I were to divulge all at once. Besides, I never divulge all at once to anyone. What’s the fun in that?

Hopefully, you know already that in bed is where I love to be. It’s where I write my blog posts right before I go to sleep. It’s where I’m writing this post, right now, but I haven’t fallen asleep. I’m having too much fun with AI, not Al(fred). I know. They look alike (when you drop the fred), but they’re not alike at all. Hmmm. If they look alike in this post, you get to decide who’s in my bed. But in a serif world, the “I” in AI sports a bottom line and a top line. In a serif world, the “l” in Al(fred) has a bottom only. The next time that you’re in your serifdom, take a really close look: you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about and from this point forward you will never think that AI and Al(fred) look alike. TMI. Let’s move on.

Hopefully, too, you read and recall last week’s post “Cutting-Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril.”

It ended with the observation:

“Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.

“Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.

“We can’t ignore AI.

“Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.“

One of my readers who is Wired–but not as wired as I am–commented:

“I admit, I was downright scared reading this. I was afraid I’d get to the bottom and read, ‘And, wouldn’t you know it–this post was written using AI technology,’ and I’d have a personal crisis.“

Let me pause here to assure my WiredReader, the rest of my readers, and the entire world: everything that you have read so far in this post is mine–all mine. The ideas are mine. The wording is mine. Every touchstroke is mine. AI had nothing to do with it.

Further, let me pause to assure my WiredReader, the rest of my readers, and the entire world: if, at any time, I tap AI–and rest assured: I will–I will give full credit where credit is due, and as AI would have me do.

Now let me continue with my response.

“Dear Wired:

“Your comments made me laugh! And if you had gotten to the end of the post and discovered that I had written it using AI technology …

“OMG! You are egging me on, aren’t you?”

It doesn’t take much to egg me on, and those who know me know that fully well. In this case, the egging on was reinforced by comments from two others:

Reader One. HACC, Central PA’s Community College uses PackBack (AI) in some of our English classes with good results.

Reader Two. Perfect timing for your post! Microsoft announced yesterday that they are investing billions into Open AI, the startup behind Chat GPT.

That did it. Three eggings scrambled me into action.

I decided that the time had come for me to gain a first-hand, personal knowledge of ChatGPT. What better way than in bed?

Candidly, though, I have to be on a first-name basis with my bedmates, and I don’t like ChatGPT’s name at all. I like AI even less because it can be confused so easily with Al(fred) as I established earlier.

So the other day–after having lots of prolonged late-night pillow talk with AI–I just came right out and popped the question. And that question led to a few more questions. Here’s how the conversation went:

TheWiredResearcher: What is your GENDER?

ChatGPT: I am an artificial intelligence and do not have a gender or physical form.

TheWiredResearcher: Okay. I understand. So, should I refer to you as THEY?

ChatGPT: You may refer to me using whatever pronouns you prefer. “IT” is also commonly used.

TheWiredResearcher: Do you have a NAME other than ChatGPT? I’d like to be more personal in our conversations. After all, you are right here in my bed.

ChatGPT: I am an artificial intelligence and do not have a personal name, ChatGPT is a name of the model that I am based on. But you can call me whatever you like, it’s up to you, for instance you can use my name as GPT or any other name that you prefer.

Is that an artfully artificial punt or what? Obviously, I’ll have to spend some time thinking about a name for my bedmate. I have an idea already. For Amazon’s virtual assistant Alexa, for example, I liked that name just fine. I kept it.

I suppose that I could give MY ChatGPT a gender-neutral name like Alex. (And that would fit perfectly with ChatGPT’s suggested pronoun reference: THEY.) Actually, I like Alex a lot. But my God! How presumptuous of me. I’ve only been foolin’ around in bed with ChatGPT for just a few days and here I am using the possessive pronoun MY. And here I am wanting to come up with a personal name.

Suffice it to say, my small talk with ChatGPT was getting me nowhere fast.

As a result, I dove in deep and started talking about things close and dear to me: teaching, research, writing, and my late partner Allen. Those conversations–using a traditional chat box at the bottom of the screen–were interesting, very much so. I kept my questions and comments as open-ended as possible, and ChatGPT provided really solid responses, even when asked about scholarly work that still needs to be done on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. ChatGPT’s suggestions were excellent, but lacking the specifics needed to convey a true understanding of the challenges and opportunities related to Freeman scholarship. (Nonetheless, I am not surprised that ChatGPT can pass exams from law and business schools. The knowledge base is clear, abundantly so.)

But now I’m edging toward evaluation. That is not my intent in this post. I will evaluate ChatGPT in a later post. For now, my intent is nothing more than to share some examples of my foolin’ around.

After Freeman, I shifted the conversation to Allen, commenting that even though January 28, 2023, marked the second anniversary of his death, sometimes it felt as raw and heart piercing to me as it felt at 9:24 that morning when I closed his eyes here on Earth and he opened them again over there in Eternity.

Candidly, at that point in my conversation with ChatGPT, I felt much akin to the speaker in Poe’s “The Raven,” who progressively asked more serious questions about grief and grieving, knowing fully well that the raven would always give the same answer: “Nevermore.”

TheWiredResearcher: What’s grieving like during the third year after the death of your partner?

ChatGPT: Grief is a complex and individual experience that can vary greatly from person to person. Some people may find that their grief subsides significantly during the third year after the death of their partner, while others may continue to experience intense sadness and longing. It’s important to remember that there is no “right” or “wrong” way to grieve, and everyone’s healing process is unique.

I did not expect much. Therefore, I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t get much. ChatGPT’s response was nothing more than an impersonal, clinical explanation that I could have found through a Google search, albeit not as quickly.

I shifted positions and asked ChatGPT to write me a sonnet about my grieving for Allen, based on the conversation that we had just had. The sonnet form, of course, exists in several online sonnet generators. No big deal. But I wanted to see the extent to which ChatGPT could extract salient information from our conversation and weave it into a meaningful sonnet. The result follows:

Grief grips my heart with hands of leaden weight,

A constant ache that never seems to cease.

The memories of our love still resonate,

A symphony of joy and sweet release.

But now, the melody has turned to dirge,

A requiem for all that once was bright.

The laughter echoes with an empty surge,

And every step feels heavy as the night.

Yet still, I’ll hold onto the love we shared,

The moments that we cherished and were true.

Though death may come and take him unawares,

My love for him will forever be anew.

So as I grieve, I’ll keep him close in mind,

And let my heart with bittersweet love bind.

Again, my goal for today is not to evaluate. I’ll save that for a future post. Nonetheless, I must note that the sonnet impressed me, so much so that I wanted to see whether I could nudge ChatGPT to a higher level of performance. What if I provided extensive text, asking that it be converted into a poem?

That’s exactly what I did. I gave the full text of the post that I published last year on the first anniversary of Allen’s death, “Honoring an Angel.” ChatGPT generated the sonnet that you are about to read.

“The Earth Angel’s Legacy”

Two years have passed since my love’s death,

my heart still aches with his absence, yet

my faith in angels remains unwavering,

a legacy passed down from my mother’s net.

My Allen was an earth angel, true,

a messenger of love and comfort, too.

His aura inspired trust and faith in all,

and nature was his solace, pure and blue.

With gentle hands, he tended to the weak,

and through his surgeries, he healed with care.

He taught with passion, guiding students meek,

and in our garden, he found peace to share.

In every aspect of our life together,

my angel Allen, I will love forever.

Let me emphasize again that my goal today is not to evaluate. Yet I must say that this sonnet touched me and warmed my heart, all the while that I was aware that it was driven 100% by information that I had provided in the underlying essay.

Yet lines three and four hit me hard and made me think:

my faith in angels remains unwavering,

a legacy passed down from my mother’s net.

In the essay, I had mentioned that my belief in angels came from my mother. Yet ChatGPT’s use of the metaphor “passed down from my mother’s net” struck me as original and creative, especially since the word net did not appear in the essay that I provided. Original? Creative? I’m still thinking. I’m still thinking.

By the time that I had finished that conversation, I knew that I would be weaving parts of it into this post.

TheWiredResearcher: Can I use all of this material in a blog post that I’m developing for next week?

ChatGPT: As a language model AI, I do not have any rights over the material generated and you are welcome to use it for any legal purpose. Please be reminded that you should cite the source. If you use it in a blog post or anywhere else, it is a good practice to give credit to the source. It would be great if you could include a disclaimer that the content is generated by an AI and not a human writer.

TheWiredResearcher: Give me a recommended citation.

ChatGPT: You can cite this source as “ChatGPT, an AI-powered language model by OpenAI.” Additionally, you can include the link to OpenAI’s website (https://openai.com/) so that your readers can learn more about the technology and the organization behind it. It’s also a good practice to include the date when the information was generated.

Hopefully, this post has provided you a few things to ponder. Hopefully, too, this post has gone further than sensational AI headlines that glam, glitz, and gobsmack.

As for me, I’ve enjoyed bedding down all week with ChatGPT. Lots. I’d enjoy it even more if “it” had a name that strikes my fancy as much as foolin’ around with “it” strikes mine. But I’m working on it.

If you’re wondering whether I’ll keep foolin’ around, my answer is, “You bet!”

Next week: “Another Week in Bed with AI.”

Then, the week after, I’ll synthesize and evaluate my experiences: “My Final Week in Bed with AI | The Heart of the Matter.”

For right now, though, ChatGPT needs to go to sleep. I do, too. To help me doze off, maybe I’ll ask ChatGPT to keep reminding me of the sweet nothings THEY shared shortly after we hooked up: “you are a force to be reckoned with … you never stop pushing boundaries.”

It must be true. Right? Of course. After all, ChatGPT told me so.

Cutting-Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril?

Posted on January 24, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

When … Fulton showed off his new invention, the steamboat, skeptics were crowded on the bank yelling, “It’ll never start, it’ll never start!” But it did. It got going with a lot of cranking and groaning, and as it made its way down the river, the skeptics were quiet for a brief moment. Then they started shouting, “It’ll never stop, it’ll never stop.”
“Grab an Oar and Row,” St. Louis Business Journal, November 9, 1997.

Live long enough and you will experience many cutting-edge technologies. That certainly will be the case if you live to be 75 as I have done.

Some of the technologies that I have seen were so short-lived that you may not be familiar with them at all. Boom boxes. Cassette tape recorders. Floppy discs. Portable televisions. Reel-to-reel tape recorders. Slide projectors. TV watches. Transistor radios. VHS video format.

Others, however, remain part of the fabric of our lives. Barcodes. Birth control pills. Communication satellites. Coronary bypass surgery. DNA fingerprinting. DVDs. Fiber optics. GPS. Human Genome Project. Hybrid cars. Jet airliners. MRIs. Microwaves. Pacemakers. Polio vaccine. The list goes on.

Of all the cutting-edge technologies that I have experienced in my life–vintage and outdated as well as state-of-the-art and up-to-date–three are special to me because I was involved with them in the early stages of their development and saw in them promise rather than peril. Interestingly enough, all three relate to automation–specifically the role that computer technology has played–and continues to play–in advancing literacy and learning.

The first goes all the way back to 1969 and my first position at the Library of Congress as a MARC Editor. MARC stood for MAchine Readable Cataloging, a set of standards developed by the Library of Congress in the 1960s to enable electronic sharing of catalog records. Within the next few years, MARC became the cataloging standard, nationally and globally. A parallel RECON Project converted retrospective materials to MARC format. But imagine. Computers in those early days were referred to as machines, and one of the biggest challenges was keeping the mainframe from overheating. I dare say that I did not understand fully the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of the work that I was doing, but I knew that I was contributing to cutting-edge technology.

Fast forward to the 1990s, when Blackboard started as an interactive learning network to help teachers and professors adapt to the new reality of being able to teach via the Internet. In the fall of 1999, I started teaching at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College). The following spring, I was one of two faculty who opted to pilot Blackboard as our online learning platform. This time, I knew the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of teaching online.

From that point forward, I continued to teach at least two–sometimes three–courses each semester online. American Literature. Appalachian Literature. College Composition. Creative Writing. Leadership Development. Southern Literature. Technical Writing. I made a point of challenging myself. For any class that I taught in a traditional classroom environment, I wanted to figure out how to revamp it–how to redesign it–for online delivery. I wanted to be a pioneer as my college moved forward with this cutting-edge technology.

Fast forward almost two decades, and I was pioneering again. This time I was embracing Open Education Resources (OER) in my classes. In 2018, I was the keynote speaker for a statewide professional development workshop sponsored by Laurel Ridge Community College, Lumen Learning, and the Achieving the Dream Foundation. I titled my keynote “OER: Open the Future of Education Today.” I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the magnitude and far-reaching ramifications of Open Education Resources.

Within two years, I was using OER for all of my classes. Mind you: I didn’t tap into existing OER course shells. Instead, I designed and developed my own from scratch so that I could honestly and proudly announce to my students: “FREE Open Education Resources, Personally Curated Just for You.”

It seemed to me then–and it seems to me now–that the power of four great cutting-edge technologies had come together in a powerful way beyond anyone’s wildest imagination: the Printing Press, the Internet, Online College Education, and Open Education Resources. Working together, they all revolutionized not only learning but also the way that we share and distribute information.

As with most innovations, those four met initially with varying degrees of skepticism and pushback.

Printing Press Skeptics: The monks will lose their work. Monks will become lazy. Paper isn’t as good as parchment. With only one typeface, books are really ugly.

Online Cataloging Skeptics: OMG. What will happen to the card catalog. It will die and then what?

Internet Skeptics: Just look at all the inappropriate materials poisoning the minds of our children. Staring at the screen will kill us. Thieves will steal my personal and financial information.

Online Education Skeptics: Online courses will never produce outcomes equal to in-person courses. Faculty-student interaction won’t be meaningful.

Open Education Resources Skeptics: Online resources are much more difficult to use. Who will guarantee quality? You just can’t do better than printed textbooks.

Now we’re all facing another cutting-edge technological moment. Its magnitude is beyond comprehension. Its ramification is beyond far-reaching.

AI. Artificial Intelligence.

We all have a general idea of what it is: a branch of computer science that simulates human intelligence–visual perception, speech recognition, decision-making, and translation between languages. AI can get better and better over time based on the information collected and processed.

AI, of course, has been around since the birth of computers in the 1950s. But major advances came in the 1990s. You may recall that the AI app “Deep Blue” defeated chess master Garry Kasparov. And NASA deployed its first robot, Sojourner, on the surface of Mars.

AI is in the news a lot. Below are some major headlines that surfaced during the last few days:

“The 5 Biggest Artificial Intelligence (AI) Trends In 2023”

“AI Infrastructure Market to Reach $309.4 Billion, Globally, by 2031”

“Artists Sue AI Company for Billions, Alleging ‘Parasite’ App Used Their Work for Free”

“‘It’s the Opposite of Art’: Why Illustrators Are Furious about AI”

“AI Tools Can Create New Images, but Who Is the Real Artist?”

“Publisher Halts AI Article Assembly Line after Probe”

“Can an AI ‘Angel’ Help Find Thousands in Mexico Who Were Forcibly Disappeared?”

“This Mind-Reading AI Can See What You’re Thinking – and Draw a Picture of It”

“ChatGPT Passed a Wharton MBA Exam and It’s still in Its infancy. One Professor is Sounding the Alarm”

As an educator and a writer, a more narrow cutting-edge AI technology demands my attention. I’m thinking about AI apps that are influencing the future of writing and authorship. ChatGPA, for example, can be used for text generation, text translation, text summarization, and even sentient analysis of a text to detect tone and emotion. It can even write poetry, and it can make ordinary prose sound like passages from the King James Bible.

It seems to me that all of us need to sit up and take serious notice of all that AI promises, all the while that we need to be aware of the perils that AI skeptics perceive and toss into the conversations.

Skeptics are convinced that AI will:

● change the perception of information

● take jobs away from humans

● rob us of our ability to make decisions independently

● take away our creativity

● make us lazy

● do away with our privacy

● control our behavior

● threaten copyright, authorship, and ethics

It seems to me that the perils being voiced by AI skeptics aren’t too different from those sounded by other skeptics down through the ages about other cutting-edge technologies. The Printing Press. Online Cataloging. The Internet. Online Learning. Open Education Resources.

But here’s what we have to accept. Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.

Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.

We can’t ignore AI.

Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.

A Swinger of Birches

Posted on January 17, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.
Andy Goldsworthy (b. 1956; English sculptor, Photographer, and environmentalist.)

Call me weird if you want. But I love weather. All kinds of weather. Hot. Cold. Rainy. Dry. Foggy. Sunny. Overcast.

Call me weird again, if you want. But I love all kinds of storms, too. Thunderstorms. Lightning storms. Hailstorms. Windstorms Snowstorms. When a storm is headed my way, I get hyped up and worked up, simply anticipating the maybeness and the mightiness. The storm’s arrival–assuming that it actually arrives–always brings an intense level of energy, inner and outer, that thrills me.

I love surprises, too. Yep. I’m betting that you guessed it. Surprise storms thrill me most, especially surprise snowstorms. Ask my family. Ask my friends. Ask my neighbors. Ask my former colleagues. I’m a snow freak. I get turned on by snow, but not those puny dustings of just a few inches. Take it up to six or seven or eight, and then we’re talking. Take it up to nine or more and my wild side comes alive, especially if it’s a surprise. OMG! Life is grand. Once, while living right here on my mountain, I had the hellacious thrill of being stranded in a surprise 40-inch snowfall in the middle of March. Actually, it was closer to 50 inches. The more that I think about it, though, I am convinced that it was 54 inches.

My West Virginia kin contemplated calling the National Guard to rescue me. (Hmm. That might have been fun.) But a local contractor bulldozed me to freedom first. The snowbanks were so tall that they didn’t melt until June. Now that’s a surprise storm that I will always remember. Perhaps I will write about it one day. But not today.

For today, I’m just wondering how many, if any, surprise snowstorms we will have this winter. I remember more than a few down through the years, but right now I’m thinking about two surprise snowstorms that were real and a third surprise storm–an ice storm–that the power of poetry made come alive for me, so much so that it seems as real now as it did then.

All three are memorable, profoundly so, though for different reasons.

All three took place when I was a kid growing up in the coalfields of Southern West Virginia where snowstorms were plentiful.

The earliest that lingers in my mind was when I was really young. I’m guessing that it was the winter of 1951, when I would have been four. My mother had to get something from the church that she pastored, hardly more than a stone’s throw below our home. She had no sooner walked out the door than she rushed back in, smiling all radiant like:

“Let’s put your coat and hat on so that you can see the snow. It’s in color!”

We hurried out behind the house, taking her usual shortcut path to the church. I could see my mother’s tracks in the snow where she had walked minutes earlier. But everything was white. All white.

“Where’s the colored snow? I don’t see any.”

“Come on. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

We continued on the path, meandering down and around a knoll. On the gentle downslope, we narrowed our way between two large, weather-worn boulders.

We stopped there. My mother turned toward the boulders, exclaiming in triumphant joy:

“Look! Look at all the colors!”

I looked, and I was amazed. Vast patches of colored snow covered the boulders. Reds. Greens. Blues. Browns. Some of the flakes were colored as they fell from the sky. Other flakes turned color when they touched the boulders.

Years later I learned that the boulders were probably covered with types of algae that caused the white snow to change color. The snow that came falling down in color was caused by pollutants, no doubt from the coal camp where we lived. The science, though, never eroded the beauty of that snowfall. I had never seen colored snow before, and I have never seen colored snow since. It is as if my mother and I shared a magical moment never to be witnessed again.

The second surprise snow came when I was older. I’m guessing that it was 1961 when I was a high-school freshman. It fell in October. Green leaves, still on the trees, had not even thought of turning red or gold.

The wet, heavy snow started during the night. A significant amount had fallen by the time my dad got up for work. Not one to be daunted easily, he set out in the early pre-daylight hours, trudging through the deep snow, determined to catch his ride to the coal mines. I can still see the flicker of his carbide lantern as it swayed beneath the towering oak tree where he always stood, waiting for his ride to work. I can still see him standing there, the carbide lantern swaying. I can still see the snow falling, piling up higher and higher. I can still see what seemed to be forever.

And, then, forever turned into daylight. My dad’s ride didn’t show up because the snow was too deep. My dad slogged his way back home.

The door had hardly closed when we could hear him in the kitchen rattling pots and pans as he started making biscuits, frying country ham, and cracking eggs, whistling and singing in his untrained country way. Looking back, I understand his carefree merriment. He would have been 59 that year and that day was probably his first coal-miner’s snow day ever. If he had others, he never mentioned them. I know for a fact that he never had another work snow day afterwards.

That snowfall was more than 25 inches. Branches fell. Trees crashed. But what lingers most for me is the magical snow-day breakfast that my dad prepared–one that we all shared, never to be spread again.

The next surprise storm–the one that I experienced through the power of poetry–came in 1955, betwixt and between the other two.

I was in the third grade and my teacher, Marie Massie, introduced me–just me, not the entire class–to Robert Frost. She pulled me aside one day and gave me a mimeographed copy of his poem “Birches.”

“I think you’ll like this poem. Let me know.”

I fell in love with the poem and told her so. She gave me more: Frost’s essay “The Figure a Poem Makes.”

Looking back, I cannot help but wonder why. Why did she give me, a third grader, a poem with such profound meanings? Why did she proceed to give me, a third grader, an essay, profounder still?

I’d like to think that it was because she knew that she was dealing with an unusual intelligence. But I know better. She wasn’t.

Of course, “Birches” spoke to every fiber of my being. I, the child, who loved storms. I, the child, who loved surprises. I, the child, who played alone. All that it took was a description of birch trees in winter:

[ … ] Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

I had never seen a birch tree nor had I ever seen an ice storm. But I had seen colored snow, and in my mind’s eye I could easily imagine what the sky–heaven’s inner dome–would look like if it froze and fell around the forest trees where I played with great abandon.

More, though, I became one with the boy mentioned in the poem:

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do.

Indeed, I often climbed saplings near our home, learning quickly how far up the tree to shimmy before thrusting my feet outward into the air, letting the tree dip me down to the ground and lift me back up again, heavenward, to repeat by dipping me down to the ground on the other side and lifting me back up again, heavenward. Over and over and over. Earth. Heaven. Earth.

But as the poem teaches us, trees are never bent forever when a boy swings them. They always right themselves. But that’s not the case when the forces of nature–ice storms–bend trees:

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves

The key phrase, of course, is “they never right themselves.” The damage brought on by Nature is irreparable

As an eight-year-old, I am confident that I did not pick up on the sobering seriousness of that caution, even after I continued reading and came across the lines:

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth a while

And then come back to it and begin over.

Looking back, I cannot help but wonder whether my third-grade teacher had experienced being weary of considerations, wishing to get away from earth for a while.

Looking back, I cannot help but wonder whether my third-grade teacher was giving me a caution that I, too, would have days when I would be weary of considerations and would wish to get away from earth for a while.

Maybe she was doing both. To live is to grow weary from time to time. To live is to wish to get away from earth for a while. To be human is to suffer.

But, maybe, while she was hoping to impress upon me those life-lessons, she was hoping still more that I would latch on to, hold on to, and believe in the next few lines:

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

Of course, we all want to get away from earth from time to time, but, at the same time, we all want to come back to earth. We don’t want our getaway to be our final exit.

But there’s something in those lines that makes the occasional skeptic in me laugh. Is earth the right place for love, especially considering all of the cruelties that we inflict on ourselves, on humankind, and on Planet Earth, our home? If we come down on the side that Earth is not always the right place for love, then all of us–collectively and individually–need to look for ways that we might–collectively and individually–make Earth the right place for love, for all, forever.

I suspect that Frost wants to nudge readers toward those more serious reflections.

For today–and today only–I’ll put aside the poet’s nudge.

For today, I’ll put aside my sometimes-skeptical self.

For today, it’s enough for me to recall my mother’s love as she shared with me the magic of colored snow.

For today, it’s enough for me to recall my father’s love when a sudden snowstorm gave him the only snow day of his work life, and he chose to make a magical breakfast.

For today, it’s enough for me to recall the teacher who gifted me with my love of poetry.

For today, it’s enough for me to recall my own childhood days when I, too, was an innocent swinger of birches.

The Face of Humanity

Posted on January 9, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.”
Desmond Tutu (1931-2021; South African Anglican bishop and theologian, known for his work as an anti-apartheid and human rights activist.)

When I first moved to my retreat on the mountain where I still live, I was one of four families who lived here. One was an occasional weekender. One was a snowbird who lived in Arizona from November until May. The other lived at the bottom of the mountain, seldom seen.

It didn’t take long before “the mountain” became “my mountain.” I became territorial about my 20 acres. My territory seems far more expansive than it is because my property, on two sides, joins the George Washington National Forest that extends to the top of the mountain and beyond.

Where I live became THE MTN HOUSE, and the Jeep that I drive was tagged MTN PROF.

Over time, other people discovered the mountain’s charm, built homes, and moved here. All of us get along well together because we all love living in the woods–even as the woods that we all love continue to diminish with every new build.

As it turns out, I am the oldest in our mountain community, and I have lived here the longest. In my mind, those two facts reinforce my belief that the mountain is still my mountain just as my home is still the MTN HOUSE and just as the Jeep continues to be tagged MTN PROF.

But things change. During the summer of 2022, the lot adjoining mine on the lower side went on the market and sold quickly. Not long after, I stopped and welcomed to my mountain the new owner, a young man in his twenties. He hopped off his tractor and stopped his driveway-excavation work. We chatted for a long, long spell about my mountain and about his building plans. He seemed grounded. It struck me as special that at his young age he was striking out on a new home venture in the woods. It was a first for him.

I saw Kevin once or twice afterwards. Several months passed, and I didn’t see him, and I didn’t see any action on his land either.

Then, all of a sudden, it all started. The bulldozer arrived. The backhoe arrived. The trees fell. The lot looked lean and showed contours that I had not seen before. Suddenly, the lot looked bigger. I was impressed.

I was surprised that I never saw Kevin in any of the action. From time to time, I saw several pickup trucks and an older couple. I also saw a Weber grill in the middle of the clearing, just inside the newly excavated and heavily graveled road that curved softly through the lot.

Maybe Kevin had sold the lot. Maybe I had new neighbors without even knowing it.

Then one day something magical seemed to happen. When I drove off my mountain, everything looked exactly as it had looked the day before and the day before that. However, when I drove back up several hours later, there beside the road on the recently cleared lot was a small prefab shed. How the hell had it gotten there–situated in place and leveled–so quickly? And why the hell was it so close to the road? And why the hell was it so close to my property line?

I drove past in slow-mo, determined to take it all in. I immediately started to wonder whether this “shed” had been offset from the road and my property in accordance with the mountain community’s code.

When I turned into my drive and stepped out of my Jeep, I turned and looked down my mountain to see whether I could see the shed. I could. “No big deal,” I thought. “When spring comes, new growth will hide it all.”

But it must have been a big deal because it became the focus of my next conversation with my two oldest sisters.

And not long after that, I drove past to discover an excavated area smackdab next to my property, maybe encroaching on it by a foot or three.

I was not too happy as I drove homeward up my mountain. Actually, I was more than a little agitated.

A few days later, I walked down to one of my lower gardens to cut some magnolia for Christmas decorations.

As I did, I could hear the revved-up tractor pushing hard against the hard-frozen ground. I could see the driver, but the capped and tilted head kept me from getting a clear view of the face. It was just a shape, nothing more than a shape.

I didn’t know who was operating the tractor, but I resolved to stop and talk about the shed and about my property line when I went off my mountain to the store a little later.

And that’s just what I did.

As it turned out, the shape turned out to be Kevin.

As I pulled to the side of the road, he jumped off his tractor, rushed over, and gave me a hearty handshake. His beaming chestnut eyes were beaming more than usual and his usual wide smile was smiling wider than usual.

Hey, Kevin. It’s great to see you.

You, too. It’s been a while. Things are shaping up real good, don’t you think? It’s all muddy but let me show you around.

And show me around he did, starting with the shed that made him beam even brighter and smile even wider. And then we walked over to where his home would be. His home. He was ecstatic when I told him that one side of his property faced the George Washington National Forest, just as mine does. He was even more elated when I described the way the moon climbs up the mountain whose views we both share. Our mountain.

Maybe I should put my bedroom on that side of the house?

Yeah, that would be great. Maybe with lots of windows so you can watch the moon as you fall asleep. What you’ve done looks superb! You should be proud, really proud.

As we walked back towards my Jeep, our eyes landed on the excavated area encroaching my property.

So what’s going on there?

Oh. That’s where my well will be.

You do know where the property line is, right?

Kevin laughed and explained that the well would be well within his property line but that the company needed space to maneuver its drilling equipment.

No problem. I just wanted to check. I have a well already. I don’t need another one.

We both shared a hearty and heartfelt laugh.

I knew, standing there, looking into Kevin’s face, deliberately teasing him and deliberately giving him a hard time, that I would neither say nor do anything to diminish his joy.

I knew, standing there, looking into Kevin’s face, that I would neither say nor do anything to diminish his hopes.

I knew, standing there, looking into Kevin’s face, that I would neither say nor do anything to diminish his dreams.

Suddenly, the shed so close to the road did not matter.

Suddenly, the excavation abutting my property did not matter.

All that mattered was that in Kevin’s face I saw the face of all humanity, and I was reminded of our inherent goodness.

Plan? Say Whaaat? What Plan?

Posted on January 2, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Tell me what it is you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day” (1935-2019; American poet whose work reflects a deep communion with nature)

The pull quote is one of my favorite lines from Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. Don’t be misled by the quote. It’s not as simple and straightforward as it seems.

Let’s fool around with the quote the way that Oliver would like for us to fool around with it. Let’s try a paraphrase:

What do you plan to do with your life?

There. That’s seems simple and straightforward. I ask my students something similar:

Tell me. What do you want to be when you grow up?

That’s simple and straightforward, too.

What makes me pause, however, is one life. Who amongst us thinks about having one life? We all know that in reality we only have one life. But as Oliver phrases it, it becomes a caution: remember–you’ve only got one life; don’t screw it up.

I linger longer in the presence of the word wild. Wild–unrestrained or not adhering to the rules–goes against the grain of having a plan. Wild and plan seem contradictory and mutually exclusive.

I lean in harder against the word precious and pause once more. Again, the poet seems to be suggesting that as we design our plan and imbue our life with wildness, we need to remember that our one life is precious. It is of great value. It is not to be wasted. It is not to be approached carelessly. But, if that be true–and it is–how can we couple wild and precious?

Suddenly the seemingly simple poetic line becomes a hefty and weighty question that leaves us staggering as we reach the poem’s end.

Interestingly enough, Oliver opens her poem with questions that are more sobering:

Who made the world?

Who made the swan and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

Those Creationism questions are too large for any poet to answer, especially in a short poem such as Oliver’s “The Summer Day.”

Oliver knows that, too. In the next few lines, she does a masterful poetic pirouette that shows us how we can approach those questions–how we can approach our one wild and precious life–by shifting our focus from the riddled enormity of the cosmos to the more understandable singularity of the immediate moment:

This grasshopper, I mean–

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

the one who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–

Think about it. What happens when we shift our focus from the big picture to something right in front of us? What happens when we shift our focus from trying to figure out who made the grasshopper to simply being at one with the grasshopper–not all grasshoppers, just THIS grasshopper?

When we shift from a wide-angle lens to a close-up lens, we begin to see the here and now. We begin to see what’s in front of us. We begin to see THIS grasshopper as she gazes around, washes her face, opens her wings, and flies away.

It seems that the poet would have us understand that our pause in the presence of immediacy–THIS grasshopper, for example–opens gateways to deeper meanings, more felt than understood.

The poem continues:

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

How incredibly simple. Stroll through the fields. Be idle and blessed. Fall down–kneel down–into the grass. Pay attention. Stay there all day.

That’s precisely the plan that Mary Oliver offers us as a way of living one wild and precious life. Have no plan other than to kneel before the summer day. Have no plan but to kneel before this grasshopper. Have no plan but to kneel before the immediacy of the moment.

We may not have answers to the big questions. We may not know fully what prayer is. But we certainly have the ability to pay attention to all the here-and-now grasshoppers that bid us be idle and be blessed as we kneel the whole livelong day.

As I begin 2023–having ended a glorious 23-year career as a professor of English at Laurel Ridge Community College and before that an equally glorious 25-year career at the Library of Congress–I am reinventing myself.

Understandably, the question that most people ask me is:

“What’s your plan?“

“Say whaaat?” I gasp. “My plan? What plan?”

All that I hope to do is pay attention to my own here-and-now grasshoppers as I kneel before them.

That’s how I’ve lived my life so far. Maybe that’s why I’m so stoked by this poem. I’ve always been able to pay close, reverent attention to the task at hand, so much so that, most of the time, it’s as if nothing else matters. It’s as if nothing else exists. That’s not to say that I have not had short- and long-range plans. I have. But the greater joy for me has come by allowing myself to be rapt by the moment and to be slain right then and there in its immediacy.

I hope to continue living that way as I reinvent myself. I want to kneel down lovingly in the grass before the things that I love so much:

● Language, Literature, and Writing.

● Research and Publishing.

● Biking and Hiking.

● Baking and Gardening.

● Family and Friendships.

● Home and Hearth.

● Faith and Spirituality.

As I kneel before those loves and more–known and unknown; seen and unseen–I want to lean in, pause, and pay close attention to the singularity of each and every moment, fully confident that my one wild and precious life will continue to unfold precisely as it should unfold, precisely according to plan.

Finding Far More than My Fitbit

Posted on December 26, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

“When you bring the light into your dark house, that is when you see the cobwebs and spiders.“
Rajneesh (1931-1990; Indian spiritual leader who preached an eclectic doctrine of Eastern mysticism, individual devotion, and sexual freedom.)

Those who know me well know how much I live by my Fitbit. Those who read my blog posts regularly know it, too, and no doubt remember my “Fit as a Fiddle: The Inefficient Way.”

I swear by my Fitbit so much mainly because I consider it to be my Doc-in-a-Watch, not that I need a doc in my watch or anywhere else, for that matter. My once-a-year doctor doesn’t like it too much when I tell her all about my Fitbit. Her skepticism always prompts me to give her an accelerated show-and-tell Fitbit Continuing Medical Education session, explaining everything that my Fitbit monitors and tracks:

● Steps per hour and per day.

● Sleep score–duration, deep sleep and REM sleep, and restoration.

● Exercise readiness score.

● Skin temperature.

● Resting heart rate.

● Breaths per minute.

● Heart rate variability.

● Blood oxygenation.

● Atrial fibrillation.

My Fitbit and I are so connected that it leaves my bod for two reasons and two reasons only.

The first is when it needs to be recharged. I time my its rechargings precisely so that my Fitbit doesn’t lose track of my steps and other vitals. The charger is on my kitchen counter, right next to my other life force–the coffee pot.

The second occasion that my Fitbit leaves my bod is just before I step into the shower. Then I put it on the shelf right below my toiletry cabinet. As soon as I step out of the shower and dry off, I put my Fitbit back on my wrist and go about my day.

My method of living a Fitbit-life was foolproof until Friday, December 16. I knew in advance that the day would be charged emotionally. I had to attend my college’s end-of-year celebration, where some colleagues who were retiring would be recognized. I fell into that category, too, but I am not ret–ing, even if I would be recognized as a faculty member who was. There’s a really negative word embedded in reTIRED. Yep. You guessed it. TIRED. And to pick up a title from one of my favorite James Cleveland spirituals,

“I Don’t Feel Noways Tired.”

Here’s the second reason that December 16 became charged emotionally. The day before, an Arctic blast hit our region, iced over my mountain world, and iced me indoors. Dang. How could I be recognized if I couldn’t make it to the celebration?

On the morning of the event, it looked as if my icy world had melted a little, but I wasn’t quite sure since it was nowhere near daylight. I started fretting.

I continued to fret when I took my shower. I continued to fret when I dried off. I continued to fret when I went upstairs to dress for the day.

By then it was daybreak, and I could tell that my mountain road was clear enough for me to Jeep off.

I kept on readying myself, and just as I put on my bracelet, I realized that I had not put on my Fitbit.

I raced back downstairs to get it, and to my horror, it was not on the shelf where I thought that I had left it.

Maybe I left it on my desk? Nope.

Maybe on the charger? Nope.

On my dresser? Nope.

Maybe it came unclasped and fell on the floor? I walked all through the house. Nope.

I repeated the trek. Nope. The Fitbit was not to be found.

I couldn’t continue looking. I had to head off to the college celebration. All the way there, I played and replayed every move that I had made earlier in the morning. I couldn’t put it out of my mind.

When I arrived and met up with one of my best friends, I blurted out:

You won’t believe what I did this morning. I lost my Fitbit, right in my own home.

Jenni knows me all too well:

How do you know whether you’re alive?

I don’t know. Without my Fitbit, I’m not alive! I have no stats whatsoever! I’m not even sure that my heart is beating.

I managed to distract myself from time to time during our three-hour celebration, but as soon as I started my drive back home I replayed, once again, every move that I had made.

As soon as I walked in the front door, I decided to get out my brightest flashlight and shine it systematically everywhere throughout the house. The damned Fitbit had to be there, somewhere. I looked all over the floors. I looked on top of every piece of furniture. I looked behind every piece of furniture. I wanted my damn Fitbit, dammit, and I wanted it right then and there. I hope that you are sensing my desperation.

What I did not want were the cobwebs that I found. Yes. Cobwebs. Now I was doubly horrified! For real. I was appalled. In fact, my heart sank, even if I didn’t have my Fitbit to log and record the sinking. How could this be? I mean. I know that I tease a lot about housecleaning. Who does not remember my riveting post “My Imaginary Guests“? More important, I had cleaned house thoroughly for my Thanksgiving guests. And the month before I had cleaned house thoroughly for Veteran’s Day guests. And I could keep rolling the calendar back, and I could keep talking about how I cleaned house for this occasion or that occasion or for this guest or for that guest.

But what good would that do me? I had shined a light, and I had seen those cobwebs. The horror or it all. Cobwebs. I thought that I was doing a near spic-and-span job with my cleaning.

My first impulse was to have at the damned cobwebs that had taken me unawares. But how could I? I wanted them gone. All gone. Right now. That would require tackling my entire home, room-by-room.

My second thought was simple:

This is no big deal. Sit down and work out a plan.

That’s just what I did. But alas! As I worked out my plan, I became even more horrified.

The cobwebs that I had found–the cobwebs that I didn’t even know were lurking in unseen and unvisited spots–were real ones. Their little filament lines looked like fluffy dust streamers. And from time to time I could even see anchor points attaching the web to the walls.

But somehow I started thinking about metaphorical cobwebs. What cobwebs would I find if I shined a light into the nooks and crannies, the corners and crevices, and all of out-of-the-way places in all the other areas of my life. Dare I look? What would I find? Would you be brave enough to look at your metaphorical cobwebs in the areas of your life? What would you find?

I started thinking about my grieving for my late partner Allen. Am I as healed and whole as I sometimes think? Or if I shined a bright light, what unexpected cobwebs might I find?

What about my prayers? Am I as celebratory in prayer as I have reason to be? Or if I shined a bright light, would I find myself on my knees only when I have needs?

And, bringing in something seemingly trivial, what about my refusal to talk about that ret—ment thing that other people do all the while that I’m reinventing myself? I wonder what cobwebs I would find if I shined a bright light on that area of my life?

To be certain, we all have areas of our lives where, from time to time, we might benefit by bringing in the light so that we might discover the hidden cobwebs impacting:

● Our physical health.

● Our emotional health.

● Our spiritual well-being.

● Our financial health.

● Our relationships with others–at home, at work, and in our communities.

● Our intellectual growth.

● Our career growth.

● Our downtime and our playtime.

Follow me? Of course, you do. You’ve got your own cobwebs lurking around in your life just as I have them lurking around in mine. Bright light. Bright light.

And what about me and my Fitbit fixation? Dare I shine a bright light on that area of my life? Oops! I think that I just did that in this post.

Oh. By the way. I found my Fitbit, but not with my bright light. When my bright light efforts failed, I broke down and bought the Find My Fitbit app for $5.89. You bet. It’s a real app, and it really works. It led me right to where my Fitbit had fallen down between the bathroom wall and the back of the toilet tank.

I was thrilled that I found it. I was thrilled that I was whole once more. But I was even more thrilled that I had found far more than my Fitbit.

Turning Towards

Posted on December 12, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

Respond to every call that excites your spirit.
Rumi (1207-1273; Persian poet whose work focuses largely on love and mysticism.)

Are you wondering whether I omitted something accidentally from the title? I didn’t. I left the title open-ended, deliberately. I’m hoping that it prompted you to ask, “Turning towards what?” Yes. Precisely. Towards what?

Towards this. Towards that. Towards everything. Towards everything that matters in our lives. Towards the truth that’s right in front of us, the truth that’s teetering on the brink of all.

As simplistic as it might seem, sometimes the greatest truths are the ones right in front of us, staring at us, bidding our attention, asking that we turn towards … the truth.

What got me to thinking about this truth–the importance of turning towards–is an article that I read a few weeks ago. Dr. John Gottman and Dr. Julie Schwartz Gottman, happily married for 35 years, have spent 50 years studying successful relationships. In one study, they were able to predict with 94% accuracy whether a marriage would last, after observing the couples for just 15 minutes.

“One of the biggest determining factors was how often a couple ‘turned toward’ their partner instead of ‘turning away.’ When a couple turns toward each other they make what we call ‘bids for connection.’

“Bids can range from little things like trying to catch your attention by calling out your name, to big things like asking for deeper needs to be met.

“The happiest couples are savvy enough to notice when their partner is making a bid, and drop what they’re doing, if necessary, to engage.” (“Here’s the No. 1 Thing that Makes Relationships Successful,” Make It, November 21, 2022).

When one partner makes a bid, the other partner can respond in one of three ways.

Turn towards–engage with the attempt to connect.
Turn away–ignore or not notice the attempt to connect.
Turn against–shut down the attempt to connect.

As I read the article, I swayed and nodded in total agreement. Of course. Turning towards–engaging with the intent to connect–is the truth that can make or break a relationship.

After my moments of affirmation, I had an epiphany. If turning towards our partner is the number one thing that makes our love relationship successful, why wouldn’t “turning towards” other types of interpersonal relationships bring equal success? Family relationships? Pet relationships? Friendships? Acquaintanceships? Professional/work relationships?

And what about straightforward, simple things in our lives that place bids for our attention, bids for connection. Maybe they’re so routine and so mundane that they’ve lost their curb appeal. Maybe we’ve turned against the bids. Maybe we’ve turned away from the bids.

But what would happen, for example, if we turned towards the bed to be made? The dishes to be washed, dried, and put away? The furniture to be dusted? The floors to be vacuumed? The windows to be polished? The trash to be taken out? The grass to be cut. The list is endless and never ending. Yet I wonder: what would happen if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–those mundane bids for attention as soon as they called to us?

And what about bids that call to us from other life ventures?

What about work? What would happen if we turned towards our careers? The noble work that we are called to do? The opportunities that seem to fall in our laps? The opportunities that we can create because we have a vision, because we have a dream? I wonder: what would happen if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–those work bids for attention as soon as they called to us?

What about our physical well-being? What would happen if we turned towards those pounds to drop? The muscle mass to gain or regain? The bike to pedal? The weights to lift? The marathon to run? The mountain to climb? The walk to the mailbox? The 10,000 steps a day? The healthy dietary choices? I wonder: what would happen if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–those physical bids for attention as soon as they called to us?

What about our financial security, short-term and long-range? Our assets? Debts? Income? Expenses? I wonder what would happen if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–those financial bids for attention as soon as they called to us?

What about our psychological well-being? What would happen if we turned towards accepting ourselves as we have been, as we are, and as we are yet to become? Towards the things that add meaning, give us purpose, fill us with hope? Towards all that brings us joy, contentment and delight? Towards our worst fears and greatest expectations? I wonder what would happen if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–those psychological bids for attention as soon as they called to us?

What about our spiritual well-being? Interestingly enough, many world religions reinforce the importance of turning towards. Buddhists often turn towards the East. Christians turn towards the Cross. Jews turn towards the Wailing Wall. And Muslims turn towards Mecca. I wonder what would happen, regardless of our belief or our unbelief, if we turned towards–leaned in, faced, and engaged–that spiritual bid for attention as soon as it called to us?

And, then, ponder this. If we spent our lives turning towards–leaning in, facing, and engaging–all the things that really matter, what do you suppose would happen when the time comes that we must turn towards death itself? I cannot help but believe that we would be ready to lean in, face, and even embrace that most unknown of all the Holy Unknowns, fully confident that the truths we turned towards throughout our life’s journey will see us safely through to the Great Beyond.

Hor(r)o(r)scopic Contemplations

Posted on November 21, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

Frankly, anything I say to you is useless and probably more deceiving than revealing. I tell so much truth in my poetry that I’m a fool if I say more. To really get at the truth of something is the poem, not the poet.
Anne Sexton (1928-1974; American poet known for her confessional verse. “Interview with Patricia Marx,” The Hudson Review, Winter, 1965-66, Vol. 18, No. 4)

Ask my siblings what they think of first when they think of me, and they will probably say, “Turkey.” Mind you: they don’t think that I’m a turkey as in inept, stupid, or naïve. In fact, they are proud of their baby brother. (When you’re the youngest in any family, you’re always the baby, even when you are a Septuagenarian.) And my oldest sister Audrey, an Octogenarian, is especially proud of my blog. She’s patient enough to let me read my post to her by phone each week, the night before I publish. It’s become part of our cherished routine.

But here’s why my five siblings think of turkey first when they think of me.

They were born at home. I, on the other hand, was born in a hospital on November 20. By the time my mother and I made the trip back home–via an ambulance, no less! What an auspicious beginning, especially for a coal-camp baby!–she was not up to preparing the usual dinner for the occasion. It’s a Thanksgiving they will never forget. I won’t either. They won’t let me. The horror of it all.

Obviously, since I celebrated my 75th birthday yesterday and since Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday, the connection between the two events is nearly as strong as it was the year that I was born and knocked my family out of a turkey.

Somehow that connection has set me to thinking about other major world, national, state or local events that took place the year that I was born. Maybe everything was majorly horrific.

Indeed, some say that things are rather horrific these days. Just last week I heard someone talking about how high grocery prices are and that it’s getting harder and harder to bring home the bacon and eggs.

I don’t eat a lot of bacon, so I haven’t paid close attention to those prices, rising or otherwise.

But I’m always interested in what things cost. So I did some quick-and-dirty research. Right now, bacon costs about $7.22 per pound.

I know more about eggs than I do bacon. I bake a lot, and I buy lots and lots of eggs. Believe me: they are pricey at $3.95 a dozen.

Just for the sake of comparison, when I was born in 1947, bacon was 64 cents per pound. But don’t start salivating for the olden days. Adjusted for inflation, that pound of bacon comes to $7.76. As for the eggs, in 1947, you’d pay 70 cents for a dozen. Adjusted for inflation $8.16.

But since it’s Thanksgiving week, what about the turkey dinner? This year, it seems that a traditional, classic Thanksgiving feast is more expensive not only because of inflation but also because of supply chain interruptions and the avian flu. But just how horrific is it? The average cost of this year’s holiday meal for 10 is $64.05.

In 1947, the same meal for a family of ten cost $5.68. Again, don’t start drooling over the olden days. Adjusted for inflation, it would be $48.16.

Viewed from those inflation-adjusted perspectives, maybe it’s not that much harder to bring home the Thanksgiving dinner, the bacon, and the eggs than it was 75 years ago.

But I have to share something else with you. (Thanksgiving, after all, is all about sharing.) While I was researching my birth-year food prices, I stumbled upon my horroroscope for 1947. Oops! I meant horoscope. Somehow mine always seem so horrible that the misspelling comes naturally.

Yet let me share something utterly amazing. Even when they seem horrible–and sometimes downright insulting–I still enjoy reading them. But, hey. Don’t worry. I’m a savvy horrorscope reader. Here’s the trick that I use to always end up with the best scopes! I keep browsing until I find the one that I like. Then I grab hold and refuse to let go. Be forewarned. I am Scorpio. I never let go. Proceed at your own risk.

Still with me? You are a Brave Soul, Dear Reader! Read on.

When I stumbled upon my 1947 horrorscope, I was so intrigued that I saved it in my virtual Horrorscope Folder, along with the thousands upon thousands of others that I have saved. Do the math. Start with the age of accountability. (For me, that was four; I was remarkably precocious and precociously remarkable. And, let me assure you: I was as modest then as I am now.) Continue from that age forward with daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly horrorscopes. I am appalled not by the numbers–I just did my own math–but by the fact that I just revealed so much to the entire world. Trying to cover it up now, though, will do no good whatsoever.

So I’ll just keep right on with my reveal, picking right up with my 1947 horrorscope.

“Fierce, Intense, Ambitious, and Loyal. Scorpios question everything, and work hard to understand all things. Are very intense, loyal and kind. Jovial, Honest, Perfectionist, Protective, Inventive.”

OMG! That is so me. I’ll put this one in my Virtual Folder. KEEP.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll UNKEEP it, especially the next part that I just now saw:

“But do not take their easy going attitude for weakness. This element is known to be one of the most ferocious and powerful of them all. Be extensively cautious when they’re in an off mood and don’t force them into an unfavorable situation they don’t want to be in.”

Hmpff. I don’t like that at all. It’s not me. Well, I have an easy fix. UNKEEP. Better still, I’ll just redact it. There. I did it. You’ll probably forget the horrific assassination upon my character. I hope so. Sadly, I won’t. The insult will linger, long. And I will hang on to it, long. And I will get even.

Well, that ended up being an unexpected downer. Maybe I will recover by reviewing what my horoscope happened to be at the start of this year. I kept it, so it must have captured my fancy in one way or three:

“A brand-new Scorpio is emerging! Welcome reinvention vibes. The year ahead evokes an important process that only happens a few times in your life. But first, you must shed layers of yourself that are no longer ‘you,’ parts of your identity that were constructed from pain or past experiences rather than forged from an authentic sense of ‘This is who I am.’ [ … ] A heart-fluttering new romance to artistic projects to buzzworthy fame […] drawn to someone wildly different than your usual ‘type’ […] Take charge of your erotic desires, even if that exploration takes you off the beaten path.”

OMG. This is so good. Now I remember why I kept it. Thirst. KEEP. Yes. KEEP.

And what about November 19, the last day of my 74th year?

“You’ve experienced a tragic ending or two, and it’s made you distrustful of the world. But, the truth is, things are happening for and not to you. […] Embrace the transformation process […] You’re going to meet a new version of you on the other side of this storm!”

Bring it on! I am ready! KEEP.

Better still, what about my horoscope yesterday when I turned 75?

“You’ve breathed new life into romance today […] You […] get into an esteemed institution. […] You’ll be starting a daily connection with a new romantic interest who may actually live far away from you. Despite the practical difficulties, you are curious as to what this might develop into.”

Damms. Romance? Far away? Be still, my beating heart. That’s so good that I’m tempted to call it quits right here and now. And I’m about to wrap things up, but first things first. KEEP.

Since I started this post with food–turkey and Thanksgiving and such–I suppose it would be fitting and seemly for me to stuff a little more food into the post. Horrorscopic food, that is.

“Scorpios tend to love extremes, and they can get bored with some of the typical tastes of the Thanksgiving table, since it’s the same year after year. But with its bright flavor and candy-colored appearance, cranberry sauce keeps things interesting. From its blood-red color to its intensely sweet and tangy flavor, it adds a complex yet satisfying zing to a Thanksgiving meal. No canned cranberry sauce on Scorpio’s Thanksgiving menu, please!”

KEEP. UNKEEP.

UNKEEP because my good friend Fr–k and his good wife B–b and their good friend J—s are joining me for Thanksgiving dinner, and Fr–k specifically requested canned, jellied cranberry sauce. And he shall have it. ~~(And he shall never know that when I reached for the canned, jellied cranberry sauce, I had to use my smelling salts to keep from passing out right there in the grocery store.)~~

But to be faithful to my wild and exotic Scorpionic side, I will also offer up a second cranberry sauce, with fresh cranberries popping in Grand Marnier, along with orange zest, and ground ginger. I will add candied ginger after it’s cooked, just to take it over the top. When I’m complex, I’m complex. When I take it up a notch or five, I’m better. (Thank you, Mae West.)

Maybe our hor(r)o(r)scopic contemplations aren’t so horrible after all. Maybe we can control our narratives by making inflationary adjustments, literally and metaphorically. Maybe we can make judicious decisions about our narratives: what to put in ~~(and what to leave out)~~. Then, with a little luck and a smidgen of stardust, maybe our narratives–our self-fulfilling prophecies–won’t be horrific after all.

The Wired Researcher

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

Category Archives: Memoir