Tag Archives: Humor

Thanksgiving Shenanigans with Poor Brentford Lee

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Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher has Poor Brentford Lee
and welcomes him back as a guest contributor—
louder than a sardine timer and twice as slippery—
to sanctify
our Thanksgiving tables
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Discerning readers like you, My Dear Friends, have no doubt noticed that from time to time, I write my posts under what I would call my nom de plume, Poor Brentford Lee. I like it, especially since it always makes me feel that I’m right up there in American letters right beside Ben Franklin and his famed Poor Richard.

I suspect it is with me as it was with Franklin. Using a nom de plume allows me to say things that I might have better sense than to say under my real name.

Anyway, I like Poor Brentford Lee enough that I let him grab hold of my smartphone and tap his heart away to share whatever it is he insists on sharing about Thanksgiving!

And this, My Dear Friends, is precisely where I step aside and let Poor Brentford take over. He’s already clearing his throat, poised to pontificate about Thanksgiving and give you a mouthful about all the other holidays we might celebrate. Or not.

Take it away, Poor Brentford…

Law me, Child, you would think folks would leave well enough alone and let Thanksgiving shine on its own once a year. But no. One day’s not enough for some people. They’ve gone and populated the whole turkey week with holidays!

Where shall I begin and how shall I spit out all the celebrations making every day on my calendar look like parchment with measles.

I’ll tell you here and now. Lace your girdle. Tighten your suspenders. Better still. Do both.

“Who? Me?”

“Yes. You. You tin-bellied Buzzard.”

And no. It is not true, the rumor that you may have heard that Ben Franklin wanted the buzzard to be declared America’s national bird. (And even if he had, he would not have endorsed eating it for Thanksgiving instead of turkey. So don’t let my nonsense bother your pretty little mind nary a whit when you sit down and take a gander at the golden bird on your table. It’s a turkey. And, besides, a turkey by any other name tastes the same.) But he did prefer the turkey over the Bald Eagle–which was, is, and forever shall be America’s national bird. He thought the eagle had “bad moral character” whereas the turkey was a bird “of courage.” But I assure you, Franklin never advocated that the turkey–or buzzard–be elevated to a national symbol.

But let’s get back to this bird of courage, with my genuine assurance that you’ll be stuffed by the time yours is done. (And it may be already.)

Do you realize that just a few days ago–Monday, November 24–folks celebrated:

● Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day. (Law me, Child, half of us still haven’t identified a talent, and the other half are busy showing theirs off on Facebook. Settle down and smooth your feathers. We’re all special just as we are.)

● D. B. Cooper Day. (Lord help us! Who in their stuffed mind celebrates a masked, unidentified airplane hijacker? Pass the gravy, please—and make it strong.)

● International Au Pair Day. (Bless their ambitious little hearts. Raising other people’s children while living in their basements. That’s not a holiday—that’s a calling.)

● National Brand Day. (Because nothing says Thanksgiving spirit like corporate logos. Law me twice and hand me a napkin.)

● National Fairy Bread Day. (Child, that’s just white bread with butter and sprinkles. The Australians have some nerve calling it a delicacy. Bless their festive little hearts.)

● National Sardines Day. (Well, thank you! I think I will. Pass the saltines, please. Those fishies may be little, but they sure pack the omegas. Goodness, no. No need to open the windows. Light a candle? Have you lost your mind? Eat some sardines and chill.)

Land’s sake. That’s just Monday’s shenanigans.

I won’t dare trot my way through Tuesday and Wednesday, and when we get to Thanksgiving Day (the granddaddy of all American feasts), we’ve got at least five other celebrations dotting up my measled calendar—including Turkey-Free Thanksgiving. (I’m about to faint. Run fetch the smelling salts, please.) And Pins and Needles Day. (No doubt all the turkeys in the land are on theirs. My stars, even the Macy’s balloons look nervous.)

And don’t get me started on what follows on Friday. It’s none other than Black Friday, but Poor Brentford calls it National Lose Your Religion Day.

Thank your lucky un-plucked feathers that brings us to December, filled with an entire navigation of celebratory days that won’t get stuck in anybody’s craw.

The month barely opens before we’re knee-deep in Advent (which starts on November 30 this year—law me, Sweetheart, some of us are still digesting stuffing and the rest of us are remembering that we meant to buy candles).

Then comes December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (a reminder that December still knows how to be holy before the cookies take over).

December 10 brings Human Rights Day (which, given the state of the world, ought to be celebrated daily, loudly, and with snacks).

December 12 offers the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe (a celebration so radiant it could light a path clear across the Shenandoah), and December 13 arrives with Saint Lucy’s Day (bless their bright little candles; it’s the one holiday where setting fire to your hair is considered festive).

And then, Sugar, December 21 rolls in with the Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year—when the sun says “I’m tired” and slips behind the hills before Poor Brentford has found his reading glasses).

December 24 is Christmas Eve (the day we all lie and say “just one more cookie”), December 25 is Christmas Day (the grandmammy of gift wrap and gravy boats), and December 26 brings the first day of Kwanzaa and Boxing Day (a pair of celebrations that stretch the season just a little sweeter and a little longer).

Finally, December 31 lurches toward us as New Year’s Eve (when half the country watches the ball drop and the other half drops before the ball does).

And before you start thinking December has nothing left to get stuck in your craw, Dear One, let Poor Brentford assure you otherwise. We haven’t even touched the other December shenanigans—those bafflin’, bedazzlin’, bubble-blowin’ celebrations that make a body wonder who’s in charge of this calendar.

Take Package Protection Day (Law me, Sweetheart, if your packages need protection, it’s already too late).

Then there’s Bathtub Party Day (Heavens no. These bubbles are reserved for… well, that’s none of your business).

Put On Your Own Shoes Day arrives next (bless their slow little hearts—and who, pray tell, was puttin’ ’em on before today?).

National Letter Writing Day finally appears (fetch me a quill and ink pot pen before the feeling passes), followed closely by Weary Willie Day (and aren’t we all, after this calendar?).

Then up pops Dewey Decimal System Day (now kiss my librarian grits—this is a holiday worthy of humanity), and International Mountain Day (Child, here in the Shenandoah, every day is Mountain Day, even Tuesday).

Fast-forward a bit and December tosses out National Whiners’ Day (celebrated mostly by folks returning gifts they don’t deserve), followed by Still Need To Do Day (my to-do list fainted dead away—fetch the smelling salts), and finally Make Up Your Mind Day (if only—Poor Brentford’s been undecided since the first time he picked up a pen).

As for me, I’ve made up my mind that I’ve stuffed you with enough celebrations already, and I’m not about to puff up my feathers and strut around with more. Land’s sake alive! If I got going on all the celebrations we won’t be celebrating in 2026, I’d be here forever and you’d be reading even longer. (One reader told me just a feather or two ago that I was getting pretty windy.)

Now, before you fan yourself and declare that Poor Brentford has lost the last marble he was ever loaned, let me tell you something plain and true. All this fussin’ and frettin’ over holidays—big ones, little ones, ridiculous ones—might seem like the carryings-on of a nation that’s plum run out of sense. But Sugar, I don’t think that’s it at all. Not deep down.

I think we keep inventing these goldurned celebrations because we’re hungry for each other. Hungry for community, for belonging, for a reason—any reason—to stop the world long enough to say, “I’m here, you’re here, thank heavens we made it another day.”

We are a scattered people trying to stitch ourselves back together with whatever thread we can find—peppermint bark, bathtub bubbles, mountain days, turkey days, even days devoted to weary Willies and packages that need protecting. It’s laughable, yes. But it’s also a kind of hope. A kind of reaching.

And if you ask me—and you didn’t, but here I go anyway—I think we ought to take these foolish little observances and set them right on the Thanksgiving table alongside the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Call them what they are:

Laughable Blessings.

Because heaven knows we need reasons to laugh. We need excuses to gather. We need bright spots—silly or sacred—that remind us we belong to one another, even on the days we feel most alone.

So Child, if some little holiday comes along and tickles your wishbone or nudges your heart, pull up a chair at your Thanksgiving table and let it sit a spell. Celebrate it. Laugh at it. Give thanks for it.

Light a candle. Bake a pie. Wear the dress or don’t (but mercy, cover the essentials). Put on your own shoes—today or tomorrow.

Because in the end, Thanksgiving isn’t only about turkeys and table linens. It’s about noticing the small things—absurd, tender, holy—that remind us how lucky we are to be here at all.

And that, My Dear Readers, is a blessing worth celebrating on Thanksgiving and every day of the year.


Poor Brentford Says

Eat well. Laugh loudly.
And Sweetheart, if life insists on giving you
a celebration for every day on the calendar…
count them as blessings — even the laughable ones.

FramilySaid™: For When “Bless Your Heart” Isn’t Enough

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Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher now welcomes a guest contributor:
Poor Brentford Lee,
who has agreed to sanctify our troubled times
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Approved by ole Ben Franklin.
Improved by Poor Brentford Lee

“Forgiveness is divine—but FramilySaid™ is faster and comes in gummable gummies.”

-— Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947). Unlicensed. Unfiltered. Unapologetically adopted.
Known for saying the quiet part loud, he’s back by popular demand (and at least one cease-and-desist letter). Seasoned expert in nothing but experience. Sourdough connoisseur. Self-declared inventor of emotional supplements. Hangs out somewhere between a heavenly blessing and A HOMEMADE biscuit (preferably sourdough).

Years and years ago, in one of my brilliant moments—you know, the kind that arrive somewhere between misplacing your glasses and finding your purpose—I concocted a miracle elixir. An emotional balm. A psychological salve. A chewable sacrament.

And I’m convinced—when it’s finally patented, mass-produced, and widely distributed—it will relieve the world of all its wounds and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Or, at the very least, it will help you forget them for a little while. And really, isn’t that what the world needs most right now? Not advice. Not enlightenment. Not deep therapy.

All you need is Forgetfulness.

Chances are good that if you’re reading this—and have not forgotten—you’re an Oldie-Goldie who still remembers when love was all you needed, and your hips didn’t pop when you bent over.

But friend, times have changed. Now what the world needs isn’t just love—it’s a little bit of blessed, blissful forgetfulness.

So in the spirit of rock legends and gospel truths, I offer you an updated version of the Beatles’ classic. Hum along. Or gum along. Or just pretend you know the tune and clap on the offbeat:

All You Need Is Forgetfulness (Redux)
(with apologies to Lennon & McCartney—and gratitude, too)

There’s nothing they can say that can’t be un-heard
No shame so deep it can’t be deterred
No burn so old it can’t be un-spurred
You can let it go

All you need is forgetfulness
(Da-da-da-da-da)
All you need is forgetfulness
(Sing it like you mean it)
All you need is forgetfulness, forgetfulness
Forgetfulness is all you need

(Slide whistle optional. Biscuit in hand, sourdough preferred.)

Yep. That’s it. All you need is forgetfulness. Not the kind that sneaks up on you in your golden years, when you can’t remember who you bit when you meant to kiss or where you were going with your pants unzipped or where you’ve been with a bowl of popcorn when you went to get strawberries. No—I’m talking about on-demand forgetfulness. Reliable, immediate, with controlled-release options for holidays, family reunions, and any Sunday when your phone rings before you’ve had time to check your Fitbit to make sure you made it through the night.

That, My Dear Readers, is where FramilySaid™ comes in.

They mean well. They always do—those “bless your heart” people. But sometimes, what your framily says can lodge itself right in the soft tissue of your soul, like a splinter from the communion table.

That’s why I made FramilySaid™—not FDA-approved (yet), but clinically proven (by yours truly) to dull the sting of being emotionally ignored by people who should know better. In gummable form, naturally.

A Quick Word about the Name.

FramilySaid™ is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a mountain prof’s fusion of friends, family, and the things they’ve said—bless ’em.

Because sometimes, it’s the people closest to you (by blood—or, in my case, by adoption—history, or shared casserole) whose words linger just a little too long. Who don’t mean to hurt you but somehow do. Who support you privately … but not publicly. Who say “I love you” but never with the clincher: “just the way you are.”

When they speak and zing you with their petty little barbs? FramilySaid™ can help you. Un-hear it. Un-feel it. Un-bother yourself entirely.

A New Kind of Relief.

I developed this product in a dimly lit, emotionally unstable lab located precisely between my kitchen and a moment of near-epiphany. FramilySaid™ is the first over-the-counter solution specifically designed to help you temporarily forget your people. Not all of them, bless ’em. Just the ones whose “support” lost all its elasticity because you’re doing all the emotional heavy lifting.

Get this. FramilySaid™ is so hip that it comes in gummy form. Flavors include Denial-Drop Cherry and Emotional Support Butterscotch. Easy to chew. Easy to swallow. No dentures? No problem. Just gum it and go.

I just heard a panicked soul (bless their heart) blurt out:

“How can I get me some?”

Well, bless your little heart. It’s so simple. Go online–or use your phone app–and in just a few clicks you’ll be consulting with a doctor named “Jeff” who is definitely certified but not necessarily licensed. Within days or maybe even as soon as yesterday—Poof! A discreet brown package arrives at your door—just like your sex toys arrive, but with more dignity—and fewer batteries.

Anyway, from that point forward, you’ve got protection from friends and family. Take FramilySaid™ when the text message lands wrong. Take it when the smile feels fake. Take it when someone who “loves you no matter what” leaves your partner off the guest list.

Take it. Just take it. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.

Now go ahead. Swallow your truth with a buttery sourdough biscuit, included free, one for every FramilySaid™ gummy included in your order. Remember: Cheaper by the Baker’s Dozen.

Now breathe. Breathe again. You’ve got this.

Situations When You Might Need a Gummy.

Situation #1. You call with good news—any kind of news, really—and they respond with:

“Oh, that’s… nice.”

You smile politely. Take a FramilySaid™ gummy. Let the world blur at the edges.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child…”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin with precision, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little pea-pickin’ heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits?”

Situation #2. You share something meaningful—a photo, a milestone, a moment—and get nothing but a thumbs-up emoji.

You chew slowly. Cinnamon apathy floods your tongue.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lean back, fan himself once, and say:

“Why, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours nary one bit.”

Then, with that same cool smile, he’d add:

“Well, bless your little heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits? I need me ‘nuther one”

Situation #3. You confide in someone you thought might be a safe space. Instead, they tilt their head like a golden retriever hearing static and say:

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

You double your dosage and erase five awkward conversations from memory.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:

“Law me, child… we are officially rationing warmth now.”

And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin precisely, and add demurely:

“Well, bless your little heart. Them sourdough biscuits sure are good. Can I have just one more? Not the whole basket. Thank you kindly.”

Situation #4. Someone finally asks:

“How did you two old geysers meet anyway?”

But get this. Their tone sounds more like a customs agent than a curious soul.

You suddenly feel like a suspect in your own joy. FramilySaid™ softens the interrogation.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lift one eyebrow, cross his silverware, and murmur:

“Law me, child. Love ain’t no interview.”

Then he’d smile–all teeth, all grace–and whisper at his loudest:

“Well, bless your little heart. I think I’ll have another sourdough biscuit—maybe two if you’re feeling generous.”

Situation #5. On one of your hardest days ever in your entire ancient life, you look up at the sky—not metaphorically, but really look—and ask:

“God? Really? After all I’ve done to live with grace, to love deeply, to forgive… and this is still where I land?”

That’s when you reach for the God-level dose. FramilySaid™ won’t answer the prayer. But it will quiet the ache long enough for you to refill your hope.

And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d blink once, breathe deep, and say,

“Law me, child. Even Heaven can ghost you sometimes.”

Then with a reverent nod upward:

“Well, bless your eternal heart. Hand me a biscuit. The everlastin’ kind.”

™ … ™ … ™

Final Notes from the Founder.

Every time you take FramilySaid™, you’ll forget for a spell. You’ll feel better for a spell.
Might smile, hum a tune, maybe even whistle while folding your fitted sheets.

But eventually—inevitably—you’ll sit real still. And your heart will tap you on the shoulder and say:

“This ache? It don’t need numbing. It needs naming.”

And you’ll remember:

“It wasn’t the forgetting that healed you. It was remembering the friendship and kinship you truly deserve.“

So go ahead. Declare what you need. Claim your joy. Refill your prescriptions for love, laughter, and a little holy audacity.

And if someone still doesn’t get it?

“Well, bless their little hearts. Just hand ’em one of those perpetual sourdough biscuits and smile like you mean it.”

Coming Soon from the Maker of FramilySaid™.

Because sometimes one generic gummy just isn’t enough, the Maker offers you some specific options:

● SisterStrength™ – For passive-aggression that’s been simmering since the day before forever.

● CousinClear™ – When you can’t remember which cousin sells snake-oils and which one married his ex’s sister brother’s husband.

● UncleMute™ – One dose silences three stories about the Civil Wah he and his kin are still fightin’.

● MatriarchMax™ – For that layered guilt, always served hot, always with a side of pie—and a smile.

● HolidayProlonged Release™ – Kicks in during grace and peaks after the second round of green bean casserole.

A Final, Final Word from the Maker—Yours and Mine—The Big One Who Always Gets the Last Word.

Forgetting isn’t what you need, child.
Remembering what you’re worth?
Dagnabbit. That’s exactly what you need.
That’s the real prescription.
(Signed, sealed, and delivered by Poor Brentford Lee, totally unlicensed but highly seasoned.)

While you’re remembering, just reach up and hand me a sourdough biscuit, swallow your pride, go ahead and make up with your low-down, no-good Framily. And then? Move it. Move it. Move it—as fast as a tumbleweed in a windstorm.

And don’t forget Poor Brentford Lee, sitting here, there, and everywhere–all smiles–saying to himself for no one else to hear:

“Law me. Won’t you lay one on me? No, no. Not a biscuit—though they are mighty fine. Just a blessing, child. That’s all I ever needed.”

Poor Brentford Says

“Your worth doesn’t need a witness.
Show up for yourself.
That’s the real feast.”

The Right-Size Glass

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“Accept—then act. Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”

–Eckhart Tolle (b. 1948). German-born spiritual teacher and author of The Power of Now and A New Earth, whose teachings focus on presence, acceptance, and personal transformation.

A few weeks ago, over cocktails and conversation, my neighbor—an IT guy with a philosophical streak—offered a twist on the old “glass half full or half empty” dilemma. His late wife, Jody, always saw the glass as half-full, but as an engineer, Gary sees it differently:

“Just get a glass that’s the right size for what you’ve got.”

At the time, I nodded politely and filed it under:

“Clever things other people say that may or may not linger in my memory.”

Turns out, I remembered.

A few mornings later—cue ominous music!—my tablet powered up with all the charm of a sulky teenager and promptly informed me that Microsoft had done me the favor of wiping my PowerPoint app into oblivion.

This, mind you, on the eve of speaking to the Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Society—an international gathering of scholars and fellow literary sleuths—about a woman who has occupied both my imagination and my file drawers for over fifty years. The event was titled An Hour with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Brent L. Kendrick. The tech test was hours away. I clicked. I reinstalled. I cursed. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

And then I thought of my neighbor.

“Wrong glass, Brent.”

I hauled my all-in-one PC upstairs to the better WiFi zone, and boom—there it was. Slides intact. Calm restored. Presentation saved.

Turns out, sometimes you don’t need more water. You just need the right-size glass.

Since then, I’ve been thinking more about the right-size-glass concept, and I can think of several other times when I applied it unawares.

There was a time, for example, when I thought my glass had shattered completely. Not cracked—shattered. After Allen died, I wasn’t sure there was any vessel left that could hold what I’d once poured so freely: love, joy, even hope. For a long while, I didn’t try. But healing has its own quiet rhythm, and eventually, I realized I didn’t need the same glass. I just needed one shaped for the life I have now. It took a while, but recently I’ve found one the right size to hold who I’ve become. To hold who I am. Now.

Long before that right-size-glass moment came the time when I first moved to my mountain. I wanted a cabin in the clearing—so I cleared a wide swath of woods to make it so. I cleared far more than I could have imagined, and certainly more than I could realistically manage, especially now at my age. Some days, it feels like my glass is half empty, like I’m falling behind. But the truth is, I just need a different-sized glass. If I choose—as I have chosen—to let some of those cleared areas return to their wild, natural state, I haven’t lost anything. In fact, my glass is now full—full of birdsong and the wisdom of knowing when to stop clearing and simply let things grow.

I think we can apply the “right-size-glass” concept to more than gardening and grief.

Let’s begin with a few low-stakes moments—the ones that test our patience more than our purpose.

● Cooking substitution. Out of buttermilk? Use yogurt and lemon. Different glass. Same outcome.

● Gardening workaround. Tried planting in the wrong spot? Don’t mourn the wilt—move the pot.

● Home décor puzzle. Wardrobe too big for one wall? Move it to a room with a larger wall that showcases all of its Shaker joinery.

Some shifts, though, aren’t minor—they’re wake-up calls. Still, the right-size glass helps.

● Travel plans. Canceled? Money’s tight? Plan a “staycation” with the same sense of purpose.

● Exercise limitations. Can’t run anymore? Try swimming or yoga. Same vitality, different vessel.

● Friendship shift. Someone pulls away? Focus on others who consistently show up.

● Career detours. Passed over for a promotion? Use the freedom to explore a side gig or project with heart.

Or let’s move on up a little higher to some emotional and existential applications.

● Creative droughts. When the writing won’t flow, ask: is it really writer’s block—or just the wrong-shaped glass for the ideas trying to come through?

● Life plan upended. Divorce, retirement, illness—what happens when your “glass” shatters? You pick up what still holds and find a new container for your spirit.

● Shifting beliefs. Formerly held faith, politics, or ideals evolve? Refill your life with what still nourishes—and let go of the brittle framework.

By now, I’m willing to bet you’ve started thinking of your own moments—the ones when you didn’t force what no longer fit, but quietly shifted, adjusted, adapted. Maybe you pivoted. Maybe you paused. Either way, those are the moments that reshape a life.

So, my Dear Readers, consider this your open invitation to rethink how you hold disappointment, change, resistance—or anything else that life sets before you. Not by pouring harder into what doesn’t fit, but by choosing a different container altogether.

Here’s to finding the right-size glass—for your spirit, your strength, your joy.

When the Heat Is On: Cue the Vacay!

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“You don’t have to be rich to travel well.”

–Eugene Fodor (1905–1991; notable American travel writer and editor best known for founding Fodor’s Travel Publications).

All right, everyone, indulge me for a moment and imagine something a bit out of the ordinary.

Close your eyes and conjure up an image the likes of which I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before. Picture a man in his 70s, proudly sporting a ponytail that flutters like a whimsical flag in the breeze, perched precariously atop his chimney. Clad in well-worn flip flops and cut-off blue-jean shorts that reveal a pair of weathered but surprisingly spry and some-say-sexy legs, he stands with the kind of balance that suggests he’s either a seasoned acrobat or a silly fool blissfully unaware of danger.

From this lofty perch, he’s gazing out over the Shenandoah Valley below, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf’s, while the mountains in the distance seem to be returning their own salubrious salutation. With all the gusto of a wired researcher on a caffeine overdose, he belts out the Hallelujah Chorus at full volume, his voice soaring like a defiant eagle. His performance is a grand spectacle of unbridled joy and unequaled eccentricity, turning the chimney into his personal stage and the sky into his private audience.

In case you’re wondering who this daring rooftop performer is and why he’s carrying on such shenanigans, lean in close, and I’ll tell you. It’s me! I’m celebrating what appears to be the temporary end of an exhausting heat wave and drought by having my own imaginary rooftop concert that would make any diva proud. After enduring what felt like a never-ending barrage of scorching temperatures and parched landscapes, I figured it was high time for a little over-the-top jubilation. And if there’s anything that I love, it’s everything over-the-top.

Cooler temps and rain seem to be headed our way, and I’m embracing the arrival of this much-needed relief with the kind of exuberance that only a seasoned professor of hot weather clichés could cobble together. It’s been so blisteringly hot that I nearly froze to death, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve become a connoisseur of every sun-scorched saying you can imagine. I’ve spent weeks sweating buckets, trying not to fry like an egg on the hood of my Gladiator, and lamenting the fact that my car seats are doubling as personal saunas. I’ve become a pro at grumbling about the weather, wondering whether my walkway pavers were actually sizzling, and dreaming of anything that wasn’t a mirage.

Guess what else I did during the sweltering days that are temporarily behind us? I put off more tasks than Carter’s got liver pills! Yep. The heat and drought have been an excuse, whether I was avoiding the garden beds that have turned into dust bowls or ignoring other projects that seemed like too much effort in a heatwave. I’ve postponed weedwhacking, repairing the leaky faucet that’s been dripping like a leaky faucet (because, let’s face it, who wants to fix a sink when it feels like you’re living inside an oven?), and even organizing the loft, which has somehow become a haphazard shrine to summer’s oppressive heat.

Guess what else I did? I decided that I needed to take a vacation! Yep. You heard me right. I decided that I needed some good old-fashioned downtime. But dayum! Before I could even plan to take it, I found myself all curled up and relaxed with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) so that I could find out all about the vacation that the dreaded heat and drought convinced me that I needed to take.

As might be expected, our kith and kin Across the Pond used the word vacation as a noun long before we did, all the way back in 1405:

“Whan he hadde leyser and vacacion ffrom oother worldly ocupacion” (Chaucer, Wife of Bath’s Tale Prologue l. 683).

Isn’t that fascinating? Of course it is. More fascinating, though, is the fact that we Americans used it first as a verb in 1866:

“Whether Winter or summer, … threading the filthy lands of the Ghetto or vacationing among the islands, Mr. Howells found Venice … a theme for constant studies” (Round Table 8 September 90/2).

Now that I’m all squared away on the word vacation, I think I’ll spend just another second or two finding out when the phrase take a vacation was first used. You might have known it. The OED has the scoop:

“Smoke Jordan tried hard to get him to … maybe take a vacation, Florida’s nice. ‘Get yourself wheeled up and down like an icky banker?’” (D. Baker, Young Man with Horn, 1938)

What the OED does not disclose is fascinating as well, and I wouldn’t know it if I had not wanted to find out who “D. Baker” is. As it turns out, Dorothy Baker was an American novelist who loved jazz. In fact, her Young Man with Horn was based on real-life jazz cornet player Bix Beiderbecke. Even better is this hot tidbit: the novel was made into a 1950 movie featuring such hotties as Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, Lauren Bacall, Juano Hernández, and Beiderbecke’s friend and collaborator Hoagy Carmichael.

Well, these word trips are turning out to be as much fun as a vacay! OMG! Did I just use that word? Well, I did, and since my OED is still open (virtually), I just have to see when vacay was first used. I’m betting that it was coined by an American. Those Brits have no problem when they need to stoop to conquer, but they would never think about stooping low enough to truncate a word. Well, I was right. Vacay was first used in 1992:

“He said he was going on vacay and would give me something after he gets back” (Re: More on getting Gigs in rec. music. makers 14 January, Usenet newsgroup., accessed 13 Sept. 2013).

Just a sec, though. I might be wrong to claim the first usage as American. The OED‘s citation is rather shabby, in my opinion, and I can’t determine the authorship with any certainty. Lector: Cave a fidem non probatis.

I shall not, then, trust my initial claim, but I shall trust my subsequent claim that the next usage of the word vacay was American. It appeared in 1995 in the Pittsburg-Post Gazette:

“The convertible … was my Mom’s, we were on vacay” (16 July g8/2).

As for va-cay, vakay, and va-kay–those variant spellings of vacay–the OED has not seen fit to include them at all. I find that rather strange, however, since I am certain that I have seen them in use somewhere or other, perhaps right here in my blog. Ab ridiculo ad sublimem transire.

Hooey phooey is all that I have to say. Leave it to me to turn a vacation into a bunch of malarkey!

However, in case you’re thinking that you might need a vacation, let me help you. If you find yourself nodding along to any of the subsequent scenarios, it’s time to cue the vacay:

● Work: Your boss thinks “work-life balance” means balancing more work on your plate. Your to-do list looks like a never-ending scroll of doom. You start dreaming about spreadsheets. You feel like a juggler on a unicycle, minus the thrill. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Social Media: You’ve scrolled so much that you start liking your own posts. You find yourself in a deep rabbit hole, liking posts from three years ago, and you’re contemplating the philosophical implications of cat memes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Family Gatherings: Your aunt asks (for the 15th time) why you’re still single. You’re dodging advice and daydreaming about automated responses. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dieting: You’re on a diet of kale smoothies and quinoa bowls, and you start dreaming about burgers and ice cream like they’re forbidden treasures from a lost civilization. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Home Improvement Projects: Your “quick” weekend project turns into a month-long renovation of ginormous proportions, complete with a gazillion trips to the hardware store and questionable structural changes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● News: You’re considering a bunker in the backyard. Dystopian novels of doom and gloom look cheerful compared to your news feed. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dating Apps: You’re swiping so much that it feels like a full-time job. Your thumb is sore, your eyes are glazed over, and every profile starts to blend into one amor(ph)ous blob. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Exercise Regimens: Your workout routine feels more like a medieval torture session. You’re dreading your workouts more than a trip to the dentist. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Parenting: “Me time” means locking yourself in the bathroom with a chocolate bar. Your rare escape feels like a luxury retreat. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Blogging: Your efforts to craft engaging content week after week during a record-breaking heat wave and drought feel like an endless marathon. You’re standing on the chimney singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Yep. Cue the vacay!

Dayum! Dayum!! Dayum!!! Here I’ve done gone and paved the way for me to have a perfectly legit blogging vacay this week, and wouldn’t you just know it! I’ve done gone and cranked out today’s blog anyway! Phooey!

Clearly, my brain has been baking in the sun too long. Tuff. I’ll keep right on gazing from my imaginary chimney perch, realizing that, sometimes, the best way for me to break free from the grind and the heat is to let my imagination run wild and embrace the breeze of a little bit of whimsical madness.

I hope that you, Dear Reader, find your own rooftop, whether real or metaphorical, and that you sing your heart out when the world gets a little too hot to handle. Whether it’s a break from work, social media, family, or even blogging, taking a vacay isn’t just about escaping the heat—it’s about rediscovering the joy in life’s little quirks and celebrating them with gusto.

Cheers to your vacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.

Abandon Hope? Not a Chance!

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“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”

—Desmond Tutu (1931–2021; a South African Anglican bishop, social rights activist, leading figure in the struggle against apartheid, and an enduring global symbol of hope and resilience.)

Sometimes, a recollection gets trapped in my mind and won’t exit, even when I open a door. One memory paid me a visit weeks ago, and it’s still lingering. I’ve decided that the best way to get rid of it is to write about it, send it out into the world, and let it take up residence in other people’s minds. So, here: it’s yours now.

The memory is from 1968. Student attitudes on college campuses–even at a conservative school like Alderson-Broaddus, where I was a junior–were marked by activism and rejection of traditional norms and authority. Fueled by the counterculture movement, we protested for civil rights, opposed the Vietnam War, and championed various social justice causes, shaping a decade defined by idealism and dissent.

Some of that spirit spilled over into the classroom and sometimes made some of us bolder than we might otherwise have been.

It certainly made me bolder that spring when I was taking a three-credit World Literature course. We focused heavily on Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy, widely considered to be the pre-eminent work in Italian literature and one of the greatest works of Western literature. Divided into three parts–Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso–the poem explores the state of the soul after death and its journey toward God.

My classmates and I felt challenged by Dr. Callison’s rigor and her insistence that we gain an in-depth understanding of this acclaimed literary work. We did, as I recall, and we even grew to like the poem, playfully sprinkling our daily conversations with some of its famous lines.

Nonetheless, we all felt anxious as exam day approached. I decided to be bold and comedic by making a banner to put above our classroom door so that my classmates would see it as they walked in to take the exam. I created the banner alone, told no one about it, went to our classroom in Old Main, and hung the banner well in advance. There–in a position of prominence for my classmates and Dr. Callison to see as they entered–was a line from the Inferno section of The Divine Comedy as Dante passes through the gate of Hell:

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

I wanted the banner to be a grim but humorous reminder that as we faced the Hellish torments of Dr. Callison’s exam, we could neither be redeemed nor rescued.

Everyone stared at the banner as they entered the classroom and proceeded to their seats. Some laughed. Some gasped. All questioned: “Who would dare be so bold, especially in Dr. Callison’s class?” Some even speculated that she was the prankster. I sat there quietly, hoping to look as innocent as one of the souls headed toward Paradise.

My countenance worked. No one suspected me, not even Dr. Callison when she walked through the door. To our surprise, she burst into laughter and continued laughing as she handed out bluebooks and wished us well on the exam.

I’ve thought about that day often down through the years, not because of my bold banter–revealed here for the first time ever–but rather because of my take on the famous line, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” I understood the literal interpretation of the line precisely. It’s a warning to all who enter Hell that they are leaving behind all hope of salvation or escape. It sets the tone for the suffering and despair that pervades Hell, emphasizing the eternal nature of the punishment awaiting the damned souls within.

However, as a student then–and as a lifelong learner now–I find that literature takes on richer dimensions when looked at metaphorically.

I saw Dante’s poetic line then–and I see it now–as a caution against entering into a state of despair or hopelessness. It suggests that giving in to despair is like crossing a threshold into a mental or emotional Hell, where recovery becomes incredibly difficult if not impossible. It’s a warning to maintain hope and resilience even in challenging circumstances. Otherwise, we will create our own Hell and live in it right here on earth.

Don’t get me wrong. I know despair. Who doesn’t experience despair during moments of profound loss, such as the death of a loved one, the end of a significant relationship, or the loss of a job? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when grappling with chronic illness or debilitating injury, especially if it hinders our ability to pursue our passions or maintain our independence? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when feeling overwhelmed by financial struggles, loneliness, or a sense of purposelessness? We all do.

Although I understand the nature of despair, it seems to me that embracing a positive and optimistic mindset can be a powerful antidote to despair.

Years ago, I made a conscious decision that my glass would always be “half full” and that I would actively cultivate a positive outlook on life, even in the face of challenges. That approach has served me well.

Let me share with you some of the strategies that I use to foster positivity and optimism.

I strive to find joy in everyday moments. I cultivate mindfulness by being fully present and appreciating the simple pleasures of life, whether it’s a beautiful sunset on my mountaintop, a delicious meal in my kitchen, or a heartfelt conversation with a stranger.

I work hard at practicing positive thinking. When negative thoughts come my way–and they do–I reframe them in a more positive light. When I have problems–and I do–I shift my focus and dwell in the realm of solutions.

I make a point every day of counting my blessings. Sometimes, I carve out time to reflect on the things that I’m grateful for. However, more often than not, I take time to be grateful each time I’m aware of a blessing. I find that approach to gratitude lets me be in constant celebration of what I have.

I do my best to surround myself with positivity. I listen to uplifting music, and I spend time with optimistic and supportive people who uplift and encourage. Positivity is contagious.

I make living a healthy lifestyle a priority. I know that my physical well-being directly influences my mental and emotional health. Indoor biking is a priority for me, along with nutritious eating, adequate sleep, and meditation. All of those things work together to keep me upbeat and resilient.

I do my best to practice self-compassion. I try to be kind to myself when the going is rough, and I try to treat myself with the same compassion and understanding that I offer others who would be facing similar challenges.

I believe in laughter. I don’t have to work too hard to find humor in life through books, jokes, spending time with friends who make me laugh, or, best of all, laughing at being me. Humor provides relief and perspective in tough times.

I’ve saved my best strategy for last because it’s the one that I know I can rely on the most. I cultivate a sense of faith or belief in the overall goodness of life and humanity. I trust and believe that, despite challenges, humanity’s inherent thrust toward greatness and goodness will prevail.

I must add that because I work to stay positive doesn’t mean that I ignore or deny negative emotions. I don’t. I acknowledge them while consciously choosing to focus on the positive aspects of life and maintaining hope for the future.

As I look back on that bold act of hanging the banner, I realize how much it symbolizes a pivotal lesson from my college years—maintaining hope and resilience in the face of adversity. That memorable day in Dr. Callison’s class reaffirmed for me that humor and a positive outlook can transform even the most daunting challenges into manageable experiences.

Now, decades later, I believe that lesson remains relevant. We all encounter moments of despair, but we don’t have to surrender to them. By fostering positivity and optimism, we can navigate life’s hardships more effectively. The strategies I’ve outlined—practicing gratitude, surrounding ourselves with positive influences, and embracing humor—serve as a powerful toolkit against despair.

Ultimately, the famous line from Dante’s Inferno serves as a cautionary reminder not just of the perils of Hell, but of the importance of hope in our daily lives. By choosing to see our glass as half full, we can maintain a sense of purpose and joy, even amid difficulties. Let’s embrace the enduring message that hope and resilience can guide us through even the darkest times.

My Year on Unmatched.com

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Ooh, somebody, ooh (somebody)
Anybody find me somebody to love?
(Can anybody find me someone to love)

–Freddie Mercury (1946-1991; legendary British singer-songwriter, best known as the charismatic frontman of the band Queen; the quote is from their song “Somebody to Love.”)

Some people say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Maybe so. Personally, I’ve never been one to imitate. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum. Yet, way back in 2013, I ran across an essay by Anne Lamott, a New York Times best-selling author and one of my favorite writers. The title was straight to the point: “My Year on Match.com.” In case you don’t know about Match.com, don’t feel bad. At that time, I didn’t either. I’m not certain that I had even heard about it. After all, I was happily partnered and had no desire to know about online dating apps. But I like Lamott a lot and decided to read the essay to find out whether she succeeded in spicing up her life with a studmuffin that she picked up on a dating app.

As I expected, Lamott was as candid, witty, reflective, and self-deprecating as I had always found her to be. Indeed, her essay builds upon her experiences using an online dating app, but she takes it up a notch by exploring themes of self-discovery, resilience, and the importance of authenticity in relationships. It’s a well-structured essay as well as an entertaining read, so I started using it in my Creative Writing classes. It seemed to me that my students couldn’t do better than to imitate Lamott’s memoir style of writing.

Fast forward nearly a decade, and I found myself imitating Lamott, too, in a roundabout way. My partner had died at the start of 2021, and two years or so into my grieving, I started thinking that maybe I should try dating once again. Why not? Doing so would in no way diminish the special relationship that Allen and I had for 20 years. Doing so would in no way diminish the love that we shared and the love that I still feel. Irreplaceable is just that: irreplaceable.

At the same time, like all human beings, I crave companionship and connection, someone with whom I can share experiences, conversations, and life’s moments. Dating might do just that. Equally important, it would be great to have someone who understands, accepts, and offers a sense of emotional security. Dating might do just that. And let’s not forget about being able to engage in shared interests and activities, which can bring joy, excitement, vibrancy, and fulfillment to daily life. Gardening. Cooking. Hiking. Embracing. Kissing. Snuggling. Dating might do just that.

Those notions aren’t new ones for me. If you follow my blog regularly–and I am confident that you do–you will recall that I’ve written about this dating thingy already in my “Dating after Twenty-Three.” Obviously, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I could have written a post as silly as that one without giving some serious thought to the prospect of getting back out there into the dating scene. You bet. I had.

Those ponderings were fueled, in part, by Lamott’s essay. After all, she and I have lots in common. We’re both writers. (All right, fine. I’m not a New York Times best-selling author, yet.) She’s single. I’m single. She’s looking for a man. I’m looking for a man. She wrote about her online dating experience, and here I am writing about mine. Her essay appeared in Salon. Well, mine is appearing here in my blog. Who knows. With luck, it might get picked up by The Advocate or Out Magazine or even Queerty. Simply put, I figured that if Lamott could bring dating apps into my world, so too could I bring them into your world.

However, I confess. Thinking about joining a dating app frightened the hell out of me. It was frightening for Lamott, too:

“I’d done so many scary things in my life, but this might be the scariest. At the age of 58, I joined a dating site.”

That sentence caused me to ghost Lamott for a while. I was downright nasty:

“Stop whining, Anne! You’re a SWF ISO SWM. So what if you’re 58? You can look ahead and behind and find some good stuffds.

“Try being a 76-year-old GWM ISO GWM in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

“Then and only then can you talk about scary.”

All right. I realize that maybe I need to pause here and explain some of those initialisms that I just tossed out. They might be as new to you as they were to me before I tried this online dating thingy.

● SWF ISO SWM stands for Single White Female in Search of Single White Male.

● GWM ISO GWM stands for Gay White Male in Search of Gay White Male.

And, please, please, please, let me explain one more initialism for you in case life makes you take up with a dating app. RN does not stand for Registered Nurse as I, in my naïveté, believed. It stands for Right Now. I will say no more. But I will advise you to be cautious of that initialism unless, of course, you’re looking for RN.

Then, of course, there’s another initialism I should warn you about in case you decide you’re going to imitate me. Dating is fine and dandy, but what I’m really looking for is a date that might become a serious and meaningful relationship that might lead to a Long-Term Relationship. Toward that end and with the intent to be fully candid and transparent, I included LTR in my profile. Bad move. I discovered that in many circles, LTR stands for Leather. Now I know. Now they know. I limit mine to my shoes, my belt, and my book bag. My profile now reads: “ISO meaningful dates leading to possible Long-Term Relationship.”

Finding out the deeper meaning of LTR and RN might well be my most frightening discovery in my online dating experience. I mean, after all, I fell for it. At my age, who wouldn’t look more than once at a man who’s a registered nurse. Well, he wasn’t, and I’m still lookin’.

Notwithstanding near-encounters of the casual, leather kind, I’ve been imitating Lamott for nearly a year, and I certainly have a thing or three to share, and I’ll do so right here, right now. So, let’s see. How shall I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my dating ways? It’s simple. I’ll begin at the beginning when I, armed with nothing but a smartphone, unbelievable naïveté that borders on stupidity, and a questionable sense of humor, tackled a virtual world of dating sites, each boasting to be the ultimate game-changer. Check out their come-ons:

● Love: Only a Click Away. (This might have been where I was introduced to RN.)

● Start Your Love Story Today. (Sadly, everybody out there seems to have a love story. Most are tragedies.)

● There’s much more fun after 50. (Says who? Take me to your leader. RN.)

● A shared interest is just the beginning. (Yep. I’m pretty sure this is where I found LTR. Not shared. Not interested. Next.)

● This is the year to focus on yourself, boost confidence, and attract genuine connections! (Sure. 899 views and 12 likes. What a confidence booster. Those numbers really pump me up.)

● It’s never too late to experience the beauty of togetherness. Join today and find that special someone who will make “together” your favorite place to always be. (Sweet. Sure. Gimme time to buy some Velcro.)

● Don’t waste more time on casual flings. See who our experts match you with, for free. Take our free compatibility quiz today!

I learned fast that the assessments tend to be pretty reliable. I learned even faster that “free” isn’t. What’s the point of belonging to a dating app if I can’t see profile photos and can’t message? If you want to see and if you want to say, get ready to pay. Like I said, “free” isn’t. Everything comes with a price, including online dating.

Then, I learned that online dating isn’t as secure as I expected. Scammers sneak under the radar. Check out this one.

“Hey. I just met my new boyfriend. Otherwise, I’d like to connect with you. But I showed your profile to a friend who likes you a lot and lives near you.  Here’s his email: IHopeYouFallforThis.net.”

What else? Despite the sophisticated assessments and matching algorithms, all of my matches around my own age look like frogs! As for the ones that make my heart pitter-patter, most are in California or New York City. But guess what? Those potential matches are usually way younger than my age preference. I’m not interested in guys under 45. Forty-five is calculated based on a scientifically established compatibility formula: half my age plus 7. Anyway, some of those guys nearly threw me into AFib because sometimes they threw me a wink or a smile. But here’s the thing. Just as soon as I revived myself with smelling salts and mustered up the courage to return a smile, they had disappeared. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve decided to use my own formula for calculating the lower compatibility age for my dates. I’m thinking along the lines of half my age + half my age + “guaranteed annuity.”

Don’t get me wrong. I have had some near successes. I’m thinking about the match who was a year older than I, had a chiseled face, and checked off all the right boxes in all the right places. He kept me awake, dreaming about endless possibilities until I dozed off with endless possibilities chasing me in my sleep. I “liked” all of his attributes. He “liked” all of mine, too. We were a perfect mutual admiration society. What did I do the next morning? What did I do? I logged back on to suggest a real-time date. And what did I discover? What did I discover? He had deleted his profile. Next.

Not to despair, though. One match remains, and one is all that it takes. Plus, he’s not a frog. Actually, he’s damned handsome and super butch. More, our compatibility scores are off the charts. I look and look and look. Yep. He seems perfect. But he’s three hours away, and he seems as cautious as I. Nonetheless, we’ve exchanged a smile or two, a “like” or two, and a message or two. Right now, I’m waiting to see whether he responds to my message that I sent him this morning inviting him to lunch. Rest assured, I have a strategy for how we can meet in the middle for a grand lunch, assuming that he answers and that his profile has not disappeared when I attempt to reply.

While I wait, hoping for the courtesy of his reply, if I were asked to rate my online dating experience so far, I would give it a big fat zero. Dating experience? When? Where? Oh, to be sure. I’ve had a few entertaining Vibe Checks via secure video. By mutual agreement, they did not lead to dates. Through one, however, I now have a newfound daily messaging buddy.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually had some fun. Right now, for example, Unmatched.com seems to be recycling all the profiles. I look. I scream:

“Seen them all! Seen them all already.”

Does it matter if I “liked” him in the past? Maybe his memory isn’t as good as mine. Maybe this time around, he’ll “like” me back. Hope springs eternal.

Also, I’ve learned a lot. I mean, really. I have. I just need to stop liking every Tom, Dick, and Harry coming down the app. Also, I think that I would much rather be in a bar seeing the eye-candy in person and in action. But, hey, I would probably end up with one drink too many and find myself at home with one of the frogs that I’ve managed to avoid successfully online.

But you know what else? Through all the ups and downs, the frogs and fleeting connections, I’ve discovered a treasure trove of emotions that transcend the swipe of a screen. Whether it’s the warmth of a genuine conversation, the laughter sounded over shared interests, or the spark ignited by a thoughtful message, each interaction reminds me of the beauty that surrounds me.

As I reflect on my journey through online dating, I’m reminded of the longing for companionship, connection, and shared experiences that initially spurred me into this adventure. Yet, amidst this pursuit, I realize the importance of staying true to myself. I know now more than ever that I’ve never been one to imitate. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum, and that’s a rhythm I intend to continue, joyfully chanting my blessings. My entire life has been filled with love, joy, and contentment. Until Mr. Right arrives, I revel in my autonomy, finding joy in my passions and savoring life’s pleasures independently. This journey has taught me the beauty of self-discovery and embracing life’s twists with open arms.

Cheers to adventure! Cheers to never losing sight of the magic, even on Unmatched.com.

Too Good to Be True

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“All that glisters is not gold.”

–William Shakespeare (1564-1616; widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist. The quote is from his The Merchant of Venice, 1600.)

Aversion is a strong word, and I don’t use it often. However, on reflection, somewhere along the way, I may have said that I had a strong aversion toward something or other. My aversion must not have been too strong, however, or I would remember. But I don’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever used any of its synonyms either. I’m thinking of abhorrence, abomination, detestation, loathing, repugnance, and revulsion. Those words sound dreadful, and I’m certain that I’ve never been averse enough to anything to make me use dreadful-sounding words. I have a strong aversion to them all.

Besides, I don’t need to use those words. For me, it’s very simple. If I don’t like something, I come right out and say so. I’m not one to pussyfoot around. Let me give you an example of my directness.

I do not like to dust.

Got it? Well, in case not, let me be bold.

I do not like to dust.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind dusting every month or five or when houseguests come once in a Blue Moon. But dusting every week or–God forbid–every day is for Dust Bunnies or people who need to get a life.

I suppose that I might be more inclined to dust if the dust did not return so quickly. But it does, at least here on my Mountain. I can dust one day, and I swear on a stack of dust cloths that I can see the dust settling in and getting all comfy the next day. I stare. I glare. It stands its dusty ground on all my furniture while I walk around the entire house, staring and glaring and lamenting:

“Ruby, where does all this dust come from?”

Ruby’s my dog, and, of course, she does not care, and she does not answer me, but she Velcros me everywhere, looking every bit as perplexed as I look.

I have every right to be perplexed. After all, it’s just Ruby and me, and we live quiet lives. We are not rambunctious at all. Our walks through the house are calm and civilized as behooves a lady and a gentleman and cannot possibly be responsible for raising dust. Besides, I vacuum weekly, so while I may raise hell over that chore, after I finish vacuuming, there’s certainly no dust to raise. Moreover, now that it’s winter, my windows are closed, so I can’t blame my neighbors who rarely go up and down our dusty road anyway.

So, I can’t help but wonder:

“Where does all this dust come from.”

I have no idea, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way. I’ll just look the other way. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Still, though, I know that the dust is there, lurking and snickering, so from time to time, I’m a sucker for too-good-to-be-true products promising to take my dust away. More often than not, they take my breath away and my money, too.

I mentioned one of those times in “Sherlock on the Summit: Solving the Mysteries of My Mountain Abode,” noting that Pledge and I had had a good thing going for a long time. Then I saw an advertisement for Endust. The product gave me such royally high hopes that I stopped saying AD-ver-tize-ment as we Americans pronounce the word, and I shifted to the more highfalutin British pronounciation, ad-VERT-is-ment. I was incredibly eager to try Endust, and I did. Sadly, eager turned to anger. Endust did not end my dust, it caused me to end my fidelity to Pledge, and it caused more than one neighbor to raise an eyebrow as I sprinkled ad-VERT-is-ment into our conversations, standing there like a durned fool all garbed up for gardening with a weedwhacker in my hand. I discovered that my linguistic charades were as ridiculoos as Endust’s claim to end dust.

I didn’t get too upset because I’m a quick learner. I just kept my eyes open for other sure-fire products guaranteed to end my dust, and I resolved to do so with an open, dust-free mind, fiercely determined to evaluate the dusty claims objectively.

Then, out of the blue, I saw two AD-ver-tize-ments with real-life endorsements:

1. “I have a friend who doesn’t dust anymore. His secret? An air purifier.”

2. “Let us do the dusting. (Loved by Health, USA Today, Popular Science, Forbes.)”

Hot dayum. My unprayed prayers had been answered. An air purifier would be the end to my dust and to my Endust. Sure. Without a dust mite in the world, air purifiers carry with them some mighty high price tags, but I kept right on looking anyway. Next thing I knew, I started seeing a gazillion ad-VERT-is-ments for air purifiers. Clearly, if I did my homework and checked all the unboastful and unexaggerated product claims, I might never have to dust again, or at least not more than once in a Blue Moon.

If you’ve got your own dust, then listen up to some of the other claims that seduced me into a wanton afternoon or three.

“Once Cl-r-f–n is plugged-in, a small generator inside starts releasing negative ions [that] … attach to other floating particles until they may become too heavy to float [and] eventually fall out of the air and onto the floor.”

Hey! Is that great or what? I just love the cautionary may. But think about it for a minute. If all of those particles don’t fall out of the air, my house will be a veritable Dust Bowl. If they do fall onto the floor, I might be freed from my dust cloth, but I won’t be freed from pushing the vacuum. Sounds like a Lose/Lose to me.

Next, please.

“If You’re Sick of Cleaning Up Pet Hair Every Day, You’re Gonna Want to Check Out This Air Purifier.”

Well, I’m going from dreadful to more dreadful. Dusting every day is one thing, but cleaning up pet hair every day is something else. Anyway, Ruby’s old enough to clean up after herself.

Up next is one that’s gotta be legit because it traps fur and dander, and it touts itself as the Tesla of air purifiers.

“Removes 99.97% of pollen and dust from your air. True HEPA + Traps pet fur and dander so you can enjoy more furry together time.”

Okay. I’m beginning to see a pattern! All of this dust and stuff is because of our pets:

“Just because you have pets, doesn’t mean you should have to breathe in their hair. In laboratory studies, users saw cleaner air in just minutes. 99.99% reduction in pollen,
pet dander and dust. You’re just 30 minutes away from noticeably cleaner air quality.”

That’s all fine and well, but the next ad-VERT-is-ment made me stop dead in my dust.

“Put the dust rag down! Stop dusting in 2024. Let S-ns do the dirty work. No matter where you put it, S-ns gives you a happier, healthier home. Cleans 1560 sq. ft every hour. HEPA 13 Filtration eliminates dust, dander, + more. Activated Carbon removes odors, chemicals, + more. So quiet you won’t even notice it’s there.”

OMG! My prayed prayers have been answered. Dust no more. Well, it did not take me long to order my own personal, dust-no-more S-ns. When it arrived and I unpacked it, I thought I had died and gone to a dustless Heaven. It’s my own sleek obsidian marvel, with a surface as smooth as midnight silk under my fingertips. It emanates a gentle hum, akin to the soft resonance of “OHM” in a tranquil sanctuary. Its subtle blue lights dance like celestial whispers, casting a serene aura, while a symphony of purification unfolds within, whispering promises of crisp, purified air.

Lordy. Lordy. Dust no more. I love it. And I love how readily it reminds me of how pure and dust free my home is. It actually measures particles in the air, and I can see at a glance my Air Quality Index (AQI):

● 0-74. Good

● 75-149. Moderate

● 150+. Poor

Oh. Joi! My AQI from the start has remained more or less at 5! WOW! (I am a little disappointed that it doesn’t have an AQI rating that would show mine as Excellent. Good, like dust, has never settled well with me.) Sometimes, if I’ve moved my purifier from my bedroom to the kitchen, it will jump to 9 or maybe 16. The other day, I sounded silent alarm after I fried a pork chop. My chop was delicious. My air quality, with the sensor at 79, was moderate. Big deal. It sure did smell good! But with S-ns’ HEPA 13 filtration and its activated carbon, the air was clear in a jiff, and I was OHMing once again.

Most of the time, I keep my S-ns in my bedroom, along with a humidifier and a heat pump. The purifier hums softly like a flute, cleansing the air with delicate precision. The humidifier emits a gentle mist akin to the soothing chords of a harp, adding moisture to the atmosphere. Completing the trio, the heat pump thrums steadily like a bass drum, circulating warmth throughout the room. Together, they create a symphony of comfort, blending harmoniously to orchestrate a serene ambiance.

That’s what I tell myself at any rate. But what would I know? Ruby and I are sound asleep, snoring our duet, while my three-piece orchestra plays all night long. As for the dust, I have to tell myself the truth. If I don’t dust anymore, it sure as hell won’t be because my S-ns Air Purifier eliminated the need. Everything’s as dusty as ever, and to dust it all off, I’m now aware of dog hairs that had escaped my attention before. If I don’t dust anymore, it will be because I choose not to dust.

What can I say for myself? I still don’t like to dust, and there’s still not a snowball’s chance in Hell that I’ll let daily dusting become a part of my daily routine. There’s just no way.

Having lived with my S-ns since Thanksgiving, I must declare that my thankfulness is far less than my pre-purchase hopes. I suppose that I could return it, but I’ve fallen in love with my little sleek obsidian marvel and its peaceful OHMing. Besides, I didn’t keep the box that it came in. What to do? What to do? I’ll just keep the dang thing as a reminder of the strong aversion that I have toward ad-VERT-is-ments that are too good to be true.



Less Is Not Always More Until It Is

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Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter)—so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.

Robert Browning, “Andrea del Sarto”

Less is more has been around since 1855 when Robert Browning coined the phrase in his “Andrea del Sarto,” a dramatic monologue inspired by the Renaissance artist having the same name as the poem’s title. Nearly one hundred years later, architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe made the phrase really popular when he adopted it as a mantra for architecture, art and design. Today, less is more is more popular than ever because minimalism is gaining more and more traction.

I get it. I guess. Well, actually, I guess that I don’t get it. To prove that I don’t get it, I had to Google some examples of less is more so that I could include them here at the start of this post. I can’t believe that I couldn’t come up with any examples on my own, but I couldn’t.

Fortunately, I found a lot of examples on the Internet. However, only one or two of them found me nodding in agreement.

I really do understand that putting less focus on material things–consumerism–allows us to focus more on things that really matter and that bring us lasting happiness. Got it. Endorse it.

And I really do understand that minimalism can help the environment by reducing our carbon footprint. Got it. Got it. Endorse it twice over.

Those two concessions are about as far as I can go. Some of the other less-is-more examples leave me shaking my head.

Sleek, smaller design, often in a black and white scheme. Nope.

Decluttering. Nope. Nope.

Digital decluttering. Nope. Nope. Nope.

(If you desire a full understanding of why I dissed sleek design, decluttering, and digital decluttering, see “OHIO on My Mind.”)

Having scoffed at those examples of less is more, you can rest assured that I would never consider less is more when it comes to gardening. That’s when I draw the line in my compost heap and step across it to join sides with Robert Venturi, one of the major American architects of the twentieth century, who proclaimed that less is a bore.

As for me, I want my garden right now. No. I want it yesterday or the day before, and I want it to look as if I have been enjoying its lushness for years, if not forever.

Hear me and hear me well. Less is not more when it comes to the way that I garden. I garden, I garden my way.

I want nothing–absolutely nothing–to do with seeds. They take days to sprout, more days to grow, still more days to selectively thin, and even more days to bloom.

I want blooms, blooms, blooms. Glorious blooms. And I want them instanter.

“Those 4-inch pots are gorgeous! Look at all those blooms.”

“You must like them a lot to be buying fifteen each of three different annuals.”

“Oh, my. Yes. I love mass plantings.”

That’s a typical conversation as I make early spring pilgrimages to local garden centers, always to be reminded right after I have made my purchases:

“Keep ’em indoors until the danger of frost has passed.”

No big deal. I’ve never minded dragging a gazillion potted plants day after day–from mid-April to mid-May–in and out of my home, kitchen to deck and back again. Hey. Like I said. I want my garden yesterday or the day before. And either way I want it looking like it’s been there forever.

If you think that I have a bad attitude when it comes to seeds, I have an even worse attitude when it comes to saplings. (Think of me as a modern-day-Mae-West gardener: “When I’m good, I’m good. When I’m bad, I’m better.”)

If I’m going to plant a tree, I certainly do not expect to sit under it from the get-go and be shaded–Hmmm, that is something for me to think about–but, at least, I want it to be big enough and bold enough to cast a shadow.

When it comes to how many plants and trees I consider to be enough, it’s really simple.

For specimen plants and trees, I’m fine with one of each.

For all others, if one is good, then three, five, seven, or nine have to be better, especially since I garden in odd numbers when it comes to layout and design.

In fact, my odd-number planting rule struck me as perfect when I decided to plant bamboo. Nine clumps. Not to worry. Non-running.

That rule seemed equally perfect for my hardy bananas. Three groves. They were so small when I first planted them, that I hoped my neighbors would not notice. Trust me. They didn’t. Bigger is better even when it comes to bananas. But these days my neighbors get whiplash as they drive past, and it’s not because of our well-rutted road. Groves of big banana plants on a Virginia mountaintop make heads turn and make cars turn around.

Let’s see whether I have anything else to prove that less is not more when it comes to my gardening. Goodness! How on earth could I forget English ivy. Well, I nearly forgot it, no doubt because for once I broke my cardinal rule of planting in odd numbers. I planted the ivy in twosies. I needed ivy to hide not only a humongous and hideous stump just below my driveway but also to hide the rock wall that I built to hide the stump.

It worked so well there that I decided some ivy would soften the stone wall surrounding three sides of my Koi Pond. The fourth side, lest you think that I slighted it, is a dramatic waterfall, cascading from a height of five or seven or nine feet or so.

I wouldn’t want the world at large to know this–and I know that I can trust you, Dear Reader, to keep what I am about to say to yourself–but in my insistence on having my gardens look as if they have been around forever from day one, I confess that I may have made a mistake or five.

Mistake #1. Planting things too close together. Let’s face it. Too close is too close.

Mistake #2. See Mistake #3. My mistakes come in odd numbers only.

Mistake #3.  Not paying close enough attention to how big things will grow. Double disaster. Too close and too large.

Mistake #4. See Mistake #5. My mistakes come in odd numbers only.

Mistake #5. Not fully understanding that gardeners like me who nurture and care for their gardens end up with plants and trees that are much larger than expected. Miracle Grow grows miracles.

In case you’re wondering how my less-is-not-more approach to gardening played out over time, let me share with you.

Year One. Oh, joy. This is gorgeous. This is proof. My garden looks as if it’s been here for a while. It almost has that old-garden look. So there! I knew from the get-go that less is not more.

Year Two. See Year Three. I garden in odd numbers only.

Year Three. Oh, joy of joys. Everything is so lush. The garden really does look elegant and established.

Year Four. See Year Five. I garden in odd numbers only.

Year Five. Joy to the fifth. Cheers! This is an English garden at its best. Blooms, blooms, blooms. Glorious blooms everywhere. Everything in the garden is touching. I can’t even see weeds between the plants. Maybe there are no weeds. Better still, even if the deer have been in the gardens, I can’t tell what they’ve eaten.

Year Six. See Year Seven. I garden in odd numbers only.

Year Seven. Well, if I must say so myself, the stone walls really do look mysterious hidden beneath the English ivy. Here and there the sunlight bounces off a stone. For all that I know, what I’m walking past might be the foundations of ancient Roman ruins awaiting an archaeological dig. And I am rather glad that the manicured borders around the garden beds have disappeared. Too formal was a tad too much for a mountain man like me.

Year Eight. See Year Nine. I garden in odd numbers only.

Year Nine. The season of the slow awakening finally came. I looked out my windows one day, and I realized that it was gone. All gone. To be certain, it’s all there, but now it’s all so overgrown and all so close together that it looks like an Impressionistic study in shades of emerald green.

From afar, it’s rather dramatic. But let’s face it. Gardening cannot be done from afar. Gardening requires down and dirty.

Recovery from my initial Impressionistic shock was slow, and I confess to having been in denial for a year or three. It was a downer. I felt overwhelmed by the “muchness” of it all, just as Frost’s farmer felt in “After Apple-Picking”: “For I have had too much / Of apple picking: I am overtired / Of the great harvest I myself desired.”

But I started to take heart when I started ripping out enough English ivy to fill five, seven, or maybe nine forty-five-gallon yard bags.

I got really hyped when I discovered the stone wall surrounding the red-leaf Japanese maple. Now, though, the maple has overgrown its stone wall boundaries. Joy!

“Mr. Gardener, tear down that wall.”

I did, and I rebuilt it sufficiently far away from the mature maple–exactly where I should have built it to begin with.

Then I repeated the ivy demolition on the three sides of the Koi Pond. Wow! What rocks I have! I can’t believe that I dug those stones out of the ground using just my pick and then managed to position them so expertly. They are stunning. Simply stunning. And with all that ivy gone, the pond is every bit as big as I recall it.

In case you’re wondering about the bamboo, let me just say this. Those nine clumps have an impressive diameter of six feet. Each. Non-running? Right. This bamboo is leaping! I have renamed it Bamboozle Leptomorph! (Patent pending.) I’m still trying to remove as much of it as I can from my gardens, while leaving the original clumps intact. They are gorgeous. Nonetheless, Dear Reader, if you would like to gift your best enemies with some of my bamboo, please leap out to me. You can assure them, if they ask: Clumping. Non-running. Caveat inter vivos. 

No doubt you’re wondering about my bananas. Of all my less-is-not-more gardening ventures, the bananas might be my greatest success. A recent visitor commented that they reminded him of Peru! Imagine that! My own piece of Peru right here in the Shenandoah Valley. Rest assured: I’ll keep the bananas. Even though they are hardy, I have to work hard at wintering them over. When they start to outgrove their allotted space, I simply overwinter smaller sections of the groves. Or I dig up perimeter pups and give them to friends. (Enemies get the Bamboozle Leptomorph, sine caveat.)

The annuals? Never a problem because at the end of the season, Voila! They’re gone. If I want more, I’ll plant them again next year.

No doubt you know exactly where I am. That’s right. I am ripping out lots of my gardens that have exceeded by far my wildest dreams nightmares.

This fall, just as an example, I’ll be lifting and replanting 55 or so peonies that have been anchored in their spots since 1998 when I planted them with fierce determination to make them look as if they had been there forever.  Trust me. These days they look as if they have been there forever and a day.

The same can be said for all of my gardens.

As I move forward with these gardening challenges opportunities, I will be gardener enough to own up to the fact that “Less is not more until it is.”

What worked great for me for so many years is now simply too much. And too much is just too much.

But, as I own up to the shortfalls, I am seeing wide open expanses opportunities that I have not seen in decades. At the same time, I am seeing metaphorical steel and copper plant markers nudging their way up through the soil here and there and everywhere: “Gardening Opportunity.” “Plant Tomorrow, Today.” “Just Plant It.”

Yep. I will savor the landscape’s openness through fall’s brilliant blaze and through winter’s snowy silence.

Come spring thaw, however, my unrepentant self and I will be right back at all the local garden centers. In all likelihood, I will do it all over again unless I somehow discover that sweet spot, somewhere between less is a bore and less is more.