Two Ways to Plant Boxwoods

Posted on March 31, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“We were just boxwoods until someone believed we could be part of something beautiful.”
–— Anonymous. Possibly the shy one in the corner.

Ten pots of Buxus Microphylla, or, as I prefer saying in plain English, Little Missy boxwoods—five per row, glossy green and neatly packed—sit patiently in the open bed of an Army Green Jeep Gladiator. It’s the last Saturday in March, early morning, overcast, but already brushing up against seventy degrees. The air hums with quiet possibility. The gravel drive crunches underfoot, the hills beyond still bare-limbed and watching. The day is waiting, hopeful. So are the boxwoods—waiting, hopeful, wondering—ready to take root in the earth but not yet knowing where.

One other player in this little drama unfolding before us is waiting–hopeful and wondering, too. That would be me. It’s been two weeks since I bought the boxwoods and asked Woodstock Gardens to hold them for me. I had been eyeing the weather forecast, and when I saw that Saturday’s temp would soar to 83°, I knew that the time had arrived for me and the Little Missy boxwoods to perform.

I knew where I wanted to plant them: along a stepped, stone pathway with a wide expanse of gardening space reaching out to the rock wall above that defines the walkway to my kitchen. Down through the years, lots of perennials have flourished there, mainly hardy bananas and lilies. But this past winter, I decided that small, evergreen patches would soften the stones and brighten the landscape year-round.

I expected putting in the Little Missy boxwoods to be straightforward. Position in place. Dig the holes. Tease the tangled root balls. Cover with topsoil. Water. Mulch. Those expectations defined my day, making me confident that I would move on to reclaiming the peony bed in the lower yard by early afternoon.

And so it would have been, I suspect, had I not decided to adjust a rock here and there with an eye toward little more than leveling them as they once were. I knew from the start that leveling one rock would lead to three to five and on and on. But what I didn’t expect was that the rocks would become my focus—not as a distraction from planting, but as a quiet joy, inviting me to sit and let them show me where they wanted to be. As I moved the rocks, the soil spoke to a past that I had created down through the years, with a fierce determination to turn mountain clay into fertile loam.

And there I sat with nowhere that I had to go and with nothing that I had to do other than sit right there, centered in nothing yet in everything.

I glanced at my Fitbit and realized that I would be a 1pm peony-bed no-show. But that didn’t matter. I had spaced my boxwoods exactly where I wanted them to begin with, but now they were framed by rocks whose voice I had heeded. I knew in that moment that this is the way to plant boxwoods.

I could brush this aside just as readily as I cradled the soil carefully around each boxwood.

But I won’t—because this wasn’t just a moment in the garden. It was a quiet revelation.

The stillness of that moment—just me, the rocks, the soil, and the Little Missy boxwoods—stirred something I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of another time I resisted the urge to rush. A time when I could have taken the more efficient path, but chose instead the one that felt truer, even if slower.

Years ago, colleagues and friends encouraged me to publish a selected edition of letters by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. “It’ll be faster,” they said. “Get it out there. Choose the best, the most representative.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to curate a highlight reel. I wanted to listen to her whole voice—every quiet, overlooked, handwritten and typed syllable of it. “If not me, who? If not now, when?”–I mused.

And so, I kept going. Year after year. Archives and attics. Libraries and ledgers. It took a decade, but in the end, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman bore an honest title and held honest content. Collected. 585 letters. All. No stone unturned.

What mattered as much as the scholarship was the joy of the journey. The small discoveries. The forgotten details. The moments when her voice, long quiet, seemed to rise again from the page, breathing life into a history nearly lost. Just like those rocks, just like that soil—I had to be still, to listen, to let her show me where she wanted to be.

Years later, my students came along. In my online classes, I interacted with each class as a whole, and with each student as they turned in their work. But I always made it a point to reach out to students who didn’t submit an assignment or who seemed to be slipping away. My messages weren’t elaborate—just a quick, casual “checking in with you.” I never knew where those simple interventions might lead.

More than once, a student replied to say they were struggling—juggling work, family, illness, or grief—and that my short note had stopped them from dropping the course altogether. From giving up.

Those became some of my most memorable teaching moments. I hadn’t said anything profound. I had simply shown up. And somehow, I had rolled away a small stone of darkness and doubt so that a student could glimpse light—and maybe even hope.

In each of these moments, I was doing what didn’t have to be done. No one would have faulted me for skipping a few rocks, publishing a selection of letters, or letting a silent student drift away. But something in me paused. Listened. Chose the slower path. Not because I had to—but because I could. If not me, who? If not now, when?

Maybe that’s the deeper truth. Not every action we take has to change the world. But every time we pause and ask If not me, who? If not now, when?—when we do the thing that doesn’t have to be done—we create the conditions where light can get in. Where roots can reach deeper. Where someone, or something, can grow.

It could be something as simple as picking up the phone to call someone who’s been on your mind. Or checking in on a neighbor whose curtains haven’t opened in days. It might be stopping to thank the cashier who’s clearly having a rough shift. Or finally taking the time to write that note of encouragement, apology, or love.

It could mean speaking up when a voice needs backing. Or standing back to let someone else shine. It might be mentoring a colleague, even when your plate is full. Or walking away from a quick fix to do something the right way, even if no one will notice.

It could be choosing kindness when sarcasm’s easier. Planting hope where cynicism wants to take root. Offering presence when no solution is in sight.

These aren’t dramatic acts. They’re just pauses. Moments when we choose to show up with care. To ask ourselves, If not me, who? If not now, when? And then to listen for the answer.

It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. Trusting that presence—not perfection—is what carries us forward. And knowing that when we show up, even quietly, the outcome will almost always be better, more beautiful, and far more rewarding.

Too Big to Handle

Posted on February 3, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass but about learning to dance in the rain.”
—Vivian Greene (American author and motivational speaker who focuses on themes of personal growth, resilience, and embracing life’s challenges.)

Winter settled in early here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Its chill, chillier. Its still, stiller. With night temps below zero and day temps hovering in the teens and twenties, my mountain road became ice layer upon ice layer. Snow still blankets the Great North Mountain Range across the valley, ridgelines shadowed, deep furrows of gray wrinkles defining sharp and rugged terrain lulled into surrender.

As I bring my glance closer to home, I see my wrap-around, snow-covered deck, and in the midst of the floating whiteness is a fire-engine-red hand cart.

I smile as it transports me to last year when my deck, always my above-ground oasis, became a special summer escape. I spent weeks getting down and dirty, scraping off years of deck paint and putting on new primer and new paint. It looked so beautiful that I decided to make it even more special than usual. I married lush greens and artful design, allowing nature and human craftsmanship to merge mid-air. The solid presence of four Adirondack chairs and matching lounger–rich burgundy slats with jet black frames–offered a ready invitation to sit, glide, recline, and be. The rugs defining the sitting areas–bursts of Oriental color and abstract design with blues, pinks, and golds–grounded the whole deck.

I won’t even blush by telling you that my plants last summer stole the show. My tall, stately night-blooming Cereus stretched upward as if trying to touch the sky, while elephant ears fanned outward, their broad, green leaves catching the light just so. The royal purple Musa banana plants, their wide leaves giving off a tropical vibe, reminded me daily that tropical life can flourish for a season, right here on my mountaintop deck. Tucked betwixt and between, smaller pots cradled succulents and geraniums and ferns, almost spilling into the space, their feathery fronds adding softness to the more structured, towering greens. For me, it all felt perfectly placed yet organic, as if my deck had become one with the natural world that surrounds it.

It’s my summer space to unwind, reflect, and listen to the rustle of the breeze, framed by the valley and mountains beyond. It always seems perpetually forever.

Yet, I always know that when fall arrives, my deck morphs into a transition space, caught between seasons. I always move the houseplants indoors, leaving behind scattered soil, stray leaves, and colorful rugs peppered with dirt—a stark contrast to the vibrant life that flourished there just a few days before the march indoors began.

I’ve always loved this parade of plants. I loved it more when I was younger, and my muscles could handle the massive ceramic pots and even larger plants that were a gardener’s eye candy. This past year, the plants seemed lusher, the pots seemed larger, and everything seemed heavier.

I realized that in order to keep the parade moving, I needed a hand cart to help with what had become too big to handle. The cart worked beautifully. Together, we moved the pots so that I could roll up the rugs and ready the deck for its long winter sleep.

When I finished, I left the fire-engine-red hand cart on the deck, right where it made its final lift. I wanted it to stand out, bold and purposeful, a conscious and constant reminder of the options I had when I discovered that the pots and plants on my deck were too big for me to handle.

In that moment, I could have decided that too big to handle was fate’s way of telling me to give up–to stop doing what I’ve spent decades doing; to stop enjoying what I’ve spent decades enjoying. I do not believe the season will ever come when I’ll sigh:

“Enough. I’m done.”

But if that season should arrive, I like to think that I will celebrate it triumphantly with all the notes my feeble gardener’s voice can warble.

Then again, I could have decided that too big to handle was a subtle nudge to scale back, to embrace smaller pots and smaller plants. I know that season may come when I’ll answer the call of the bonsai.

Standing there, however, I realized that too big to handle was not a defeat, but instead, it was an opportunity for me to get the job done differently.

You might be wondering why I didn’t decide to hire someone to move the pots and plants for me. If they’d been in the yard, I might have. To me, the deck is personal, even sacred. It’s me, myself, reaching out to touch the forest beyond and the sky above. The sky and forest reach back, their touch completing the connection. Somehow, the deck is me–one with the universe.

For now–and now is all that matters–I have my fire-engine-red hand cart, my ready ally, poised to see me into a new season and all that might seem too big to handle.

Roots and All

Posted on August 19, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The deeper the roots, the stronger the tree.”
–Unknown

Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.

It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.

At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.

I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.

I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.

The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.

I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.

First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:

“Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!”

Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.

Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.

I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.

And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.

But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.

For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.

But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.

Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.

I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.

Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.

Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.

Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.

Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:

“If a job is once begun,
Never leave until it’s done.
Be its labor, great or small,
Do it well or not at all.”

Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.

My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.

Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.

Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.

So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.

Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.

And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.

Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

Posted on August 5, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

I can relate. Under your boot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.

Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.

Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”

At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).

Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.

I’m thinking especially of posts like “From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition” (celebrating the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world); “A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener” (reminding us that the love of gardening never dies); and “The Joy of Weeding” (discovering what my late partner Allen experienced when he weeded).

Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.

On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.

I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.

The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.

It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.

But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.

It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.

I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.

“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”

Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.

“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”

In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.

Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.

I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.

It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.

As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.

I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.

You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).

It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.

Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.

If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.

Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.

Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.

We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.

On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.

Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.

These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.

“Always Done It This Way.”

Posted on July 15, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”
–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

The Tyranny of “Right Now”

Posted on May 27, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To finish the moment, to find the journey’s end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement in the mid-19th century. The quote is from his essay “Experience.”)

Last year, as autumn’s chill set in, I stood before my peony bed, an expansive testament to thirty years of nurturing. I vowed to rejuvenate it. I like to think that my peonies are sturdy—they are. I like to think that they’re strong—they are. I like to think that they’ll live forever—they will, with proper care, including digging, lifting, dividing, and replanting the tubers every fifteen years or so.

My peonies were long overdue a re-do. Somehow, though, despite my resolve and the shared anticipation, winter arrived, masking the overgrown bed beneath a blanket of snow. “It can wait until spring,” I reassured myself, delaying the inevitable.

With the arrival of spring, of course, came the return of my senses. (Spring is not the season to dig up and replant peony tubers.) It also brought the return of reality. (Briars, weeds, and saplings survive all seasons, always returning stronger than ever.)

Additionally, my peony bed is just one of my garden beds. Yet, I am only one, tending to many. While I recognize that I am a mighty force to be reckoned with, my garden beds sometimes seem mightier. But with spring also came the return of my determination to get my peony bed in shape.

So, it came to be. In the stillness of one morning filled with unimaginable promise, I set out to “do the needful” as I like to call any odious task that must be done. Not long into my doing, I found myself wishing that I had it done, all of it. Right then. Right there. Right now. I sat there on the cold, damp ground, wishing my peony bed into the state of perfection that I dreamt of it being. Right then. Right there. Right now.

In that same wishful moment, I shook my head in disbelief. I knew that my wish was impossible. I could not, in a moment, reclaim a garden bed that had gotten away from me, moment after moment, day after day, month after month, season after season, year after year. Aside from the impossibility of achieving instantly what I knew would take time to achieve, I shook my head in disbelief, wondering why I, an avid and seasoned gardener, would even contemplate wishing to be finished with my gardening just when I had started it?

I knew the answer. “Right Now” had become my gardening tyrant. I had been lulled into the desire to have my desired outcomes without putting in the required work.

I know first-hand that as a rule in life, we get what we work for. I know first-hand that as a rule in life, if it’s worth having, it’s worth waiting for.

But I realized more than those obvious truths. To have my peony bed restored to my longed-for state of perfection instantly–in one fell swoop, if you will–would deprive me with equal speed of all the pleasures that gardening always brings.

It would deprive me of a succession of days strung out like a strand of precious pearls as I get down and dirty.

It would deprive me of letting my hands take the temperature of the soil, feeling the cool, damp earth cradled in my palms, a subtle gauge of the season’s transition.

It would deprive me of letting my eyes look skyward, watching the clouds drift and gather as I take measure of the day’s weather, or of letting them look downward, studying the intricate network of roots between my clasped fingers, each one a testament to nature’s resilience.

It would deprive me of letting my nose smell the earthy, musty, and slightly sweet scents of decaying leaves and grasses from yesteryear, a rich concoction of aromas that evoke the passage of time and the cycle of life.

It would deprive me of letting my heart pound wildly as my blacksnake slithers unexpectedly from nowhere, its cool, smooth scales brushing against the skinscape of my forearm, sending a jolt of surprise and awe as it continues its mysterious journey to somewhere.

It would deprive me of all the joy and fulfillment that comes from the process and the journey. I would miss it all, all because I wanted it all. Right then. Right there. Right now.

No doubt I could come up with other deprivations if I dug deeper. But sitting amidst my peony bed, caught between the reality of briars and saplings and the dream of blossoming flowers, I realized the insidious nature of the tyranny of “Right Now.” If we’re not careful, it can infiltrate every facet of our existence, threatening to strip away the very essence of the joy we seek.

Just as in gardening, the tryanny of “Right Now”–this desire for immediacy–can manifest itself in numerous ways and hinder our experiences in many areas of life:

● personal growth and self-improvement: rushing into self-help quick fixes.
● relationships: expecting instant gratification in love.
● career development: trying to reach the top overnight.
● health and wellness: following fad diets and workout routines.
● financial management: falling for get-rich-quick schemes.
● learning and education: wanting to earn a degree immediately.
● creativity: aspiring to become an artistic genius instantly.
● spiritual growth and mindfulness: seeking enlightenment at the click of the keyboard.
● aging and dying: not taking time to enjoy life’s final lessons.

As I reflect, I’m grateful for the lesson this gardening journey has taught me. It’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey itself—the process, the progress, the growth. Whether nurturing peonies or nurturing our own lives, it’s the patience and perseverance, the embracing of the journey, that truly enriches our souls and helps us escape the tyranny of “Right Now.”

My Kentucky Wonder

Posted on April 8, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.”
–Wendell Berry (b. 1934; American novelist, poet, environmental activist, cultural critic, and farmer.)

My oldest sister, Audrey, keeps everything, and, like her memories, everything is tucked away here and there and everywhere, ready to be brought out and shared with others in a heartbeat.

Not too long ago–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago?–she sent me a package, securely wrapped and taped, as befits irreplaceable heirlooms sent out into the world, leaving nothing behind to hold on to save precious memories.

When the package arrived, I wondered what was inside. With great care, I managed to unloose family treasures that had been alive decades ago, now destined for a new life decades later.

One by one, I gave Audrey’s relics the loving release that she desired. As I held each, I witnessed the release of my own memories locked away since–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? I recognized and remembered everything immediately.

The stainless steel EKCO can opener from my teenage 1960s, perfect for opening cans and bottles with ease, even today. It must have been quite high tech in its day, based on the full directions stamped into the handle:

MIRACLE CAN OPENER. HOLD IN LEFT HAND – HOOK GEAR UNDER RIM OF CAN – SQUEEZE HANDLES – TURN KEY TO RIGHT.

I grin as I hold that vintage kitchen marvel. Squeezing the handles, I wonder why my sister held on to it.

The Belgian tapestry, measuring 18″ high x 56″ long, that once hung above the fireplace mantel in my parents’ bedroom. I recall its presence vividly when I was a toddler. It offers a captivating glimpse into a Venetian court ball beneath a moonlit sky, where graceful dancers swirl elegantly across an outdoor terrace, their movements bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Despite some fraying along the edges, the tapestry remains beautifully preserved, capturing the timeless allure of a bygone era. I wonder when my mother gave the tapestry to my sister.

The Ever-Ready #79 Sterilized Shaving Brush, with its bakelite handle adorned in a nostalgic red and cream hue, its bristles worn ragged by decades of use. As a child, I watched my father dance the brush upon the surface of the soap, coaxing forth creamy lather like an artist delicately crafting a masterpiece. As a teenager, I danced that brush on the surface of my own shaving soap as I journeyed into manhood. Now, as I hold the brush in my hand in a moment of memory and reflection, time stands still, and I wonder when my father held the brush in his hand for the last time.

The Red Velvet Pipe and Cigarette Tobacco tin, with a hinged lid, made by Pinkerton Tobacco Company, Owensboro, Kentucky. It’s still filled to the top. My father smoked cigarettes until he was seventy and had a heart attack. I wonder whether this was his last tin of tobacco when he came to the realization that he had to quit.

The robust pipe, the next item that I gave release. When my father stopped smoking cigarettes, he took up pipe smoking. I hoped that the pipe in my hand was the incredibly expensive Meerschaum that I gifted him. It wasn’t. Instead, what I held in my hand was a Whitehall Jumbos large rustic straight pot pipe. It shows slight signs of age, but the walls of its bowl remain thick with a large flat surface on the rim. The pipe has a robust feel in my hand. I wonder when my dad held it in his weathered hands for the last time, wisps of smoke dancing ’round his head, carrying the rich fragrance of aged tobacco that I so much enjoyed. I wonder what happened to the Meerschaum that I hoped to hold.

Or the infamous knife, the one that nearly cut off my right hand. When but a child—no more than four or five, so small that I had to stand on a kitchen chair to watch as my father butchered a fresh chicken—I reached out to ask, “What’s that?” just as his knife—raised high in air—came thrusting down to sever the chicken breast. The knife could not stop. With equal speed, my father’s hand grasped my nearly severed right hand and held it in place until the doctor arrived. Today, the scar that spans my hand authenticates the strength of his: holding on, not letting go. My mother threw the kitchen knife into the coal bucket, resolving to never use it again. My oldest brother, John, took the knife and hid it away in a brown paper bag. Now, as I hold the knife in my scarred right hand and the crumpled bag in my left, I wonder why he retrieved it. I wonder why he kept it. I wonder when he passed it on to Audrey.

Or what about the Prince Albert Tobacco can, the last heirloom in the box that arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? It’s the one that fascinates me the most. It’s 3 inches wide, 4 inches tall, and 3/4 inch thick. It’s vivid red, adorned with elegant gold lettering. On the front is an oval portrait of Edward VII before he was king, when he was known as “Prince Albert.” Since the image appears on the front only, the tin would have been manufactured before 1960. After that year, it was printed on the front and the back.

As I run my fingers over its surface, I feel the nostalgic echo of my father’s smoking tradition. This pocket tin holds more than just the 1 5/8 ounces of tobacco that it once held. It holds treasured memories of a time that is no more.

Audrey taped a small handwritten note on the front:

“Look in can under paper. Try to see if they will grow.“

I wonder what’s inside. I take my thumbs and push up on the lid. I remove the paper. Beneath, bean seeds. Dark brown bean seeds.

“Kentucky Wonder!” I exclaim to myself. “Those are Kentucky Wonder seeds, my father’s favorite pole beans.”

I called Audrey to thank her for passing these keepsakes on to me. We shared memories, hers far richer than mine because she lived those treasures through the eyes of an older sibling.

She’s certain that the Prince Albert Tobacco tin is from the 1930s or 1940s, when my family lived in Cherokee (WV). She’s certain that my father collected those seeds from one of his gardens during those years.

Now, I’m not sure when that box of treasures arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? But now that spring is here, I vow to do what Audrey bid me do:

“Try to see if they will grow.”

My mind is racing fast and faster with questions. I could ask Audrey who, no doubt, would know the answers.

But my mind is slant toward wonderment.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are from the 1930s and 1940s.

● I wonder when Audrey closeted away that tobacco tin filled with such potential.

● I wonder why she didn’t plant the seeds herself.

● I wonder why she sent the seeds to me, now, as she approaches 90 and as 80 chases me.

● I wonder whether those seeds will germinate and grow after all these years.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are Kentucky Wonder beans.

● I wonder what bean they might be if those seeds are not Kentucky Wonder.

I don’t wonder, however, about what I need to do. I will do exactly as my father and I did when I was but a child, and we started gardening together. As soon as the danger of frost is past and my fingers feel warm when I push them deep into the soil, I’ll put the seeds in a glass of water, and I’ll wait patiently for them to sprout.

Then, I’ll plant them, in threes, next to something tall that they can cling to and hold on to as they climb higher and higher. Then I’ll wait and watch with hope as summer unfolds and fulfills itself, wondering whether my father’s Kentucky Wonder beans, after seven decades or more of hiding away, have run back home to me.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

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

Posted on April 1, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on August 21, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“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.

My Gardening Attire

Posted on October 24, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

Anyone can get dressed up and glamorous, but it is how people dress on their days off [that’s] the most intriguing.
Alexander Wang (b. 1983; American fashion designer known for his urban designs and his use of black)

It’s no secret. I love to garden. Actually, I talk about gardening a lot in my posts. Three focused exclusively on gardening. You may recall Two, Together and Less Is Not More Until It Is. And if you don’t recall those posts, you may remember The Joy of Weeding.

But unless you are a gardener yourself, you may be wondering why on earth I’m writing about gardening when we’re reaching the end of October.

Of course, you’re wondering. I understand. Spring, which ushered in the end, is so far behind us that it’s nothing more than memories of sudden and energetic growth spurts, filled with verdant hope and promise, poised on the threshold of new life.

Then came summer ushering in such fulsome lushness that it transformed the world into a landscape of sensational, razzle-dazzle impressions, but its memory, too, is on the wane.

Now, fall. Here we are midst October mist, with decadent decay exposing bony branches beneath blooms and leaves still clinging, sighing the song of letting go, rustling ghostly memories right before our eyes.

Soon and very soon, winter will bring freezings, earth-heavings, and dead stillness, with roots connecting underground, communing in generative darkness.

The seasons come. The seasons go. And then they start all over again. (But only when publishers see fit to send out new gardening catalogs.)

But my goodness! Here I’ve gone and let me and you get snowed by reveries of the gardening seasons.

Sadly, putting in the seed is not the thrust of this post.

Instead, it’s all about putting on my gardening …?

Threads? As in the slang word going all the way back to 1926? Let me unearth its origins and see what I can find. Threads was first recorded in Wise-Crack Dictionary: More than 1,000 Phrases and Words in Every-Day Use Collected from 10,000 Communications Received during a Newspaper Prize Contest and Other Sources (eds. George H. Maines and Bruce Grant, vol. 1).

Well, it’s doubtful that I will don any gardening threads, although it was fun trying the word on for size today.

Maybe, instead, I will put on my gardening costume. Sometimes–and this really is true–sometimes I think about what I happen to be wearing–whether in the garden or out of the garden–as my costume. I’m chuckling to myself right now because that usage puts me in the good company of Samuel Johnson who used it in his A Journey to the Western Island of Scotland: “Dr. Johnson in his Hebridean Costume” (1775).

But for this post it’s a Greenthumb down for costume and another Greenthumb down for threads.

How about Clothes? It has an interesting origin as well, going all the way back to c888 when it appeared in Ælfred’s translation of Boethius’ De Consol. Philos.: “Wæpnu, and mete, and ealo, and claþas” (xvii).

I had to dig really deep for that Old English origin. But come on: I can’t even pronounce the words in the sentence where clothes appeared. Let me edge up to the surface a bit to 1484 Middle English when clothes as we know them appeared in Caxton’s translation of G. de la Tour-Landry’s Book of the Knight of the Tower: “She … arayed her with clothes of gold, and flouryshynge of ryche ermyns.”

There. That’s much better. I like being able to pronounce the names of whatever it is that I might be wearing when I garden.

Since I seem to be tilling in the right direction, perhaps I will narrow my definition of clothes, especially since mine are certainly not of gold and furs. I would look perfectly silly in clothes like that, and, besides, I couldn’t afford them anyway since I teach at a c-mm–ity college.

Let’s see. Ah, yes. Dress clothes might work since I have a few. Dress clothes goes all the way back to 1838 when it first appeared in Lady Charlotte Maria Bury’s Diary: “All the gentlemen … looked beautiful in their dress clothes.”

For my dress clothes I have things like suits and sports jackets. But I rarely wear them when I’m teaching, unless it’s a special event. On normal days, I wear Oxford dress shirts–usually blue or purple (Those are the only colors, right?)–with button-down collars; Windsor double-knotted ties; double-pleated, cuffed pants; and wingtip, lace-up shoes with real leather soles. (Please tell me that they do not make dress shoes that do not have leather soles. If you must tell me otherwise, break it to me gently and have some smelling salts handy.)

Ironically, my colleagues and my students think that I wear my dress clothes when I garden. They even think that I wear my dress clothes when I split wood.

Sure. Right. Dress shoes. Dress pants. Dress Shirt. Windsor double-knotted tie. Genuine leather shoes. Imagine. They really think that’s how I dress when I garden. They have even told me so. Right to my face. The nerve.

But let’s move on. Someone’s trying to tell me something.

“Say what? I object vehemently. They do NOT call me a stick-in-the-mud.”

Well, I don’t think they would call me that, but let me see what my trusted friend Mx Oxford has to say. “Look at the old stick-in-the-mud!” (Satirist, or, Censor of the Times, 1832) (I was hoping, with great verdancy, that mud in stick-in-the mud would have something to do with garden soil. Was I ever wrong!)

Now I’m hearing someone else whispering in my ear.

“Stop goading me! They don’t call me a dandy, either.”

Hmmm…dandy might actually be better than stick-in-the-mud. Mx Oxford will know. “A Dandy is a Clothes-wearing Man, a Man whose trade, office, and existence consists in the wearing of Clothes” (Thomas Carlyle, Sarto Resartus, 1834).

Isn’t that just dandy? I admit, though, that the usage of dandy in the quoted sentence seems as contorted as a willow.

Now that I think of it, however, twelfth Librarian of Congress Daniel Boorstin was sometimes seen as a DANdy. Well. Yes. Of course. He always wore his signature bow tie. Bow tie Dan.

While I’m not sure that I like having people perceive me as a dandy, I don’t mind it at all if it puts me in Dr. Boorstin’s company. Who knows. His bow tie made him stand out in the world of learning and librarianship. Maybe my clothes will make me stand out in the world of education, and, when it comes to gardening, maybe my clothes will make me outstanding in the field.

But let me get back to the word attire that’s part of this post’s title. I struggled with that word choice. I’ve never thought of using attire to refer to what I wear, on any occasion. “And do you now put on your best attyre?” (Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 1623).

However, since I do put on my best attire for my students and my colleagues, it seems appropriate to include the word in the title. All of my protestations notwithstanding, they are certain that’s what I wear when I garden.

Maybe this post will convince them otherwise. I have taken off my threads. I have taken off my costume. I have taken off my clothes. And I have taken off my attire which I never had on in the first place.

Now look at me. Well, on the other hand, don’t.

Give me time, at least, to get dressed in the sad clothes that I actually wear when I garden. As will be evident, even a wordster like me lacks the ability to gussy up clothes like mine that are pitifully mundane.

When I garden on my days off, I wear an old, tattered baseball cap–faded burgundy–brim forward.

When I garden on my days off, I wear the oldest, grungiest t-shirt that I own. I own several. I like grunge options.

When I garden on my days off, I wear blue jeans so faded, so wholly holey, so fringed, and worn so bare in all the right places that they would fetch a fortune on all the wrong fashion racks.

When I garden on my days off, I wear steel-toed, unstylish, waterproof work boots that allow me to be comfortable and confident in all the tough places where I tend to go.

That’s it. That’s what I wear when I garden on my days off.

It goes without saying that I am thrilled beyond thrills that my students and my colleagues see my attire, my clothes, my costume, and my threads through a lens that commands such respect.

If they could only see me on my days off–especially on my gardening days–they would be intrigued by my ability to reinvent not only myself but also my attire.

The Wired Researcher

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

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