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

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“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.”

—Gertrude Jekyll (1843–1932; a British horticulturist, garden designer, artist, and writer.)

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

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

“Say whaaaattt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fern: And then?

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

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

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

Fern: Revenge is ours!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lifted Up When I Am Down: The Power of Paradox in Gospel Music.

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“Gospel music is nothing but singing of good tidings — spreading the good news. It will last as long as any music because it is sung straight from the human heart.”

–Mahalia Jackson (1911-1972; widely considered the most influential voice in twentieth century Gospel music.)

I fell in love with words when I was four years old or thereabouts, listening to my mother preach. Magical things seemed to happen in that little coal camp church. It was not uncommon for one or more women in the congregation to get slain in the Holy Spirit. They would jump up on the back of a wooden pew–not nailed to the floor, by the way–and then hop to the back of the next pew, continuing pew by pew until they reached the pew in front. Still standing on the back of the pew, they would pirouette gracefully and continue their pew-hopping journey to the last pew in the back. They were called pew-hoppers.

At that tender age, I did not understand fully what was happening, but the halleluiahs and the weeping and the speaking in Unknown Tongues always seemed to be filled inexplicably with an abundance of joy and with an equal abundance of mystery. I was certain that whatever was happening was because of the words coming from my mother’s mouth.

I became convinced that words had power. I became convinced that words changed lives. And so it was that my love affair with words began right there in that little Pilgrim Holiness Church.

It was strengthened through the Gospel hymns that we sang. One of the earliest that I remember is “I’ll Fly Away,” especially the chorus:

I’ll fly away, Oh Glory
I’ll fly away; (in the
Morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away).

I loved the song’s uplifting melody and rhythm, but I could not comprehend the song’s depth. In fact, it perplexed my four-year old mind. I knew the concreteness of death, but I knew not the abstraction of its sting. I had seen death once when I walked up the road to buy some candy from Mrs. Cory, a Black woman who had a little building, hardly bigger than a closet, where she sold candy and soft drinks. As I walked across the wide-planked bridge spanning the creek, I looked on up the knoll past her store toward her house. An ambulance was there, and men were carrying a large-framed Black man on a stretcher. He was covered with a sheet, but he was so tall that his feet were showing. In my innocence and curiosity, I walked over and touched his soles, knowing neither fear nor apprehension. I have never forgotten their softness and their tan whiteness. It was my first encounter with death.

Little wonder, then, that I was perplexed when we sang “I’ll Fly Away.” I had seen a dead man who could not move, and I could not for the life of me figure out how he could fly.

Even without understanding, I liked the song’s happy, handclapping rhythm. More, the song got me to thinking, and it kept me thinking. It didn’t matter that I had no answers.

Other songs confounded me, too. Most of them were songs that the Black congregation sang in their church. Their services, lasting for hours, were filled with lots and lots of singing. After we finished our service, I’d go sit on the steep rocky bank high above their church, enjoying the powerful, thunderous singing of choir and congregation.

It was on that bank that I heard them singing “Jesus Gave Me Water.” As I swayed to the song’s rhythm, I was perplexed by lines repeated over and over again:

Jesus gave me water,
Jesus gave me water,
Jesus gave me water,
And it was not in the well.

We had a well at home, so I knew all about drawing water from the well. I had done it myself. But if Jesus gave water and it was not in the well, where did it come from? What was its source?

Once again, I did not understand. And, once again, it did not matter that I did not understand. The song had a soothing, comfortable melody, and it gave me something to think about long after the singing ended, long after the church windows lowered, long after the entrance doors closed, and long after I rose up from the bank to retrace my steps back home.

As I grew older and my intellectual abilities developed and my life experiences expanded, I gradually understood and appreciated the deeper meanings of the songs that we sang. I came to realize that “Jesus Gave Me Water” is about finding spiritual nourishment and fulfillment through faith in Jesus. I came to realize that “I’ll Fly Away” expresses the belief that one day we will leave earthly challenges and struggles behind when we enter a better place, presumably heaven, filled with eternal peace and joy.

Over time, I came to grow into a heightened awareness of all the nuances of language–imagery and metaphor and paradox and symbolism–that had tugged at my heart and soul through my mother’s preaching and through Gospel singing when I was but a boy of four, too young to understand but not too young to be drawn to the power.

Over time, I came to grow into a heightened awareness of the power of paradoxes that make up the grand tapestry of human existence.

Paradoxes–those statements, situations, or concepts that seem contradictory yet reveal unexpected underlying truths, like the ones that I witnessed in “I’ll Fly Away” and “Jesus Gave Me Water”–appeal to us because they invite us to go beyond surface assumptions and to think deeply. They:

● help us see the nuances of the human experience fraught with emotions and connections that define our lives;

● challenge us to reflect on philosophical matters such as time, existence, truth, and identity; and

● foster rich and robust conversations because they are open to interpretation.

In the Gospel music tradition, paradoxes are as important as they are in their corresponding scriptural passages from the Bible. They:

● invite us to explore the mysteries of faith and spirituality;

● help us find joy in sorrow, strength in weakness, and power in surrender; and

● pump energy into our souls and lift our spirits.

They leave us with memorable and poetic lines that are silently humming deep in our psyche, bursting forth in song sometimes when we least expect them to burst forth, just as “Never Grow Old” did this morning when I awakened to the fresh vitality of a brand-new day:

I have heard of a land
On the far away strand.
‘T is beautiful home of the soul.
Built by Jesus on high,
There we never shall die.
‘T is the land where we’ll never grow old.

I didn’t go looking for “Never Grow Old.” It came looking for me the same way that “He Saw It All (The Blind Man Song)” found its way to me shortly thereafter, a song celebrating the story that a worker heard when he stopped a young man and asked why he was running through town:

I was trying to catch the crippled man.
Did he run past this way?
He was rushing home to tell everyone
What Jesus did today.
And the mute man was telling myself
And the deaf girl he’s leaving to
Answer God’s call.
It’s hard to believe but if you don’t trust me,
Ask the blind man he saw it all.
Ask the blind man he saw it all.

There we have it: one simple stanza from a Gospel song, packed with four monumental paradoxes. It matters not whether we can walk the crosswalk from the paradoxes to the Biblical accounts of Jesus’s miracles, four among many. The paradoxes stand on their own just as they are, and they provide us with a PAUSE BUTTON FOR THE SOUL, beckoning us to be silent and to reflect.

I’ve been cradled in the comforting snares of Gospel songs for more than seven decades. These days, their number is so vast that counting them seems an impossible feat. Nestled within my own dedicated Gospel playlist, they multiply day by day. While pedaling indoors on my bike or journeying through the hours, their melodies shuffle like soothing whispers to my soul. The paradoxes woven into these songs sometimes align me in unwavering belief, and, at other times, they leave me in a corner, wondering and doubting. Yet, always, they provide a wellspring of spiritual convictions from which I can draw. Through every note, they offer solace, always lifting my spirits higher and higher.

My Mother’s Dress

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“The art of mothering is teaching the art of living to children.” 

–Elaine Heffner (Private-practice psychotherapist and parent educator.)

My mother loved clothes. Her wardrobe of dresses was small, but they were always fine quality.

One dress stood out from all the rest, not because it was the finest but rather because it was the plainest.

It was a dress that my mother made. An excellent seamstress, she made clothes for all of us–including dress shirts for my dad–without ever using a pattern.

So it was with this dress. She created it without a pattern. It was a straight cut, knee-length, short-sleeved, shirtwaist dress with large brown buttons going down from the Peter Pan collar to the buckled belt made of matching fabric. It was perfect for my 45-year-old mother, thin-framed and erect.

Obviously, since she made the dress herself, she would have selected the fabric, too, and she would have ordered it from Sears Roebuck Catalog.

The fabric was cotton percale. The background color was a soft tan. But what I remember most about my mother’s dress was the pattern. The word “if” was stamped all over the fabric–just as it is printed here: both letters, lowercase and bold. The word was diagonally positioned no more than an inch or so apart. From afar, the ifs looked like little flags of color ranging from midnight black to deep brown to burnt red to marigold orange to olive green. Up close, though, it was an explosion of ifs.

I was fascinated by my mother’s dress. As a 10-year-old child who loved words, it was fun to gaze upon. I am still fascinated by my mother’s dress. As a 75-year-old man who loves words, it’s still fun to reflect upon.

I wonder now, more than I did then, why she picked a fabric with that pattern. What might the if’s have been that she dwelt upon?

If she had ifs in her mind–and she surely did–she never voiced them.

Some ifs, of course, are anchored to regrets. I’m thinking of all the if onlys that shadow our lives and tarnish our joys. Without doubt, my mother had regrets, but she would never have dignified them by letting them parade around publicly in brightly colored ifs on one of her dresses.

Other ifs are anchored to fears. I’m thinking of all the what ifs that keep us from moving forward because we don’t know what the consequences of our actions will be. Without doubt, my mother had her own share of fears, but by the age of 45, she realized that whatever was to come could no more overwhelm her than what she had overcome already.

Other ifs are programmed to a gazillion if-then thoughts, hard-wired to our daily lives. Without a doubt, my mother had those too, as she processed her own binary language code, whirring around cooking and cleaning, saving money to make ends meet, teaching her children strong religious values, and building healthy relationships with neighbors.

While all of those various if-scenarios no doubt played out their little dramas on the backstage of my mother’s mind, I imagine that she chose that particular pattern for other reasons as well.

I imagine that my mother’s dress was just a simple and playful testament to her own vivid imagination and creative spirit.

I imagine that my mother’s dress heralded, in an understated way, her unique sense of style and her boldness of expressing herself in unconventional, homespun ways.

I imagine that my mother’s dress reflected her engagement not only with the significant changes of the 1950s–a decade known for its affluence and alienation–but also with the major adjustments my family had to make in the new town where we had moved two years before she made her dress.

I imagine that my mother’s dress manifested her willingness to embrace uncertainty and to grapple with potential choices.

I imagine that my mother’s dress may have been inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s “If–“, the poem that I memorized in school that year and, with my mother’s encouragement, recited aloud at home over and over again.

But far greater than any of those imaginings is this one. I imagine that every time my mother put on her dress, imprinted with what seemed to me to be all the ifs in the world, she wore it with a palpable awareness that her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams would impact positively both her family and her world.

Reflections on Reinvention

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“No one can see their reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.”

—Taoist proverb

The extraordinary connection between self-reflection and performance is well-known and well-documented. For example, in their Harvard Business Review article “Don’t Underestimate the Power of Self-Reflection,” James R. Bailey and Scheherazade Rehman show that the “habit of reflection can separate extraordinary professionals from mediocre ones. We would go so far as to argue that it’s the foundation that all other soft skills grow from.”

Luckily for me, I’ve been doing self-reflection since early childhood. At dinner, as we all sat around the kitchen table, we had a regular ritual. Everyone reflected on their day. We turned our dinner-table sharings into dinner-table learning moments. Each of us reflected on–and talked about–what had happened during the day and what impact it had on us. 

My dad’s coal-mining reflections always impressed me the most. His pay was based on how many coal cars he loaded each day, shovel by shovel, working in seams of coal sometimes no higher than 40 inches. He and his fellow coal miners shoveled coal while lying on their backs or kneeling on their knees. Generally, my dad was pleased by what he accomplished–he actually enjoyed being a coal miner. But since his pay and his family’s livelihood depended on how many coal cars he loaded, he would strategize what he might do to load one more car the next day. It was a succession of what-ifs. The next day, he’d let us know whether his strategy had worked.

Looking back, I realize that day after day, my dad was measuring his performance against his plan. Looking back, I realize that we were all doing the same thing as we gathered around our kitchen table and shared thoughtful, deliberate, and sometimes courageous self-reflections.

● Self-reflection.

● Measuring performance against plan.

I have always done that, willingly and enthusiastically throughout my careers. During the years that I taught at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College; 1999-2022), I spent the better part of December standing still, reflecting on my year of teaching that had just ended. I turned my self-reflections into my annual self-evaluation, complete with supporting documentation. Generally, those self-evaluations were longer than 150 pages, covering accomplishments as well as areas that I wanted to work on and explore during the next year. They meant so much to me that I had them bound in leather. Most of the time, those self-evaluations weren’t required, and even when they were, the requirement was never as great as the distance that I went. It was my ongoing way of ensuring that I measured my performance against my plan.

In January of this year, I started reinventing myself. Now, with seven months behind me, I’m standing still long enough to reflect and to share my self-reflections with you.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS

1. Book Publications

I am really proud that I’ve had two books published since January. One was published in April: In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around.

The second, a scholarly work, was published in May: Green Mountain Stories. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Introduction and Critical Commentary by Brent L. Kendrick.

Obviously, I had been working on both books long before I started my reinvention. Books don’t spring into existence overnight. At the same time, seeing two books through the publication process brought me great joy.

On reflection, however, I wish that I had allowed more time between the two books. I had to do far more heavy lifting, getting them published than I ever expected. I don’t think that I will ever again have two books in the publication hopper at the same time.

2. Book Launches

Without a blush of shame, I did my own launch of In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around. I did it right here in my blog, in my May 8 post: Just Published. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around.

The next week, I cast shame aside once again and promoted my Green Mountain Stories: My Forthcoming Book Will Anchor Mary E. Wilkins Freeman to Vermont, Now and Forever.

Fortunately, Green Mountain Stories had two launches sponsored by other people. The first was by the book’s publisher, Onion River Press: Brent Kendrick. Book Launch Celebration. The second book launch took place in Brattleboro, Vermont, where Freeman began her acclaimed literary career: Green Mountain Stories. Live at the Library.

3. Library Presentation

On Sunday, July 9, I was the guest speaker at the New Market Area Library (New Market, VA). My topic? Reinvention and my own attempts to begin new “chapters” in my life. 

I targeted my presentation toward anyone considering a new beginning, aspiring writers, and lovers of short stories.

CHALLENGES

1. Giving Myself Permission to Chill.

I have an incredibly strong work ethic, which has always kept me hard at work doing something. It brings me great joy.

Even though I have set up my own work schedule, I have discovered that I have more time now to just chill. I’m not talking about meditation. I’ve done that forever. I’m talking about curling up with a book for the entire day. I did just that last week when I re-read (for the fifth time) George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo. It was a luxurious experience, but from time to time, I had to chase away the thought that I should be up and about doing something.

It will take me some time, but I’m working on chilling.

2. Reassessing My Structure.

This challenge is related closely to my first one. I’m a laid-back, go-with-the-flow guy. Right? Well, I am. However, I like my days to be structured. Actually, that’s an understatement. I like–and live–a regimented existence. I always have. If I shared my day-planner–(Don’t ask; I won’t share.) –you would discover that all the timeslots are full, from sunup to sundown.

These days, I’m discovering that I can accomplish everything that I want to accomplish in a day and still have some free time slots for me. Mine. All mine. This is a new sensation for me, and I like it. I had no idea before that 30 minutes here and there could expand into such vastly soft and silky luxuriousness.

ONGOING AND UPCOMING PROJECTS

1. Weekly Blog Posts.

I never dreamt how important my weekly blog posts would become to me. In the midst of whatever might be going on, writing my posts anchors me. They are essential components of who I am and of who I am yet to become.

2. Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.

My goodness. You know you’re in love when the love grows richer over time. My love affair with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman is now in its fifth decade.

My current project has as its foundation my The Infant Sphinx: The Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (Scarecrow, 1985), praised by The Journal of Modern Literature as “the most complete record to date of Freeman’s life as writer and woman.” 

Since that publication, more letters have surfaced. Rather than simply updating The Infant Sphinx, I am working on a two-volume book: Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Vol. 1: The New England Years (1852-1901). Vol II: The New Jersey Years (1902-1930).

This is a major scholarly work will take several more years. I am hopeful that Volume I will be published by the end of 2024 or the beginning of 2025.

3. Edinburg Ole Time Festival Authors Tent.

Look for me on September 16 and 17 in the lineup with other local authors. If you live in the area, please stop by not only to say “Hi” but also to support the festival.

4. The Humourist Essays.

This blog had its birth when I was a Chancellor’s Professor (2012-2014). My project focused on a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) places “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observes that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.

I completed all of those tasks. My plan is to start sending the completed manuscript to publishers by the end of September, with an eye toward publication in January/February2024.

ACCOUNTABILITY PARTNERS

I’m really glad that I’m continuing my decades-old practice of regularly reflecting on my performance. This time, though, is singularly different. I’m sharing my self-reflections with you. I like that. Actually, I like that a lot. By sharing my plans with you, I am, of course, holding myself accountable to readers from around the world. The ramifications are far-reaching. Equally important, by sharing my plans with you, you become my virtual accountability partners. You can count on me, and I know that I can count on you!

Telling Our Stories. Shaping Our Lives.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.  

–Emily Dickinson (1830-1886; one of the most important poets in American literature.)

Who doesn’t love a good story? We all do. And why wouldn’t we? We’ve spent our entire lives–including our fetal days–listening to others’ stories. Equally important, we’ve spent most of our entire lives telling stories. Humans are born storytellers.

We spend a large part of every day sharing with others the stories of our lives and taking the time to let others share with us the stories of their lives. I’m not talking about stories with profound, monumental meaning. I’m talking about the simple joy of sharing the narrative of what’s going on in our lives. I’m talking about the simple joy of hearing the narrative about what’s going on in other people’s lives.

With friends and colleagues, we’re sure to get a story going as soon as we start talking about trips, cooking, movies, music, what’s happening at work, pets, health, or social media.

With family, we’re sure to get a story going as soon as we start talking about childhood memories, family traditions, milestones, lessons learned from parents, family challenges, or heirlooms.

Obviously, story topics often overlap with family and friends, and, obviously, the topics are far more extensive than the few examples that I just gave.

Our stories–our personal narratives–are invaluable. They help us:

● connect, laugh, cry, and bond.

● gain a deeper understanding of others’ experiences and lives.

● discover who the other people in our lives are.

● discover who we are.

● define and shape our lives.

Luckily, most of us know how to tell our stories.

● Start with just enough information to establish a timeframe and to identify where things are taking place.

● Tell what happened to put things into motion.

● Explain subsequent events, making each one more intense than the one before, and hopefully moving them along at a clipped pace.

● Make the climax the most intense moment in the story.

● Wrap things up and share some insights into the “meaning” of the story that we just told.

We know a lot when it comes to telling our stories.

At the same time, we fall short in one way that has far-reaching ramifications. More often than not, we don’t spend enough time thinking about what to put in and what to leave out.

Think about it for a minute: What should we put in our stories, our personal narratives?

Think about it for a minute: What should we leave out of our stories, our personal narratives?

What we leave out matters, but ironically, it’s what we put in that matters far more.

What we put in creates the image of who we are. It creates the dominant impression that our listeners–friends, family, colleagues, and casual acquaintances–have about us.

The stories that we tell reflect who we are, shape who we are, and determine who we are yet to become.

What got me to thinking about the significance of our personal narratives was a casual statement that someone made to me a few weeks ago when we were talking about one of my culinary triumphs:

“Everything that you make in the kitchen is extraordinary,” she said.

“Hardly,” I replied. I have lots of failures.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I do. I just don’t talk about them. Remember: it’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way.“

It’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way. I always have. I always will.

My way of telling my story–going as far back as I can remember–is to make it glisten with smiling happiness, hard work, steadfast belief, stubborn success, and undying optimism.

That’s not to say that I haven’t known the opposites of those glistenings. Of course, I have. Often, I have known them in overflowing measure, unknown to others.

At the same time, I have never allowed negatives to be the measure of who I am. When I share my story–my personal narrative–I give the downsides of my life exactly what I think they deserve: either no mention at all or brief mention at best.

For years, I’ve shared in my story that as early as the third grade, I knew that I wanted to be an English professor.

I have no idea where I got that notion. We certainly didn’t have any professors in my coal camp, although we had exceptional educators who, in my mind, walked on water. Who knows. Maybe one of them challenged me to go further than they had gone? Maybe it was my mother, who also walked on water. Maybe she challenged me to go further than she had seen others go.

I don’t remember. But I do recall that from the third grade forward, becoming an English professor became the thrust of my story–my personal narrative–that I told myself and that I shared with others.

The story came true. I became an English professor.

These days, my story is taking a new twist. I’m reinventing myself. When I tell people what I’m doing, I often get raised eyebrows.

“You mean you’ve retired?”

“No. I mean that I’m reinventing myself.”

For me, as someone who treasures words and stories, there’s a world of difference between retiring and reinventing.

It’s my story, and I’ll tell it my way. If the word professor carried my personal narrative forward from the third grade up until now–and it did, with success beyond measure, I might add–then I believe with all my heart that the word reinventing will carry my personal narrative forward for the rest of my life.

And you? What about you?

It’s your story to tell. How will you tell it? What will you put in? What will you leave out? As you make your choices, remember: the way that you tell your story will shape your life now and forever.

Less Talk. More Action.

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“Actions speak louder than words; let your words teach and your actions speak.”

St. Anthony of Padua (1195-1231; Roman Catholic Priest and friar of the Franciscan order; one of the most quickly canonized saints in church history, having been canonized less than a year after his death.)

Without a doubt, you remember my dog, Ruby. Right? You know: the one who found her way to me so that she could see me through to “The Other Side”. (Hopefully, she won’t be in any hurry. I’m not.)

Anyway, a few weeks back, Ruby survived a horrendous Copperhead bite. For hours after I rushed her to the nearest Animal Emergency Hospital where she was admitted, I feared that I would be seeing her through to the other side. (I’m in no hurry for her journey, either.)

I’m not one to cast blame–and I certainly would not cast blame on Ruby, my Old Soul who can do no wrong–but I’ve gotten it into my head that she saw that Copperhead creepy-crawling along in our woodland yard, went up close to check it out, and ignored its tail slowly getting into a tighter position to leverage its head for a powerful and swift strike. How else could the Copperhead have managed to sink its venomous fangs right inside her mouth? It did. Mind you: I would never–absolutely never–tell Ruby that I think she provoked the snake. So, I beg you, too: please do not tell her. (But I think she did. Okay. Maybe she did. Perhaps.)

Whether yay or nay, you can rest assured that I told my neighbors so that they could protect themselves and their furry best friends.

Truly. That was my only reason for sharing the near tragic event. I didn’t want any sympathy or any attention.

Yet, at the same time, I confess that I would have appreciated a phone call or two just to check. Those calls would have meant as much to me as the regular calls from my sisters and the regular text messages that I got from other friends who live miles away. Letting people know that we care matters. Let’s face it: how long does it take to make a phone call or text a message?

Well, I’m not complaining. I have splendid neighbors, and we’ve known one another for years and years. The fact that they had not inquired about Ruby only crossed my mind once or twice, and whenever it did, I let the thought move on after a sarcastic monologue, “Thank you so much for asking. Ruby’s a fighter, and she’s recovering beautifully. I’m getting on good, too. I really appreciate your concern.”

But, like I said, I let those thoughts move right out of my head just as rapidly as they had moved in, and I paid them nary no mind whatsoever. I really didn’t, until the day when I was driving past one of my neighbors, and I stopped to chat.

“I was gonna call you to check on Ruby, but I never got around to it.”

Well, that got me thinking about all the things that we say we’re gonna do. I’ve been thinking about it since and that was several weeks ago.

Things we say we’re gonna do, but just don’t do.

Mind you: I’m not talking about things that we don’t have the courage to do, like becoming a firefighter or ceasing to worry about what other people think or say about us.

Or things that we don’t have the money to do, like hiring our personal chef (but you can ask me anyway) or boasting our own private jet.

Or things that we don’t know how to do and that we don’t want to learn how to do, like flying an airplane or creating video games.

I’m talking about all the things that we say we’re gonna do that take nothing more than time and commitment.

I’m talking about things we say we’re gonna do for ourselves, like really drinking eight glasses of water a day (instead of just talking about it) or really losing those last ten pounds (instead of just talking about it).

I’m talking about things we say we’re gonna do for the world around us, like volunteering at our local hospital (instead of just talking about volunteering) or donating to a charity (instead of just talking about donating).

I’m talking about things we say we’re gonna do for others, like telling someone how treasured they are (instead of just talking about telling them) or visiting a friend or loved one (instead of just talking about visiting).

I may be wrong, but I’ve been tossing around a list of statements starting with “I was gonna” and, without fail, each is followed with, “but I never got around to it.”

What a pity. More often than not, “I was gonna” could make our lives, our world, and the lives of others better and brighter if we focused less on talk and more on action.

An Unexpected Morning with Johnny Swing

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“During the interaction between the viewer and the work of art a sharing occurs, the senses are alerted, and a primal experience is generated by being on/in the work. A feeling of bliss, a surprise, a sense of oneness and belonging exists. After the initial shock of the experience comes the inevitable investigation on the part of the viewer, and what was once limited to the eyes is now open to the flesh.”

Johnny Swing (b. 1961, “Artist Statement.” one of the foremost exponents of the American Studio Furniture movement, specializing in “objects of refulgence with money”)

In keeping with the way most articles begin about Johnny Swing, I suppose that I should start this post by saying:

Yes. That’s his real name.

But this isn’t just any article about Johnny Swing. So I don’t need to start by declaring that it’s his real name. (Just for the record, it is.)

So I’ll move on to the backstory, which is where I planned to begin anyway. Backstories have a way of getting to the heart of the matter.

This backstory begins when I was planning my Vermont trip to launch my recently published edition of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s Green Mountain Stories.

For the Brattleboro part of my journey, I started looking for a VRBO home that was pet friendly. (I had intended to take my dog Ruby, but that part of my best-laid plan went astray, as you may recall from my post “A Road Trip Beyond Expectations.”)

I found a charming cottage situated on a farm, sixteen miles or so outside of Brattleboro. That was a little further away than I desired, but the cottage and the farm seemed so idyllic that I knew my stay there was written in the stars.

I reached out to the owners, and within 24 hours, we had sealed the deal. They emailed me precise directions, gave me their cell phone numbers, and ended with this charmer:

Our house … is the white house on your left. Turn in the first driveway and go between the house and garage up the little hill, and the guest house will be off to the left. We will leave the guest house open and the key hanging by the door.

I smiled a wider than usual smile, whispering to myself: we will leave the house open and the key hanging by the door.

Still smiling, I replied:

Thanks for reminding me why Vermont has such a special place in my heart.

As my trip drew closer, I decided to Google my own set of directions. When I added the address of the cottage where I would be staying, I was stunned by what popped up: Johnny Swing Welding.

OMG. I was beside myself. Can this be THE Johnny Swing–“one of the most celebrated exponents of the American Studio Furniture Movement?”

I had heard of THIS Johnny Swing, and I had actually seen some of his work in Sotheby’s catalogues. The artist who earned his Fine Arts degree from Skidmore College and later obtained his Class 1 Structural Steel Welding License. The artist whose coin-based furniture contours to the natural curves of the human body, and comfortably so, I might add. The artist whose sofa “All the King’s Men” (welded of JFK half dollars) fetched $155,000 at Christie’s.

A little research confirmed that THIS Johnny Swing and the Johnny Swing in whose cottage I would be staying were one and the same.

I was ecstatic. Actually, I was smitten. I immediately fired off a short one-sentence email:

I love your sculpture.

Sara, his wife, replied:

I’ll tell Johnny. He will be happy to give you a tour of his shop if you would like.

“I would be thrilled,” I replied.

How’s them apples? The world-acclaimed Johnny Swing has a shop. Lesser artists have studios. But then, Johnny Swing doesn’t need to be pretentious. And he isn’t.

The day before I arrived, Sara emailed me again:

In case you are a poker player, we are having a big poker party tomorrow night about 6 or so. At least stop by for burgers. (Beef and vegetarian.) It’s Johnny’s birthday this weekend.

When I arrived, I met Sara, as she unloaded groceries from her car. We had a great chat about a food co-op that I had just visited in a neighboring town. I felt as if I had known Sara for a long, long time, so much so that I knew she would understand that I was road weary and simply had to beg off both Friday night invitations.

I drove on up the stone’s-throw distance to the guest house, and, indeed, it was as they said it would be. The door was unlocked, and the key was hanging by the door. As I found out later, the guest house was Johnny Swings’s grandmother’s artist studio, originally situated adjacent to the main house. With Swing ingenuity, Johnny took cranes, moved it uphill closer to the pasture, retained the original studio with its exposed wooden beams, added several more rooms, and created a welcoming and refreshing guest house. The deck–on two sides, both facing pastureland–is shaped like the bow of a ship, supported by massive steel girders, nowhere to be seen from the top.

Inside the cottage, I felt right at home. Everything–well, nearly everything–looked just like the website photos. However, when I walked into my bedroom, I saw two chairs that weren’t included in the website photos. I knew immediately that Johnny Swing had made those chairs. Secured to a splayed-leg steel frame, the continuous chair seat and back looked like identically sized glass cylinders arranged with mathematical precision. Unlike most of Swing’s other pieces, these are not made of coins. Each chair is made of baby-food jars, 96 to be precise. I know. I counted. Each row is 6 baby-food jars wide, and there are 16 rows, running from the front lip of the seat to the uppermost part of the back. The bottoms of the jars face outward. The lids secure each jar to short stainless-steel rods anchored to the chair’s stainless-steel frame.

I was mesmerized, first, by the light streaming in the windows, shimmering around inside each jar, and beaming off in all directions onto the polished but bare hardwood floor. It was a chair, but it was more than a chair. It was a magical kaleidoscope teasing me to sit on its ever-changing brilliance.

I felt compelled to touch the chair. When I did, I was mesmerized again. How could glass jars–bottoms up, all lined up in rows with gaps between each jar–feel so solid, so smooth, and so soft all at the same time?

By then, the chair (whose seductive sensuality I had been enjoying) invited me to sit. I did. At that moment, I was mesmerized for a third time. The chair was remarkably–no, amazingly–comfortable. It fit the contours of my buttocks and the curves of my back, as if it had been made just for me. As I sat, I continued watching as each of the jars surrounding me captured the sunlight momentarily and then tossed the rays onto the hardwood floor to be absorbed into the fleeting foreverness of now. I sat and sat and sat for a long, long, long while before allowing myself to be mesmerized all over again by becoming one with the second chair.

Before I knew it, the sun was going down. I retreated to the bed, not to sleep but rather to lie there, looking to see what I could see. Looking directly ahead and through the window flanked by the two chairs, I could see sheep and several cows grazing in the pasture. To the right, a small barn, its once bright redness weathered to soft burgundy. Further up the hill and on the pasture’s edge, the sugar shack. (Yes: Johnny Swing makes his own maple syrup under the label Spring Farm.)

Below the window was a Swing table, supported by a stainless-steel frame–rather industrial looking–with a magnificent top, about 3 inches thick, made of multiple layers of glass. One of the interior layers was cracked. Swing incorporated it into the table anyway as his way of creating art from what he finds and as a reminder of the beauty to be found in our brokenness.

Looking overhead, I was spellbound by the light fixture suspended by a copper rod: two shades of hammered copper–reminding me of sombrero rims–each with a lighted jar attached at a whimsical, non-vertical, cock-eyed angle.

Saturday and Sunday found me busy with my research. In the back of my mind both days, of course, was the lingering hope of meeting Johnny Swing in person and having a tour of his shop.

When I looked out my window Monday morning, I saw Sara and Johnny ambling to the pasture to feed the cows and sheep. I knew that this was my moment. As they made their way out of the pasture, I made my way out of the house, walking briskly toward them. I introduced myself to Johnny, and we shook hands.

Do you have time to see my shop today?

Absolutely.

Let me have a little breakfast, and we’ll head off.

Not long afterward, we were on our way. Johnny was impressed by my Jeep Gladiator and suggested that we drive up a weathered, washed-out, one-lane road to the top of the mountain so that he could show me the camp that he and his father had built there years ago.

The drive up was slow and easy, as was our conversation touching on everything from our upbringing, our college days, our loves and our losses, and the power of new beginnings.

When we reached the top, I was speechless. The stunning home that I saw–though needing some tender loving care–could never be called a camp. But then again, I guess that it can be called a camp just as readily as Johnny can call his studio a shop.

Johnny eased himself into a deck chair–one of a pair made by one of his college friends–while I photographed him and the house and the majestic views of the mountains that the house and Johnny and I faced.

We stayed and continued chatting and then made the slow descent down the mountain, past Johnny’s home and my cottage.

The shop was only a mile or so away, and I had passed it daily without realizing what I was passing.

We entered. As Johnny turned on the lights, he came alive. His shop, his theater in the round. I, his solitary morning audience. His face, always pleasant and relaxed, beamed an inner joy that made him glow as he showed me around, lifting many of the coin sculptures to point out the precise artistry of the underlying structures and to show me some of the Styrofoam molds that serve as initial building blocks for his larger metallic pieces.

I was joyed beyond joy to see Kora-lle which I had seen in a catalog somewhere or other. Johnny could not help himself: the expansive “tongue “chair licked him in, and he leaned back in a moment of bliss that is as fresh in my mind as if I had just witnessed his lounging there.

If I was smitten by Johnny Swing’s art before fate destined me to be a guest in his cottage–and I was–I was even more smitten now that I had seen him in action in his shop.

After his up-close-and-personal tour, we headed back: Johnny, to his home; I, to my cottage. Before my thank yous and our goodbyes, I gave Johnny signed copies of my Green Mountain Stories and In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around.

I looked at my watch. It was noon. Can you imagine? Johnny Swing had gifted me the entire morning of his 62nd birthday.

Reinventing Yourself: Writing Your Next Chapter

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This coming Sunday, July 9, I will be speaking at the New Market Area Library (New Market, VA) at 2PM. My topic? Reinvention and my own attempts to begin new “chapters” in my life. 

If you’re considering your own new beginnings, if you are an aspiring writer, if you are a lover of short stories, or if you are just looking to be inspired, this is the perfect Sunday afternoon program for you, especially if you live in the area.

For more information, click here. This program is free, and no registration is required.

Celebrating Our Independence

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“Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno/ howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.”

Richard Blanco (b. 1968; fifth American poet to read at a United States presidential inauguration. “… the first immigrant, the first Latino, the first openly gay person, and at the time [2013], the youngest person to be the U.S. inaugural poet.”

As we celebrate our Nation’s independence, let us also wrap our arms around and celebrate–today more than ever before–the inclusive oneness of the American spirit, which is at the heart of who we are.

Perhaps no poem captures the spirit of our oneness better than Richard Blanco’s “One Today,” written for Barack Obama’s Second Presidential Inauguration, January 21, 2013.

One Today

By Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno/ howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together


Copyright © 2013 by Richard Blanco. 

A Road Trip Beyond Expectations

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But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
          Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
          For promis’d joy!

Robert Burns (1759-1796; considered to be the National Poet of Scotland; from his “To a Mouse”)

Without a doubt, you’re familiar with the poetic lines, “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go astray,” even if you don’t know that Robert Burns penned them.

The lines express a universal truth. Yet, many people have trouble accepting it. Or, maybe, they simply have trouble admitting it when their meticulous plans go awry, sometimes dreadfully so.

Down through the years, it’s happened to me so often that I can accept the poem’s truth readily. More important, I don’t mind admitting it when my best-laid plans flop.

My recent trip to Vermont is a perfect example. I planned it way back in March, just as soon as I knew that my edition of Green Mountain Stories would be launched in Burlington on May 25 and again in Brattleboro on May 30.

I decided that it could also be a much-needed vay-kay for me and my dog Ruby.

But let me ask you this. Have you ever gone on a 10-day road trip with your furry, four-legged best friend, alone with no other person traveling with you?

If so, you know already what I had to learn the hard way: it’s not really your road trip. It’s your dog’s. As I made my careful plans, it became obvious to me that everything was being built around Ruby’s needs:

● How far could she ride in a day?

● Would the hotel mid-way up and mid-way back accept a dog?

● Would the VRBO home rental in Burlington accept a dog? What about a yard so that Ruby could play?

● Would the VRBO home rental in Brattleboro accept a dog? What about a yard so that Ruby could play?

Those were my big concerns. I won’t bother you with the small ones because just a few days before my trip, my best-laid plans fell apart.

It became clear to me, to Ruby, and to our veterinarian that she would be happier staying at a pet spa rather than staying stressed out for such a long trip.

By then, it was too late to change any of my lodging arrangements. The cancellation windows had closed.

● Yeah. It would have been great to stay in swanky downtown hotels and walk to restaurants and nightspots.

● Yeah. It would have been great to fly to Vermont. Or, maybe, drive to DC’s Union Station and journey by Amtrak.

But those options were never part of my Rubyesque best-laid plans. Now it was too late. Fine. I knew that the book launches would go well. As for the rest of the road trip without Ruby, I was determined to make the most of the situation.

At that point, I had no great expectations. None. But that was okay, too. Sometimes life gets better when we expect less. And so it came to be on this trip. My serendipitous encounters took me far greater distances than the distance I would travel. Let me share a few with you.

By the time that I reached Hazelton, PA–three hours or so from my home in Edinburg, VA, driving North on I-81–it was as if I had stepped back into early Spring. The forest canopy was see-through thin, and the leaves were so small, so new, so filled with promise that I immediately started reciting to myself, aloud, for no one else was around to hear, Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay”:

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief.
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I love that poem on so many levels, not the least of which is knowing how much effort Frost put into revising it. It didn’t spring into existence as the exquisite 8-line octave that we know. The revision history of the poem–even my sketchy recollection of it–fascinates me because Frost maintained that he did not revise his poems a lot. Here’s how he put it:

A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and having carried the poet with it (“The Figure a Poem Makes,” Collected Poems, 1939).

Frost might disagree, but it seems to me that he worried “Nothing Gold Can Stay” into existence. Let me explain. It started out as three octaves, for a total of 24 lines. More important, the original title was “Nothing Golden Stays.” Well, hello. Duh! Of course, nothing golden stays. Golden is a characteristic. It’s not the real thing.

But after four or five needed revisions, Frost distilled 24 poetic lines into the 8 that we enjoy today, and he changed golden to gold, knowing fully well that if nothing gold can stay we had all damned well better sit up and take notice, especially considering that even Eden sank to grief.

I could go on and on about this poem, but if I do, I’ll not be able to share other parts of my road trip that exceeded expectations. I had better put the pedal to the metal.

Wow! Two asphalt-hours are in my rear-view mirror, I didn’t get a speeding ticket, and I’ve reached my trip’s mid-way destination, headed north: a hotel in Johnson City, NY.

Approaching the city, I was thrilled beyond expectations to see a sign: HOME OF DAVID SEDARIS. Sedaris is one of my favorite writers, yet I had no idea that he was from Johnson City. Imagine that! And here I was sleeping … right in his … home … town. That’s almost downright sultry.

I’ve known Sedaris–not personally but rather as a humorist, comedian, and author–for decades, going all the way back to 1992 when National Public Radio broadcast his essay “Santaland Diaries.” I have always appreciated and enjoyed his self-deprecating humor, his candor about growing up gay in middle-class America in the late Sixties and the early Seventies, and his open-and-oft-written-about commitment to his long-time partner Hugh Hamrick. Hamrick has a few things to say about their relationship, too: “Hugh Hamrick—David Sedaris’ Boyfriend—Finally Tells His Side of Their Story.”

After I got settled in my Johnson City hotel room, I decided that I’d spend the evening in bed with Sedaris. (Re-reading some of his essays on my all-time favorites list.)

It was a “wild night, wild night.“ (Of reading.) I awakened the next morning refreshed and ready to continue my journey.

Not long after leaving Johnson City, I saw signs announcing that I was in New York State’s Southern Tier. I’m not sure why, but I always chuckle when I see those Southern Tier signs. But my laughter subsided as I started seeing birch trees everywhere, as far as I could see. And I immediately thought of Robert Frost’s poem, “Birches,” but since I have written extensively about that poem already in my “A Swinger of Birches,” I will say no more about the poem here except to quote its opening lines:

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

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

An hour or so later, I started seeing signs for Cooperstown, NY. It goes without saying that I fully expected to see a sign: HOME OF JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. I had every right to have that expectation since the town was named after the Cooper family, since Cooper was America’s first novelist to earn his living as a writer, and since Cooperstown and the surrounding frontier served as the backdrop for The Pioneers, the first of five novels in his Leatherstocking Tales.

I did not see the sign that I had expected. Instead, I saw signs announcing Cooperstown as Home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. It’s too bad that Cooper’s hometown doesn’t consider him to be a Major League player.

An hour or so later, I approached Saratoga Springs, NY. I was ecstatic. Saratoga Springs. The setting for most of the action in Sherwood Anderson’s famous rite-of-passage short story “I Want to Know Why.”

But about Saratoga. We was there six days and not a soul from home seen us and everything came off just as we wanted it to, fine weather and horses and races and all. We beat our way home and Bildad gave us a basket with fried chicken and bread and other eatables in, and I had eighteen dollars when we got back to Beckersville. Mother jawed and cried but Pop didn’t say much. I told everything we done except one thing. I did and saw that alone. That’s what I’m writing about. It got me upset. I think about it at night. Here it is.

How’s that. The unnamed fifteen-year-old narrator goes back home and tells his parents everything that happened in Saratoga except for the one thing that he “did and saw alone.”

What he doesn’t tell his parents is the passion and love that he feels for Jerry Tilford, a horse trainer. What he doesn’t tell his parents is what he saw Tilford doing in a farmhouse with a “bad woman.” What he doesn’t tell his parents is how he felt about Tilford when he saw what he saw:

Then, all of a sudden, I began to hate that man. I wanted to scream and rush into the room and kill him. I never had such a feeling before. I was mad clean through and I cried and my fists were doubled up so my finger nails cut my hands.

The story ends the next spring with the narrator, nearly sixteen, still wanting to know why Jerry Tilford did what he did. I suspect that the narrator spent his entire life being upset by his feelings and by Jerry’s actions. I suspect that the narrator spent his entire life wondering why things didn’t work out as he hoped they would work out.

It’s one of the most haunting stories about coming-of-age, sexual desire, and rejection that you can ever hope to read. Anderson deals with the topic far more overtly in his story “The Man Who Became a Woman.” After you read that story, you simply must read Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio (1919). It’s an overlooked classic in American literature.

Two hours or so later, I reached my first book-launch destination: Burlington, VT. I am embarrassed to say that even though I love Ben & Jerry’s Ice-Cream, I had no idea that Burlington has been its home since 1978 when they started dishing it out. Today, it’s still their home, with 282 million pints of deliciousness churned annually.

After Burlington, I headed south to Brattleboro for a second launch of Green Mountain Stories. Obviously, I need not remind you that Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–the author of Green Mountain Stories–launched her career in Brattleboro.

What else can I share about Brattleboro that might exceed your expectations?

Royall Tyler, America’s first playwright whose The Contrast (1787) still enjoys theatrical productions, moved to Brattleboro in 1801 and is buried there in Prospect Hill Cemetery.

Then, of course, we have Rudyard Kipling, English novelist, short-story writer, poet, and journalist, known for being the first English-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature (1907). What most folks don’t know is that he married Caroline Balestier of Brattleboro in 1892, moved there–initially living in Bliss Cottage where he wrote The Jungle Book (1894)–and then built Naulakha, which is on the Landmark Trust USA. What even fewer people know is that Freeman met Kipling in the Spring of 1892, on one of her return visits to Brattleboro. Later, she wrote to a friend:

The spell of Ruddy’s eyes have faded away, but my heart still clings to the coupe driver. (Letter 111 to Evelyn Sawyer Severance, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. with Biographical/Critical Introductions by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

And what almost no one knows is that Saul Bellow–acclaimed Canadian-American Nobel Laureate in Literature and author of such noteworthy novels as Dangling Man (1944), The Adventures of Augie March (1953), Seize the Day (1956), and Henderson the Rain King (1959)–lived in Brattleboro for the last 26 years of his life and is buried there in the Shir He Harim Jewish Cemetery section of Morningside Cemetery.

The morning after my Brattleboro book launch, I started the long drive back home. I intended it to be a straight shot on interstates. Somehow–accidentally, I should add–my Gladiator’s Navigation System was programmed to AVOID HIGHWAYS. And I was programmed to DON’T THINK. I just kept right on going down one country back road after another, paying them nary no mind whatsoever. After all, I was getting an up-close-and-personal view of Vermont’s Green Mountains.

The next thing I knew, I was approaching Ulster, NY, with signs announcing HEADLESS HORSEMAN HAYRIDES AND HAUNTED HOUSES. Oh. My. God. How the hell did I end up in the Lower Catskills where folks still scare themselves with Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” (1820).

Suffice it to say, I had given myself my own fright. Immediately, I adjusted my Navigation System, got back on my intended route, settled in to Cruise Control, and clicked my boots together three times, saying “There’s no place like home.”

Before I knew it, I had picked up Ruby from the pet spa. As I drove back up my mountain road, I shared with her brief highlights of my road trip beyond expectations. But as soon as I saw our house, I stopped my storytelling and shouted:

“But anyway, Ruby, we’re home–home.”