Tag Archives: Allen Duff

Potluck: The Final Course

Posted on by
4

“To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”

— Mary Oliver (1935–2019). Pulitzer Prize–winning poet known for her luminous reflections on nature, love, and loss. With clarity and grace, she reminded us to notice what’s beautiful, to cherish what’s mortal, and to let go when the time comes.

It arrived in a box the size of a dorm fridge—bulky, over-taped, and shipped all the way from upstate New York. Inside, cushioned among layers of newspaper and that crinkly brown packing paper that never quite dies, was one of the first gifts Allen–my late partner–ever gave me: a hefty, cream-colored chamber pot. Topped with a crocheted collar that looked like it belonged on a Shaker bonnet, and packed—ironically, perhaps even poetically—with potpourri.

The scent, when I opened the lid, was a clash of lavender and artificial pine, the kind that tries too hard to smell like memory. I laughed, of course. How could I not? A poo jar filled with petals. Humor as a cover. Humor as a calling card. I appreciated the gesture more than the object. Still do. But the truth is, I never liked the pot. Not even a little. It sat in a corner for a quarter century, quietly collecting cobwebs—and stories I never much wanted to dust off.

And now? I’m finally throwing it away. Guilt-free. It did its duty—delivered its laugh, carried its little memory, sparked a story. That’s enough. I’m keeping the crocheted collar as a relic, a threadbare nod to the better parts of our history. The rest can go.

When I made that decision, I actually chuckled. After all, while I like to think that I’ll be around forever, realistically I’m nearing 78. Why not get rid of the stuff now, while I can decide?

I’m not thinking about dying, but this sort of cleanse exists in lots of cultures.

In Sweden, it’s called döstädning—“death cleaning”—a gentle, forward-thinking ritual of clearing out what no longer serves, so your loved ones don’t have to.

In Japan, danshari encourages letting go of clutter—and the emotional baggage that clings to it—in pursuit of a simpler, freer life.

In the Jewish tradition, it’s the ethical will, where elders pass down their values and stories—sometimes alongside their belongings—so nothing meaningful is left unsaid.

Indigenous communities often give things away before the end, weaving stories into every shared object, turning parting into a generous act of connection.

In Tibetan Buddhism, simplicity before death is a form of spiritual preparation—phowa as a practice of unclinging, both to life and the sock drawer.

Even in Iceland, there’s an unspoken elegance to giving things with meaning—fewer objects, deeper stories.

And down here in the South? We just start handing out heirlooms with a twinkle in our eye:

“You’ve always liked this gravy boat, haven’t you?”

Trust me. I’m trying that. But guess what? I can’t give it away, try as I will—not even to dear friends and kinsmen.

Who knows. Maybe they’re Zoomers or Millennials who don’t want to clutter their lives like I’ve cluttered mine.

Turns out, a lot of folks under forty don’t want stuff at all. They want experiences—trips, concerts, quiet hikes, a really good latte in a beautiful cup that isn’t part of a 16-piece set. They lean minimalist and value sustainability. Their souvenirs are screenshots, playlists, and the occasional tattoo. Unless my keepsake comes with a story or a strong aesthetic, it’s probably headed for the thrift shop.

A lot of it has found its way there already. More will follow. The initial shock of letting go isn’t as painful as I expected, and I’m discovering that the pain lessens the more I give to Goodwill. I keep reminding myself that the stuff I’m giving away brought me joy for years and years. Now, it can bring others joy at a far lesser price than I paid.

Aside from recycling joy, I have other reasons for embracing what I think I’ll call giving away the Southern-Comfort way.

For starters, the executors of my trust will thank me in advance for doing now what I had no right to ever expect them to do later. Chances are that you’ll need to give that sentence another read or three. Once you do, move on to the next paragraph, where you’ll find a fact that will brighten up your next cocktail party.

Did you know that the average executor spends 100 to 200 hours just sorting through someone’s personal papers and possessions after they die? I’m not talking taxes or legal work—just the business of sifting through the drawers, the boxes, the files, the “I might need this someday” pile in the hall closet. If the estate is disorganized—or, let’s be honest, lovingly chaotic like mine—it can balloon to 300 hours or more. That’s weeks of someone’s life spent decoding your filing system, hunting down life insurance policies, wondering if a particular shoebox full of rubber bands means anything to anyone. And that’s assuming they live nearby. If they don’t? Add plane tickets, time off work, and emotional exhaustion to the tab.

Well. My executors know what I’m doing, and they’re messaging me their effusive thanks already, along with full encouragement to keep right on gifting in my Southern-Comfort way.

It gives me great pleasure, of course, to extend to them a cheerful “You’re welcome” now because by the time they’re empowered, my power will be limited to what I’ve written. The more I think about it, maybe that’s powerful enough.

But I have another reason, too. Doing what I’m doing lets me be in control. I can make sure that my “gravy boats” are repurposed in a way that lets the gravy keep right on flowing the way that I have in mind.

It makes perfectly good sense to me. Let me pause here to say one more thing. Aside from my Southern-Comfort way of gifting, I had the good sense ages ago to get other parts of my house in order: my will and trust.

And here’s another tidbit you can toss around with the olives and maraschino cherries at your next party.

Did you know that nearly 2 out of 3 Americans die without a will? That’s right—despite all the ads for online services and fill-in-the-blank templates, most folks still manage to ghost the Grim Reaper without so much as scribbling a “To whom it may concern.” And when that happens? The Judge Judy drama begins. We’re talking frozen accounts, snarled inheritances, court-appointed strangers making decisions, and families brawling over Grandma’s gravy boat like it’s the last crouton at Sunday brunch. Honestly, dying without a will is the messiest group project you’ll never get any extra credit for.

Guess what? That 2 out of 3 number I gave you includes the rich and famous, too. When I share some of the details with you, you’ll see for yourself that nothing says “let go of your crap now” like the chaos of dying with no will.

But I’m only going to clue you in on a few. After all, you don’t want to be the center of attention at every cocktail party you won’t get invited to if you keep on talking about things everyone needs to do as part of their own death cleanse ritual. Besides, I only had a little time between Goodwill trips to do my research on famous folks without wills.

But here’s three or five you can work to death.

Can you believe that Honest Abe Lincoln himself never got around to writing a will? Try smoking that in your pipe! The man who preserved the Union didn’t preserve a single line of legal instruction. His estate had to be handled by a probate court, and his son Robert had to manage the distribution. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was embarrassingly ironic.

Or what about the Queen of Soul herself? Aretha Franklin. Well. Yes and no. Initially, she was thought to have no will—until not one but three handwritten wills were found in random places, including under a couch cushion. Say whaaat? Yep. Wedged in a spot where even a remote shouldn’t go. Her family ended up in a nasty legal fight to determine which scribbled version was valid. Talk about a long-winded story. Not here. Not now. Maybe another time.

And while we’re up in the clouds hitting these high notes, let’s not leave out Prince who–you guessed it–had no will. Nope. Zero. Nothing. But he had lots of estate, estimated at over $150 million. It triggered years of court battles among six siblings (some full, some half), and other people claiming to be heirs. His music rights and assets were tied up in legal red tape for six years.

Then, of course, we have the eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes who died with no will that anyone could prove—was real. But then again, was Hughes real? He must have been because what happened after his death was like a three-ring circus. Over 600 people filed claims as heirs, including strangers and distant cousins. One “will” was found in a Mormon church—allegedly leaving money to gas station attendants. Fake? Indeed!

Let me share one more example so that you’ll have five in your repertoire.

It’s my very own Dolly—Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, the writer I’ve studied and loved for decades. How on earth could the writer who was, in terms of dollars and cents, America’s most successful nineteenth-century businesswoman not have had the good sense to have her will in place when she died. It’s strange. She had told many people that she had left them money in it, and she referred to a will as late as August 10, 1929, in a letter to Grace Davis Vanamee (American Academy of Arts and Letters):

“I am returning the letters. It will give me much pleasure to have them placed in the museum.

“They naturally would not mean much to my legal heirs, and The Academy honors me by accepting them. I wish there were more.

“Anything else I have of more intrinsic value, is included in my will, for the Academy museum.” (Letter 506. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions by Brent L. Kendrick, 1985).

Yet when she died in 1930, no will was brought forward. According to one source, she tore it up the day before. At any rate, her two first cousins renounced their rights of administration and requested that Freeman’s attorney handle her estate. He did.

What gets me is this. Freeman wasn’t careless. She was thoughtful and deliberate. Still, her wishes went unrecorded, or at least unhonored. It stays with me, that quiet unraveling of a life so carefully lived.

Maybe that’s part of why I’ve started sorting now—because legacy deserves more than good intentions. I’m not just making lists. I’m making sure the meaning behind the things—and the things themselves—end up where I intend.

Freeman’s didn’t land with intent. Others were writing her final chapter, filled with unexpected characters. The next of kin list grew. Three other first cousins came forward, plus four more relatives with legal rights.

Suddenly, what might’ve been simple became crowded—with claims, questions, and confusion.

Freeman’s personal property was auctioned, with people flocking to the sale and leaving with prized treasures:

● four-poster bed belonging to her grandmother;

● all the books that she had penned and then inscribed, “To My Dear Husband”; and even

● the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction, awarded to her as its first recipient in 1925.

You may be wondering as I have often wondered. What happened to those and other treasures from her estate? Did they survive? Who has them today?

And into that mix of wonderings let me add that I would perhaps gladly sigh my last breath to touch the volume of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry that she held when she lay down on her bed on the evening of March 13 and died at 7:45pm of a heart attack.

What happened to it? Did it survive? Who owns it now?

So there. Now you have it. Five cocktail snippets. Rich and famous folks who bit the dust without a will and left a dusty trail behind.

As for me, I have my will in place. And just as I’m doing my best to give stuff away in my Southern-Comfort way, I’m doing the same with special collections I’ve spent decades curating—Shenandoah Valley pottery, Freeman books, and Freeman letters. My executors know where they belong, but I’m finding unexpected joy in trying to place things myself. Knowing they’re landing where they’re wanted? That will bring a kind of peace no estate plan ever could. Sweeter still, I’ll know they’ll be where I want them to be—and when it’s all said and done, I won’t be lying there wondering.

With any luck, my last course for this potluck called life might be an extra helping of joy for the journey.

“Warn’t No Accident”

Posted on by
6

“When you come to the edge of all that you know, you must believe in one of two things: there will be ground to stand on, or you will be given wings to fly.”

–Patrick Overton (b. 1948; American poet, author, and educator whose work explores faith, creativity, and the resilience of the human spirit.)

It wasn’t by chance that I found myself in a booth at a local diner one morning, sipping a modestly strong cup of coffee. A group of farmers crowded the table next to me, boots dusty from the fields, their voices low but carrying the kind of weight that makes you lean in without meaning to.

One of them, a man whose face looked like it had been sculpted by weather and years, paused, letting the heft of his story fill the air.

“Biggest snappin’ turdle I ever seed,” he declared, his voice carrying the awe of the moment.

“She was stuck in a pond, thick and still with mud, scorchin’ sun beatin’ down. Musta come up from the Shenandoaher to lay her eggs, but thar she was. Stuck. No way out.”

He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory had hold of him.

“Took me a 2×4, went in slow, pried her loose, gentle as I could. Watched her crawl off on her way back home.”

Then, with a solemnity that could rival any preacher’s, he took off his cap, held it tight, and looked at the others. His voice rose just enough to mark the words:

“It warn’t no accident I was thar when I wuz. Nope. Warn’t no accident.”

And in that moment, you’d have sworn the diner itself leaned in to listen.

I’d been leaning in all along, drawn by his words. How well I could relate. I started thinking about various times in my life when something seemed to magically reach out, take hold of me, and point me in the direction of home.

My mind slid back to 1965 when I was a senior in high school, beginning my college search. I applied to the University of Richmond and Marshall University, my first choices, but then Tom Bee from Alderson-Broaddus College (A-B) visited my school, and everything changed. He encouraged me to apply, I did, and the college offered me a scholarship package too attractive to resist, though I tried my best to do so. As if to convince myself that I would not pursue my education at my third choice, I decided to prove the point to myself by making a college visit.

I will always remember that summer day when we drove on campus. I’d arrived determined that A-B wasn’t the place for me. But then I saw it—Old Main, its stately presence rising over the hilltop plateau.

I stood there, framed by two Civil War-era cannons, gazing down at the winding Tygart River, its covered bridge linking the campus to the little town of Philippi. The scene was simple but breathtaking, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Beneath the expansive sky, surrounded by the campus’s serene beauty, a profound peace washed over me. In that timeless moment, as the sun cast a warm glow on the college, something deep within whispered: home.

It warn’t no accident.

That same sense of being guided resurfaced when my career path took an unexpected turn, thanks to a serendipitous nudge from someone who believed in me.

During my final summer as an A-B undergraduate, I interned in Washington, DC, at the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s Division of Two-Year Colleges. My supervisor, Dr. Roger Norden, was so impressed with my conscientious and dedicated work ethic that he initiated paperwork to appoint me to a full-time position. I extended my apartment lease, bought some new clothes, and basked in how well my education was paying off. A few days before my appointment was to become official, Dr. Norden called me into his office to share the sad news that I would not be appointed to the position after all because a hiring freeze was in effect.

His news hit me hard—I’d planned my future around that job. But seeing my disappointment, Dr. Norden offered a lifeline:

“Take your résumé up to the Library of Congress. It might be just the place for you. It’s a Legislative Branch agency, not impacted by the hiring freeze. With your degree in English, it might be the perfect place for you to work as an editor.”

That nudge led to a 25-year career at the Library of Congress, where I served in roles as an editor, training coordinator, and advisor to two Librarians of Congress. Each position deepened my connection to the Library’s mission and allowed me to contribute in ways I never imagined.

Looking back, I realize that moment in Dr. Norden’s office wasn’t just serendipity—it was part of a larger pattern of guidance, shaping the path I was meant to walk.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, each step seemed to prepare me for the next, even when I didn’t realize it at the time. When I turned fifty, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress and relocated to my weekend home in the Shenandoah Valley. One dream, though, had lingered since childhood—the dream of becoming a college professor. That dream began to take shape one day as I was driving back from a consulting gig in DC.

I saw a sign that I had no doubt seen many times before, but this time, as the “Lord Fairfax Community College” exit drew near, I decided to stop and see whether I could talk with the head of the English Department about a teaching position.

To my surprise, the Dean of Humanities, Dr. Sissy Crowther, was free to meet with me. Impressed by my Ph.D. in American Literature and my editorial experience at the Library of Congress, she offered me the opportunity to teach Technical Writing and American Literature.

That meeting opened the door to a series of opportunities I could never have imagined. I became a full professor, fulfilling my childhood dream, and was challenged to teach in ways I never thought possible—dynamic Friday and Saturday classes, Virtual Learning, and even free Open Educational Resources I designed and curated myself. I co-advised an honor society, co-authored the college’s accreditation report, and worked alongside brilliant colleagues from throughout the commonwealth to redesign developmental English education across the Virginia Community College System.

Each of these opportunities built on the last, guided by mentors and colleagues who believed in me.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, I see how every step led me exactly where I was meant to be, and not just in my career. Sometimes life’s most unexpected gifts come when we least expect them.

I certainly never expected this gift. I was traveling and decided to stop for a bite at the only restaurant in town. Suddenly, across the parking lot, my eyes met his. In that moment, time stood still. There was a spark, an inexplicable connection that swept me off my feet and left me breathless.

That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met at Applebee’s. Our eyes locked, and in that instant, the world around us faded. There were no words, no explanations needed—just a clarity that this was it. Allen and I knew, without question, that our lives were meant to be shared.

Our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection, the kind that transcends logic and reason. Some might call it serendipity, others destiny, but I know this much:

It warn’t no accident.

The love Allen and I shared was a guiding light in my life, an anchor that grounded me and a compass that pointed me toward home. Even now, I can look back and see how every twist and turn in my journey brought me closer to him.

That sense of guidance has stayed with me, extending beyond love and career, to moments of quiet reflection in the natural world.

My mind is drifting back to one of my hiking adventures right here in Shenandoah County. As an experienced hiker, I knew all about the thoughtful process of placing trail markers to guide hikers without detracting from the natural beauty of the wilderness. Trail blazes are there to ensure hikers stay on course, marking key points such as the beginning and end of a trail, turns, and intersections along the way.

I had decided to hike Big Schloss, a popular trail in George Washington National Forest, where orange blazes guide hikers along the Mill Mountain Trail from the Wolf Gap Campground to stunning views at the summit. The trail begins steep, then narrows along the ridge, leading to a wooden walkway and the iconic rock outcrop—a perfect spot to pause and reflect.

As I hiked, I realized that I hadn’t been paying attention to the blazes, completely swept away by the terrain, the breathtaking views, and my own reveries. Just as a flicker of panic about being lost began to rise, I spotted a blaze not far ahead, quietly assuring me that I was still on the right path to my destination.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back on these moments—some planned, others entirely unexpected—I see a pattern too intricate to be coincidence. Each twist and turn, each nudge and connection, feels like a deliberate part of a greater design, one I didn’t always see in the moment but have come to trust over time.

Some might call it luck, others fate, or even divine intervention. For me, it’s an Unseen Hand, guiding, steadying, and pointing the way forward.

Whether it was choosing a college, finding a career, falling in love, or hiking a winding trail, that presence has been there—quiet but constant, assuring me that I’m on the right path, even when I’ve felt lost.

It warn’t no accident.

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

Posted on by
10

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”

—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

Falling Faster, Growing Stronger: The Dynamic Duo of Love’s Beginnings

Posted on by
6

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.“

–Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel, 1904-1991; American author, political cartoonist, poet, animator, and filmmaker, best known for his beloved children’s books, especially The Cat in the Hat AND GREEN Eggs and Ham.

Can you feel it? I can. It’s in the air. It’s everywhere. As the gentle Spring breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers and the melodies of birdsong fill the air, I feel the stirring of something magical. Yep. It’s love. It brings a lump to my throat, and I have to spell it L-U-V.

I’m spellbound. The whispers of renewal make me want to embrace new beginnings and the promise of blossoming romance. I can’t help but think of love, from the budding of tender feelings to the full bloom of enduring connections.

You guessed it. I’m a hopeless romantic. I believe in love at first sight. I believe in falling head-over-heels in love. I believe in being swept off my feet. I believe in being thunderstruck by love. I believe in one true love, love of a lifetime, the perfect match, my other half, my kindred spirit, and my soulmate. If you know of other similar clichés, I probably believe in them, too.

The expression “Love at first sight” has been around for thousands of years, going all the way back to literature and poetry from ancient times. One of the earliest recorded instances is from the Greek philosopher, Plato, in his work “Symposium” (ca. 385-370 BCE). In this dialogue, characters discuss the concept of love, including the idea of “falling in love at first sight.”

Love at first sight–soulmates, if you will–is still very much with us today, so I’m not alone in my love notions. In the United States, for example, the belief in soulmates is fairly common. In fact, I read somewhere not long ago that anywhere from 50% to over 70% of Americans believe in the existence of soulmates or the idea that there is one perfect match for each person.

But what about the rest of Americans who don’t believe in love at first sight? What kind of love do they believe in?

I think I know. Apparently, some people believe in “Growing into Love.” Maybe you’re one of them. I had never heard tell of such a thing until recently when I was scrolling through Facebook. I stopped. I stared. Two men were kissing passionately. (Both were extraordinarily handsome lookers, I might add.) But what made me stop and stare was the caption beneath this super-hot Mr. & Mr. duo:

GROWING INTO LOVE GETS BETTER EVERY DAY

“Growing into love.” That’s pretty new to me. I mean, I had to Google it just to wrap my head around the concept. Apparently, it kicks off with basics like mutual respect, understanding, and emotional connection. Starts off all casual, you know. Like, it could stem from friendship, shared values, or just a good old-fashioned sense of compatibility.

But let me pause right there. Honestly, at first glance, this whole “growing into love” idea seems a bit, well, textbook-ish, if you ask me. Like something straight out of a clinical relationship guide or a self-help book.

But hey, let’s soldier on. So, diving into the nitty-gritty, we’re talking about that initial phase where you’re just getting started with this whole “growing into love” deal. It’s all about that spark, that fluttery feeling in your stomach. Yeah, those butterflies. They’re part of the package.

Then, as time goes on, you start building on that initial attraction. Shared experiences, heartfelt conversations, and quality time together deepen the connection. Trust starts to bloom too, thanks to reliability, honesty, and support.

Sure, there might be bumps along the road—disagreements, conflicts, life throwing curveballs your way. But hey, you’re facing those challenges together. Right? It’s like relationship boot camp, strengthening the bond and making it all the more resilient.

As things progress, you might decide to take things to the next level—getting exclusive, maybe moving in together, or even making long-term plans. But hey, let’s remember, it’s all about choice here. No pressure.

And here’s the kicker. Love? It’s not some static thing. It’s a living, breathing entity that needs constant care and attention. You’ve got to keep those lines of communication open, be ready to compromise, and adapt to each other’s ever-evolving needs and desires.

So yeah, call me clueless, but I’m trying to wrap my head around this whole “growing in love” concept. I mean, it’s pretty cool how it acknowledges that building a lasting relationship takes more than just initial attraction. It’s about putting in the work, day in and day out, to nurture something real and meaningful.

I get it. I understand. But I’m still stuck way back there in Spring with love in the air and with love at first sight–the sheer poetry of it all. There’s a romantic allure to the notion of love at first sight that simply can’t be matched by any other approach to love. It’s like stumbling upon a rare, exquisite flower in the midst of a sprawling garden, instantly captivating your senses and drawing you in with its beauty and mystery.

Imagine this: you’re going about your day, minding your own business, when suddenly, across a crowded room your eyes meet theirs, and in that moment, time seems to stand still. There’s a spark, an inexplicable connection that transcends rationality and sweeps you off your feet in an instant.

It’s as if the universe has conspired to bring two souls together, weaving a fate and destiny together and binding you together in an unbreakable bond. There’s no need for words or explanations; the language of the heart speaks volumes, echoing with the resonance of shared dreams and desires.

In that split second, you just know—know that this person is meant to be a part of your life, know that your paths were always destined to intersect, know that you’ve found a kindred spirit who complements your very being in ways you never thought possible.

That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met. Our eyes locked, time stood still, and the world faded into the background, leaving only the two of us in a moment of perfect clarity. In that instant, Allen and I both knew our lives were meant to be shared, and our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection.

Sure, it may sound like something out of a fairy tale, but isn’t that the magic of love at first sight? It defies logic and reason, transcends the boundaries of time and space, and unites two souls in a symphony of passion and longing.

As much as I appreciate the gradual unfolding of love, my heart will always be drawn back to that fleeting moment of enchantment, where love blossoms like a flower in the springtime, filling the air with its intoxicating fragrance and leaving an indelible mark on our souls.

And you, Dear Reader? What about you? What about your love? Whether it unfolds gradually like the unfurling of a delicate Spring blossom or strikes suddenly like a bolt of lightning in a stormy Spring sky, always remember this: love, in all its forms, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the capacity for connection, and the enduring power of hope.

“You’re Going to Be Okay.”

Posted on by
6

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

Haruki Murakami (b. 1949; internationally acclaimed Japanese writer. The quote is from his novel Kafka on the Shore [2002])

Sometimes, the greatest enigmas in life unfold right before our very eyes, revealing themselves to us gradually like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, not through anything monumental but rather through minor moments that fill our days and propel us forward. We may not even be aware of the significance of what is happening until one day, something triggers a momentary flashback, followed by a quick return to the present. In that instant, we know that we have been brushed by a condundrum and that we now kneel before a new truth.

For me, such revelations are rare. When they take place, they are heralded by the subtle realization that pieces of my life are falling into place more smoothly and more effortlessly than expected. In those moments, I reflect, and in my musings, I come to realize that maybe–just maybe–other aspects of my life are mysteriously falling into place, too, like an intricate riddle being solved.

Last weekend, I experienced a succession of such events that made me sit up and take notice. I didn’t know what was about to unfold, but every fiber of my being felt the shroud of mystery. The events seemed to have started with my post, “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.” I finished it on Saturday, September 23, a full day earlier than expected, just as remnants from Ophelia brought dark clouds, a steady rainfall, and winds high enough to cause the trees to sway almost beyond their bend, but not high enough to elevate my concerns beyond my enjoyment. My big decision, as I sipped my morning coffee, was whether I would read the post to my oldest sister later that day or wait until Sunday as usual. This decision felt like a cipher in the grand scheme of things.

I put the question aside and started checking emails. I had one from a former student, Brian McKee, whose poetic voice is as fresh and original as any new American poet I’ve read in recent years. He shared a poem that he had penned that morning. Its beauty touched my inner being just as I know that it will touch yours.  Perhaps more importantly, it will linger with you and with me and make us wonder, “How?” and “Why?”

Desert Wind

It doesn’t have the lisp of leaves impeding
on its smooth trajectory over stone
and scrub. A place of helpless hook and barb,
of toothy undercarriage biting for an
overhead swoop. A highway of hawk and owl
and bats taking hook-shots in the current
around a soft ball of moon.

It’s hardly its own thing as a foreigner knows it.
A dry eddy of stir in the harshness
of the river I’ve yet to notice wading in.
Carrying the cinder and spark of cookfire
off in a rapid of oar-splash and air.
Holding in some endless canopy
a handful of lightning and stars
with the same weightless disregard.

It presides over a court of long shadow,
pizzicato of sound and the bow song
of echo long dispersed. Low clouds in
late light, lilting in the orbit that it blows.
The tiny thorns of its worshipers
dragging fissures in the ground,
sweeping my bootprints by morning.

Brian’s poetic gem made the clouds and the rain glisten even more, revealing hidden truths about the beauty of the world.

As I finished my emails and my coffee, I felt mysteriously compelled to go to Starbucks. I rarely go there, but thoughts of a pumpkin-spiced latte with a slice of pumpkin bread rose up in my head, so off I went. The storm and the earliness of the morning found me outnumbered by Starbucks staff, cheerful and chattering amongst themselves and with their occasional customer, including me.

I sat at my table, enjoying my enticements, daydreaming, thinking of this and of that, of nothing and of everything. In the midst of my mindlessness, the power went out mysteriously, with no warning: the sky was clear at that point, and the sun was shining. Silence followed, but it was replaced by humorous panic as the staff realized that without power, they were powerless to fulfill orders being placed by drive-through and walk-in customers.

The outage didn’t bother me at all. I was having fun watching staff negotiate with one another about the best course of action. Besides, I had my smartphone and could give “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go” a final and leisurely proofreading.

After twenty minutes or so, the power came back on, and everyone shouted a loud huzzah. I decided to return home and start preparing some Maryland Crab Soup–fitting, it seemed to me–to celebrate Ophelia, a storm that had moved up the coast and had blown in from the Eastern Shore. The day before, I purchased some jumbo lump crab meat, brought over from the same banks by our local fishmonger.

When I got home, I threw some logs into the kitchen fireplace, and before long, I was enjoying a crackling, roaring fire as I prepped.

Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, I play Gospel music, but I was in the mood for something a little lighter.

Brent: Alexa, play relaxation music.

Alexa: Here’s a station just for you–Acoustic Chill.

As I continued making my soup, I was listening but not listening, that is until some lyrics grabbed me, pulled me in close, and wouldn’t let go:

You’re gonna be okay
You’re gonna be okay
Oh, the sun will keep on risin’ in that old familiar way
And every little thing is gonna be okay

You’re gonna be all right
Darling, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
‘Cause the stars will keep on shinin’ through the darkest night
And you can know you’re gonna be all right

The song was powerfully gripping, and I knew as I listened that a mystery was being unfolded. Everything was falling inexplicably into place.

Brent: Alexa, what’s the name of that song?

Alexa: “Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.

I know other songs by Lauren Daigle, an American contemporary Christian music singer and songwriter, known especially for “You Say” and “Thank God, I Do.”  She has a way of writing/singing Christian songs that cross over to the top-ten pop charts. I was surprised, though, to hear her on Acoustic Chill, a station that I listen to all the time, yet I had never heard her there before. I liked the song so much that I wanted to hear it again.

Brent: Alexa, repeat.

I let the first two verses slip into my soul once more, and then I let verses three and four slip deeper still:

Lift your eyes to the hills
Remember where your help comes from
Lift your eyes to the hills
You’ll never face a valley alone
‘Cause even when your heart is breakin’
And you’ve gone and lost your way
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

You’re gonna be okay
I know that you’re, you’re gonna be okay
Not a care in this whole world can take that truth away
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

And when the song ended, I wanted to hear it again and again and again.

Brent: Alexa, loop.

As I listened, the final verses settled deeper and deeper into my spirit.

You’re gonna be all right
Darlin’, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath, when we’re beckoned onto the light
Love will meet you there, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath is the beginning of new life
You’re, you’re gonna be all right

“Be Okay” kept right on playing while I kept right on cooking. It kept right on playing while its message kept right on trickling deeper and deeper into the depths of my soul. It kept right on playing as its truths kept right on bubbling back up.

I started thinking about death, the mystery that marks our ending. Or does it mark our beginning? I started thinking about grieving. Does it ever end? And how? And when?

I started thinking about my father’s death. When the evening of his wake arrived, I walked with my mother toward the open casket where he lay. Even from the far end of the chapel, we could see something on the lining of the raised casket lid—a design. Drawing closer, we were both taken aback as we looked inside the casket lid. It was not what we had ordered. It was not a solid white silk lining without tufting or design. Instead, we witnessed—together—a pair of praying hands. To the right of the hands, the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again.” It was not what my mother and I had planned. It was not what we had ordered. And, yet, the praying hands were there, holding for me—and I believe for me alone—a lasting message.

Grieving my father’s death, I thought, would never come to an end. One day, however, when I least expected it, I had an awareness that it had been lifted.

I started thinking about my mother’s death. She had been paralyzed and flat on her back for six years. Two nights before her death, I had three dreams in quick succession. In the first dream, she got up out of bed and walked out on the porch, her arms reaching up toward a blue, blue sky, smiling and laughing and twirling—around and around and around. For the first time in six years, she’s out of bed—walking and dancing. She’s ecstatically happy. In the second dream, she was costumed as a white mouse, performing. Her audience, amused by her antics. Their reward? An encore—more frolics, much laughter. She’s freed from the journey, freed from the maze, blissfully celebrating her new path. In the third dream, she entered a softly lighted room where my father sat in his recliner. My mother sat down in the chair beside him and turned off the lamp. The room slowly—ever so slowly—fell into warm darkness. My mother and father are reunited.

When I awakened, I felt—no, knew—deep down in my soul that my mother came to me in those three dreams to prepare me for her death. Two days later, she died.

Grieving my mother’s death was entirely different. Being closer to her than to my father, I feared that her death would be my undoing. Instead, the faith lessons that she taught me down through the years comforted me and gave me peace.

I started thinking about my late partner’s death. Was it yesterday? Or was it the day before? Or was it an eternity ago?

As I reflected on Allen’s death and my grief, “Be Okay” kept right on playing, transporting me to the night before he died. It kept right on playing as I heard Allen reassuring me then while I stood beside his hospital bed just as Lauren Daigle was reassuring me now while I stood in my kitchen.

Allen clasped my hands and looked deep into my eyes:

I’m going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
We’re both going to be okay.

He knew. I knew. But that night neither of us wanted to know.

Allen died the next morning, just minutes after each of us looked at one another, saying one last time, “I love you.”

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt as I closed Allen’s eyes and folded his hands prayerfully across his chest that he had been beckoned back into the Light and that he had crossed over into a new state of Being. I knew that he was all right, just as he had said that he would be.

Now, 968 days after his death, it was as if Allen stepped out of his own light, entered our kitchen, put his arms around me, and waltzed me out of the storm of my grieving into my own light. It was as if I was mysteriously convinced that the sun would keep on rising, that the stars would keep on shining, and that everything would be okay.

What makes the unveiling of the mystery even more mysterious and even more beautiful is the simple fact that I had done nothing with an eye toward grief-healing. It happened just as it had happened with my mother and with my father: the grieving lifted itself in my moment of readiness.

How ironic that it all came to pass on a day when I felt that something was brushing against me, but I knew not what. A more mundane litany of events for that day could hardly be imagined. I finished a post early. I heard from a poet friend from long, long ago. I went to Starbucks simply because something called me there. I came home, started a fire in the kitchen fireplace, and made crab soup to celebrate a tropical storm. I played acoustic chill music and heard a song that grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go.

How ironic that when the storm within me passed, peace washed over my soul, and Allen’s love ushered me to the altar of truth that he foretold: “You’re going to be okay.”

Foolin’ Around in Bed with AI

Posted on by
7

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.

The Other Side

Posted on by
10

Dogs have a way of finding the people who need them, and filling an emptiness we didn’t ever know we had. 

–Thom Jones (1945-2016; American writer, primarily of short stories)

What can I say about the dogs in my life? Well, for starters, I’ve had quite a few. Now, stop it already. I’m not talking about those dogs. I’m talking about real dogs, the four-legged ones. You know. Our pets. Our best friends. Our confidantes.

The first dog in my life was Brownie. All that I remember about him–tapping into nothing more than my own memory–is his curly brown hair and his wonderfully large, black, wet nose. I was hardly more than a toddler, and he was my mother’s dog. Anything else that I might know about Brownie, I learned from my mother. Dog memories run deep. My mother saw Brownie through.

My dad brought the next dog into my life. Spotty was a coal-mine foundling. All mine. He had the spotted coat of a brown-and-white Beagle, but his stocky frame, unusually large ears, large paws, and short-but-wavy hair barked Collie. Spotty lived outdoors and slept in a doghouse that my dad and I built, outfitted with a bed that my mother made. Since I was a grade-schooler, he spent more time with my mother than with me. He followed her around all day, especially when she was outdoors, hanging laundry on the clothesline. My mother taught Spotty to sing, and she enjoyed mimicking his operatic accomplishments. I never heard Spotty sing, but I learned that love is not diminished when shared. My mother saw Spotty through.

My next dog, Lassie, leaped into my life right out of the popular television series Lassie. Both Lassies were Collies. Somewhere I have a Polaroid of me, summer-sun-bleached hair, holding my prize-winning sunflower. Lassie was surely nearby, but she’s not in the photo. I discovered quickly after one short season that she would be far happier running the wide open farm fields that became her new home. Sometimes love means letting go. I wonder who saw Lassie through.

After that summer of 1959, I didn’t have another dog in my life for many, many years. Actually, I was a graduate student, and the name Brecca caught my fancy as I studied Beowulf. I decided to buy myself a dog associated with water and swimming. A Saddleback English Springer Spaniel seemed perfect. Brecca was my first pedigree dog, and he was the first dog in my life to live with me indoors. Brecca watched over me through thousands of hours of graduate work–the endless cycle: Reading. Research. Writing. Repeat.–and never grew weary. When I completed my doctoral work and returned to DC, I was the winter caregiver for my mom and dad for a decade. Brecca followed my dad up and down the hall as he walked to regain strength after a stroke left him partially paralyzed. And when my niece/goddaughter, Janet, came along, Brecca followed her as she crawled all around the house and up and down the stairs, always positioning himself to ensure her safety. When his ear cancer proved untreatable after a first surgery, he would patiently lie on his side as I applied homeopathic compresses. His follower-trust triumphed to the end. I saw Brecca through.

Sparky–a Dalmatian–came next, followed by Maggie–a Blue Tick Coonhound. Grief can be sudden as I came to learn and as the speaker in Robert Frost’s “One More Brevity” had learned long before:

I was to taste in little the grief
That comes of dogs’ lives being so brief,
Only a fraction of ours at most.

My family veterinarian saw Sparky through.

I saw Maggie through.

After those two doors closed, Hazel entered through an open one. My late partner, Allen, and I decided to adopt a dog. Since we both worked and were away from home during the day, we planned to adopt two dogs so that they would be company for one another.

As we started the adoption process, “Must play well with other dogs” topped our list of requirements. The animal shelter assured us that Hazel loved other dogs, so we brought her home. She was a mature, nine-months-old puppy. She was house trained within a week. She jogged right past her chewing stage. She never jumped up on chairs, sofas, or beds. She was well behaved, even off leash. Then came the day when she ventured to a neighbor’s house and started a fight with a dog twice her size.

At that point, we knew that we would not adopt another dog to keep Hazel company. She adjusted beautifully to our mountain home and to our professional schedules. We found ourselves molding our lives around hers, taking more and more vacations at dog-friendly VRBO destinations. Though calm and serene, Hazel always looked like the reddish blonde Husky-Lab puppy that we first fell in love with. She played the part flawlessly right up until the night of her last day. Allen and I saw Hazel through.

We both knew that we would bring another dog into our life. But we were both quiet. For some reason–inexplicable to me, even now–I wanted Allen to take the lead in finding our new best friend, so I waited for him to initiate the conversation. When he did, he agreed to do the solo search, even agreeing to my single stipulation: no black dog. He understood why after I explained that one of my sisters had a black dog that died tragically.

After a week or two, Allen came home and gave me his angelic, twinkly-eyed smile.

“I’ve found the perfect puppy for us!”

“What kind?”

“I’m not sure. She’s a mix, about seven months old, and she’s been spayed.”

“Photo?”

“No. But I met her today. You’ll really like her.”

As I found out, “Perfect Puppy” belonged to one of the hospital surgeons with whom Allen worked. Allen had arranged a visit for both of us the next afternoon.

When Dr. Stevens opened the door to greet us, a black puppy–yes, black, all black except for a small, white brushstroke on her chest that an artist might have forgotten to color over–made her escape and raced down the walkway. I sat down on the stoop and watched. The puppy turned, saw me sitting there, and came charging back–a whirlwind of short-haired, shiny waves–and sat down, smack dab on my feet.

The black puppy won my heart then and there.

I beamed Allen my widest smile. “She’s going home with us.”

We worked out the details with Dr. Stevens. Allen wanted to bring our new best friend home in his Toyota Tacoma. I headed on home in my Jeep.

When they arrived, I was sitting in my reading chair in the living room. As if she knew exactly where to find me, the black puppy ran to where I was and sat down, smack dab on my feet, just as she had done at Dr. Stevens.

Allen sat across from us on the sofa, and the three of us stayed in position for the next several hours.

Finally, Allen got up. Without invitation, the black puppy jumped on the dark brown, leather sofa and put her head on a ruby-colored throw. The color contrast was striking, and, in an instant, I knew.

“Husband, I’ve got a name for our puppy.”

“Yeah? What do you have in mind?”

“Ruby.”

He came back into the living room, looked at her, then at the throw, and, finally, at the sofa. He knew, too. Ruby became our Valentine’s Day gift, one to the other, each to the other two.

Ruby has the general build and gentleness of a Labrador Retriever; the face and solo-bonding bent of a Boxer, and the strong-willed temperament of a Beagle.

Whatever she is–and she’s all of those things and more–she’s the perfect dog that Allen sized her up to be when she was just a perfect puppy.

From the start, she knew how to show each of us equal love. She was always with Allen while he sipped his morning coffee and perused his various digital newspapers. She was always with me while I pondered evening academics online. She was always with both of us when we watched Star Trek or, her favorite, the Great British Bake Off. When Allen and I cooked, she always watched from the dining room door where she stayed until we finished our meal and Allen put his last bite in her dish. When we gardened, she ran back and forth between the two of us.

To Allen, the joy of feeding Ruby. To me, the joy of having Ruby smack dab on top of my feet whenever I sat down, or, as time went on, on my lap. To me, the joy of brushing her.

I usually brushed her in my office after finishing my evening academics, the two of us sprawled out on an Oriental rug. As I brushed, she would give me knowing looks from a far-off, far-away land. Invariably I felt the need to talk with her.

“I don’t know who you are, Ruby, but I know that you are an old, old soul come back to see me through. Who are you?”

Ruby never seemed to mind my one-sided conversation. In fact, she seemed to nod in knowing affirmation. And I became more and more convinced of what I felt from the start. How can it be that I don’t know who she is? And, yet, I have known her. And, yet, I know her.

The three of us continued our daily routines and rituals from February 14, 2018–when Ruby entered our lives–until January 28, 2021, when Allen lost his life, after a short, three-month, lung-cancer battle. I saw Allen through.

The rituals and routines, though not the same, go on and on and on. Ruby still likes to sit on the deck of an afternoon around 4:00, fully confident that once more she will see her other “daddy” driving up our mountain road in his Toyota Tacoma. Some days, I wait and watch with her.

What the three of us once did together, Ruby and I now do as the inseparable Dynamic Duo that we have become. She is always at my side, always by my feet, always within earshot. Listening. Watching. Waiting.

I hope that the rest of our journey–Ruby’s and mine–lasts for a long, long time. With every passing day, I am more and more convinced: Ruby is an old, old soul come back to see me through to the other side.