“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
—Stephen Covey (1932–2012; leadership expert and author of the bestselling bookThe 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.)
All couples have a courtship phase, I suppose, and Allen and I were no exception. At one point, he was a traveling surgical technologist in upstate New York. We connected midway in Hazelton, PA, for long weekends together. One stands out in my memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. We were exploring Ricketts Glen State Park, home to the Glens Natural Area, a designated National Natural Landmark. Our plan was to follow the Falls Trail System so that we could take in the glens, where a series of untamed, free-flowing waterfalls tumble through rocky chasms carved into the hillside. Towering old-growth trees and a variety of wildlife enhance the natural beauty of the area. The crisp autumn air carried the faint roar of distant waterfalls, hinting at the adventure ahead.
The rumble of my two-door Jeep Wrangler echoed through the park as I navigated the winding roads, though “navigated” might be too generous a term. My hands rested lightly on the wheel, but my eyes were far from the road ahead. I was preoccupied by everything around me—the way the sunlight pierced through the canopy, dappling the ground with shifting patterns; the flash of a deer darting between the trees; the ripple of a stream running parallel to the road.
Every turn seemed to unveil something new—a stand of old-growth timber with gnarled branches twisting skyward, a cluster of huge rocks that looked like they’d been placed there deliberately, and the ever-present cascade of waterfalls, their spray catching the light like shards of glass. I felt my gaze wander again and again, lingering on the sights rather than the road. It wasn’t long before I realized that I wasn’t looking. I was losing track of where I was going, as if the Jeep were steering itself, and I was merely along for the ride.
I turned to Allen and exclaimed:
“I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going!”
“Say whaaat?”
“Yes. I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going! You look at the sights. I’ll focus on the road.”
Allen thought my comment was the funniest–and most ridiculous–thing that I had ever said. Throughout our twenty years together, he would look for any and every opportunity to teasingly remind me whenever I got distracted:
“Maybe you need to stop looking so you can see where you’re going.”
I laughed along with him, but over the years, I’ve come to realize that moment held more truth than I understood back then. That moment in the Jeep was more than a funny memory with Allen. It’s become a metaphor for how I approach life, especially at this time of year. The end of the year is like the winding road ahead of us, a time to pause, take stock of where we are, and decide how we want to navigate the twists and turns of the coming year. It’s easy to get distracted by everything around us, to try to take in too much at once. But clarity and focus—learning to “stop looking so we can see”—are the keys to achieving the goals that matter most. With clarity, we can set intentions that range from simple joys to profound transformations.
Let’s start with the simple goals, the ones that remind us to savor life’s small pleasures. These might seem minor in the grand scheme, but they ground us in the present moment and remind us of what it feels like to truly enjoy living. For me, this might mean experimenting with my sourdough pizza recipe to get that perfect balance of crisp and chew or revisiting my recipe for Sourdough Double Chip Crunch Cookies to enhance their texture. These pursuits are not about achieving perfection; they’re about immersing myself in the process, enjoying the creativity, and sharing the results with others.
Another source of joy for me is my garden. Whether it’s marveling at the tenacity of roots as I rework my peony bed or taking a step back to admire how my Koi Pond complements the Japanese-inspired landscaping, these moments of connection with nature remind me to slow down. Clarity here means carving out time for what nourishes the spirit—no matter how small or ordinary it may seem. These lighthearted goals are about reminding ourselves that life is rich with opportunities to pause and appreciate beauty.
Moving deeper, we come to goals that ask for more of us—those tied to our relationships, community, and self-care. These require intentionality, balance, and, most importantly, focus. For me, that might mean thoughtfully cultivating connections, such as inviting a neighbor to join me for dinner or reaching out to a friend to share a memory, a laugh, or a little gratitude. It’s about being present for others and making sure they feel valued.
At the same time, balance is key. I’m reminded of my online dating journey this year—how my profile reflects my true self while staying open to the possibilities ahead. It’s about embracing vulnerability while maintaining authenticity. Goals like this require clarity about what we value most in our relationships, whether it’s empathy, honesty, or simply the joy of shared experiences.
Self-care is another aspect of connection—this time with ourselves. It’s not just about routines but about listening to what we need to recharge. For me, it might be my daily biking to clear my head or listening to Black Gospel to feed my soul. Clarity here means recognizing that we can’t pour from an empty cup. These goals challenge us to strike the delicate balance between giving to others and nurturing ourselves.
And then there are the serious goals—the ones that stretch us, challenge us, and ultimately transform us. These require a willingness to dig deep and reflect on what truly matters. For me, this might involve continuing my exploration of “roots”—how the unseen foundations in our lives anchor us through uncertainty. This year, that theme surfaced in my writing and my gardening, reminding me that superficial fixes rarely work; it’s the deep work, often unseen, that brings lasting growth.
Another area of transformation is spirituality. Whether it’s reflecting on my Judeo-Christian principles or universal truths, I find that clarity in this realm often comes from leaning into questions rather than rushing to answers. I think, too, of the DNA test I took this year and how it invites me to explore not just where I’ve been but where I’m going. The results remind me of the rich identity that we each carry, and they prompt me to think about how we honor and build upon that in our daily lives.
Serious goals like these demand that we stop looking in every direction at once. They ask for stillness, focus, and trust. They require us to let go of distractions and be fully present with the questions, uncertainties, and hopes that guide us toward becoming our truest selves.
No matter the scope of the goal—whether it’s perfecting a recipe, strengthening a relationship, or embracing personal transformation—clarity of focus is what makes it possible. In the Jeep all those years ago, I realized that I couldn’t take in everything around me and still stay on the road. The same holds true as we navigate our lives. At times, we need to pause, set our sights on what truly matters, and let go of distractions to see the path before us.
As we stand at the threshold of a new year, I find myself reflecting on the power of clarity. It’s not about seeing everything—it’s about seeing clearly. So, as we step into 2025, I invite you to join me in setting goals that align with what matters most. Let’s stop looking in every direction and focus on where we’re going, one thoughtful, intentional step at a time.
Here’s to clearer roads, steady hands on the wheel, and the courage to keep moving forward. Happy New Year!
“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.”
“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”
–Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; a towering figure in the fight against apartheid in South Africa and a symbol of resilience, reconciliation, and forgiveness worldwide.)
Have you ever found yourself sitting in front of your computer, fingerspoisedoverthekeyboard, eyeslockedontheblank screen? The cursor blinks, mocking your indecision. The room holds its breath, waiting for your next move.
Of course you have. We all have. I have, too.
Actually, I had that happen not long ago. I was sitting in front of my computer, enveloped in a curious trance as I looked at my PowerPoint options. Each was a digital beacon of possibilities, beckoning me into a realm where creativity and innovation might dance hand in hand.
My seasoned fingers, once adept at coaxing brilliance from the keys, hovered hesitantly over the mouse, betraying the uncertainty that clouded my thoughts. The screen gazed back at me with patient anticipation, as if urging me to breathe life into the blankness into which I stared.
But as I peered into the depths of the display, my mind became a whirlwind of memories. How many lectures had I crafted with this very tool? How many minds had I ignited with the flicker of a well-placed slide or the resonance of a perfectly timed transition?
And yet, despite my seasoned expertise, I found myself transfixed, caught in the labyrinth of my own imagination. The cursor blinked mockingly, a silent reminder of the silence that echoed through my mind.
I sat there, staring, waiting, realizing that in the digital world of ones and zeros, the true magic lies not in the tools we wield, but in the stories we choose to tell.
Indeed, I had a story to tell. Gina Byrd, Executive Director of the Friends of Handley Library System, had invited me for an “Author Talk” at Bowman Library (Stephens City, VA). My topic? “Reinventing Yourself: Writing Your Next Chapter.”
Several weeks before my talk, Gina and I met at the library so that we could go over logistics.
“Will you be using PowerPoint?”
“No, I don’t think so. I like to walk around the room while I talk.”
It was settled. No PowerPoint.
But when I got back home, the notion swept over me that perhaps I should use PowerPoint. I hesitated for a moment before deciding to reach out to Gina. After all, I had initially dismissed the idea, preferring the freedom of movement without slides. But as I mulled it over, I realized that visual aids could enhance the audience’s understanding of my topic. With a sense of uncertainty If I can keep from it, I fired off an email to Gina:
It occurs to me that I might want to use PowerPoint after all, especially if you all have a remote clicker that I could use as I walk around.
Gina’s prompt reply reassured me:
That’s fine! We have the Clear Touch Panel (it’s basically a huge iPad) and a clicker you can use. If you can bring your presentation on a thumb drive, that would be easiest.
The next day, I talked myself into tackling the PowerPoint presentation.
“Piece of cake. You’re an expert on reinvention. After all, you’ve been reinventing yourself for a lifetime. You’ve got this.”
Sure. Right. Self-talk works most of the time. However, this seemed to be one of those times when it wasn’t working. There I sat, once again, staring at my blank computer screen while PowerPoint stared back at me. Even though I had more than a week to complete the PowerPoint, my mantra was immediate:
“Go on. Just do it. Get it out of the way.”
The glow of the PowerPoint screen beckoned, but I found myself lured instead into chasing the indoor tasks awaiting my attention. The dust bunnies, like mischievous gremlins, taunted me from their hiding places, my laundry begged to be folded and sorted, and my houseplants drooped in silent protest against neglect. As I tackled each chore, a siren call steered me further away from the digital abyss.
The next day, I faced the blank screen once more. It was then that my fear looked back at me. I realized that I had not developed a PowerPoint presentation in more than two years. I realized that I was fearful simply because I was no longer familiar with a task that, in reality, was simple and straightforward.
That settled it. I sat down in front of my computer, determined to develop the presentation, slide by slide. I had no expectation that I would finish it that day, but I resolved to complete a draft. I knew that I had to get past my fear.
The next thing I knew, I found myself ensnared by the choices at my fingertips. Each transition, a delicate balance between subtlety and spectacle, whispered promises of visual delight. Each animation added movement and meaning to static slides. Each carefully selected photograph added depth and resonance to my narrative. The bullets, like soldiers marching in formation, stood ready to deliver their payload of information with precision and clarity. Every click held power, and I was in charge.
I finished my PowerPoint presentation the next day, and I was delighted with it. Actually, I was ecstatic because I had as much fun developing it as I had ever enjoyed in the past.
When I gave my talk at Bowman Library, I realized that my decision to use PowerPoint was a wise one. It helped me navigate my talk smoothly, and, more importantly, it kept everyone engaged. Afterward, several people commented on its effectiveness, with special praise for the transitions, which they felt reinforced the content.
As I drove back home, I started thinking about the PowerPoint battle that I had fought and nearly lost. It would have been so easy for me to have aborted my plan. After all, I hadn’t planned to use PowerPoint initially. But I had changed my mind. What a pity it would have been for me to have lost the battle to the dis-ease that I was experiencing simply because I had not used PowerPoint in more than two years.
Don’t get me wrong. If I were rating the level of my fear, I’d probably give it a 4 on a scale of 10, with 10 being the greatest fear. Actually, that’s not that bad at all, yet it was bad enough to lure me away from the task, not once, not twice, but multiple times.
Without a doubt, I’ve experienced far greater fears in my life. How well I recall getting back on a bicycle after several decades of not riding a bike. There I stood, at the trailhead to the Virginia Creeper Trail, nostalgia tugging at my muscles. The trail stretched downhill before me. I glanced at the path, comforted that Allen–my late partner, who also hadn’t ridden a bike in several decades–was facing the challenge with me. But as I considered the downhill descent, I could neither hide nor disguise my fear. With trembling legs, I pushed off, the wind carrying whispers of both fear and exhilaration. The trail unfolded. I pedaled. I kept on pedaling until I made it to Damascus, 34 miles later, safely past my fear.
More recently, I had a more frightening encounter with a chainsaw. I was finishing a day’s work of taking down some small trees behind my home. I decided to end the job by cutting a sapling. There I stood—a weekend warrior in faded jeans and work boots. The sapling seemed to know exactly how to make the saw bounce back, cut through denim, and rip through flesh, all the way down to but not through my patella—the hinge of leg movement, the guardian of joints. It took twelve stitches and nearly as many weeks to heal my knee.
It took me far longer to bounce back from the deep-seated fear that the chainsaw had instilled. Months passed. Every trip to my basement found me staring at the saw, wondering whether I would ever have the courage to use it again. Determined to conquer the fear, I ordered protective chainsaw chaps. When they arrived, I put them on hesitantly, started the Stihl, and cautiously but triumphantly took down a small tree. I tossed the wood and my fear into the stack for winter fires.
Experiencing fear, especially in certain situations or after a prolonged period of inactivity or after an accident, is a common and normal human response. Fear is a natural part of the human experience.
As a seasoned educator and as a man in his seventies, I’ve seen fear kick ass over and over again as people faced:
● Technology ● Change ● Failure ● Medical Procedures ● Public Speaking ● Rejection ● Regret ● Success ● Letting Go ● Driving ● Aging
The list is endless. But here’s the caution that we all need to hear regardless of who we are or where we are in life. As we navigate life, fear can often stand as a formidable barrier between us and our aspirations. Yet, as I’ve learned through my own experiences, it’s in confronting these fears head-on that we find the true essence of courage and resilience.
I urge you to take a moment to reflect on the fears that may be holding you back—whether it’s the fear of trying something new, the fear of failure, or the fear of the unknown. Embrace these fears not as obstacles but as opportunities for growth and self-discovery.
Just as I conquered my hesitation with PowerPoint, rode a bike after decades, and faced down a chainsaw, you too can overcome the fears that threaten to immobilize you. Step by step, challenge by challenge, you have the power to rewrite your story and embark on a journey of transformation.
I encourage you to take that first step today. Identify one fear that’s lingering in the shadows of your mind and make a commitment to confront it. Whether it’s signing up for that class you’ve been eyeing, reaching out to mend a broken relationship, or simply daring to dream a little bigger—embrace the discomfort, for it’s in pushing past our boundaries that we discover our true potential.
Remember: you are capable of far more than you know. Let’s rise above our fears, embrace the adventure of life, and write the next chapter of our story with courage, resilience, and unwavering determination. The blank page of possibility awaits. Let’s fill it with the triumphs of our bravery.
“Laughter connects you with people. It’s almost impossible to maintain any kind of distance or any sense of social hierarchy when you’re just howling with laughter. Laughter is a force for democracy.”
–John Cleese (well-known English actor, comedian, and writer; a member of the comedy group Monty Python; played Basil Fawlty in the classic British sitcom “Fawlty Towers.”)
THE BACKSTORY.
My life has been punctuated by several major turning points. Two of them are inextricably linked. In the fall of 1998, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress, sold my home on Capitol Hill, bought myself a Jeep Wrangler, and relocated to my weekend cabin in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. I was fifty and determined to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a college professor. I believed fully that by fall 1999, I would be teaching in the hallowed halls of academe.
The key phrase, of course, is: “I believed.” Belief was all that I had. Hope was all that I could hang on to. When I left DC, I had no teaching offers lined up. I simply believed and hoped that a door would open.
I did my part, too, to open the door. I explored teaching opportunities at Shenanadoah University, James Madison University, and Bridgewater College. While I explored, I served as a consultant to the Librarian of Congress, driving back and forth from Edinburg to DC several days a week. One July day, as I returned home via I-66, I noticed a sign for Lord Fairfax Community College.
“Why not explore community college opportunities, too?”
In an instant, I agreed with myself:
“Great idea. I’ll do just that.”
I took the exit, found the small campus–less than a mile away–and within a magical nanosecond I was chatting about my career and my resume with Dr. Sissy Crowther who, at the time, was the dean of the Humanities Division.
“Teach two Technical Writing classes as an adjunct?”
Luckily, I think fast and negotiate even faster:
“Sure. I’d love to teach Technical Writing, but I’d love it even more if I could also teach American Literature.”
“You live in Edinburg?”
“Yes.”
“How about an American Lit from 7-10pm at our offsite Luray High School facility? That’s just over the mountain from you. And maybe you’d like a Saturday morning American Lit that we’re offering also offsite at Warren County High School in Front Royal?”
“Absolutely!”
To be sure, Dr. Crowther had just filled in some gaps in her Fall 1999 class schedule. What she did not know, however, was this. When she asked me to teach those classes at Lord Fairfax Community College, she opened the door that my third-grade dream walked through. Now was the time of fulfillment. I had arrived. I was home.
In the next nanosecond I was in my cabin, on my mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, United States of America, Planet Happiness and Dreams Come True. To this day, I do not believe–nor shall I ever believe–that my Jeep Wrangler took me there.
I did not know then that in the class schedule, under the instructor column, I would be listed as STAFF.
I did not know then that adjunct pay was low, pitifully low.
I did not know then that the American Lit classes I had agreed to teach so readily were the ones that full-time faculty had no desire to teach–at night, on Saturday, and in high-school buildings that didn’t feel like college.
Even if I had known, it would not have mattered.
All that mattered was that my childhood dream had come true.
All that mattered was that I felt at home.
All that mattered was that I was part of an academic family.
Now fast forward with me, past more than 7,000 students and more than 250 classes that anchored me morning and night during a 23-year teaching career that happened magically at a community college, right in my own back yard.
Now fast forward to January 1, 2023, when another turning point punctuated my life.
I decided to bring my teaching career to a close and to reinvent myself. Notice that I did NOT say that I retired. Retire and reinvent are two entirely different words and two entirely different worlds. Trust me: I mince no words about the difference. Trust me again: I respect both worlds. It’s simply that I am not ready to do that R-t-r- thing. All those who know me know that I keep it simple and call it the “R” thing.
Since then, I have been dynamically engaged in teaching a stellar class of one admiring student: me. Subjects? Research. Writing. Publishing. With two books to my credit in 2023 and with two more on the horizon for 2024, what can I say other than my Reinvention is all that I hoped it would be.
As you might imagine, I love talking with others about my journey, and I can be as serious or as silly as they would have me be.
Obviously, when Andy Gyurisin, Development Officer, Office of the Foundation, Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) invited me to speak at the November 1, 2023, Retirees Brunch and Learn, I accepted immediately, especially after he told me that he wanted a light-hearted, humorous presentation.
I jokingly warned Andy from the start that I would be poking fun at me, at him, at the college, at my adjunct teaching days and more.
“Go for it. It will be fun.”
The beauty, of course, about poking fun at colleagues whom you love is knowing that the tight family bonds will make the humor all the brighter.
MY MOMENT AS AN UNPAID COMEDIAN.
Andy, thank you so much!
My goodness! What can I say! Isn’t it amazing how home always feel like home?
How many of you feel as if you’re home? That’s great!
As for me, all I can say is this. Based on how I look these days—especially when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror and all the hair that I don’t have is standing up all over my head, I say to myself:
“Good God. HOME. You belong in … a home.“
Actually, I started feeling at home as soon as Andy invited me to talk. I agreed immediately, without even asking about the speaker’s fee, that I was sure I wouldn’t be getting anyway.
But you know what they say:
“You get what you pay for.”
So, folks, you ain’t gettin’ much from me, not even good grammar. You can thank Andy!
§ § §
Damn! That felt good. Saying damn felt good, too.
What else might have felt good if I had had the nerve to say it on the first day of class—you know—back in the day when I was teaching, especially in my adjunct days?
How many of you started as an adjunct?
Remember the pay back then? Maybe you’ve been able to put it out of your mind. I haven’t. It was nightmarish.
So, let’s see. If I had had the nerve back then, maybe something like this would have flown out of my mouth when I walked into class that first day:
“Good morning, young scholars! You know the old saying, ‘You get what you pay for?'”
They’d just sit there and stare and not reply, not even nod. Then I’d shock them with:
“Well, I’m an adjunct. I’m not being paid much, so you’re not going to get much!”
(President Blosser, you might want to put your fingers in your ears. It gets worse. Like I said: I ain’t bein’ paid much!)
Or how about wanting to say this to your students. You know the situation. You walk into class, all hyped up to talk about Dynamical Systems & Differential Equations or The Single Theory of Gravity or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire or, God forbid, something literary like the really good stuff that students love, like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. And there you stand.
“Good morning, young scholars. Does anyone have any questions?”
“Professor, I have a question, but it’s probably a dumb one.”
You know what comes next. The fixed smile. The formulaic response.
“Thanks, Casey. There’s no such thing as a dumb question except the one that doesn’t get asked.”
Deep down inside, you’re dying to scream:
“Guess what? There are dumb questions. Why don’t you just keep your dumb question to yourself.”
Can you relate?
§ § §
But it’s not always about the money. We all know that! After all, we taught at a community college.
Sometimes it’s enough just to see your name in the lights or on an invitation.
I confess. I was hoping to see my name on the invitation to today’s brunch and learn—whatever the hell that is; you won’t be learning a thing from me—but I hoped to see my name on it anyway, just so I could add the event to the resume that I no longer need.
Sure, enough. I got my invitation. I opened it up with great anticipation. Yep. I was right. No speaker’s fee and no mention of my name.
Yep. Made me feel right at home.
§ § §
Actually, it took me back to 1999 when I started teaching here as an adjunct. I was so excited. It was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.
I could hardly wait for the class schedule to come out.
It did. I was thrilled.
I found all of my classes listed. You know, the ones at times of day that full-time faculty never want and never fight to get: 7-10 at night. And in places where full-time faculty are never thrilled to go in the dark. Luray High School. Warren County High School.
But it’s all good. I had landed myself a job teaching, and I was so eager to send that schedule to my folks back home in West Virginia so they could see that I had arrived.
And sure enough—just like the invitation—my name did NOT appear on the schedule. What do you think appeared in the Instructor Column for my classes? What do you think appeared?
Yep. You got it. STAFF.
Anyone else remember those days?
§ § §
But you know what I did when I saw STAFF on that schedule? You know what I did?
I did it just for the sake of consistency, nothing more. I certainly not do it to get even or anything like that.
If I’m STAFF on the schedule, well, hell! I’ll be Professor Staff on my syllabi, too.
It took my dean three years to notice what I was doing. What else is new?
(Morgan, don’t look so alarmed. You weren’t my dean then. Anyway, it took you five or six years to figure out my shenanigans.)
§ § §
OK. This is really funny! But it’s true. The other day when I was at Sheetz pumping gas—a whole dollar’s worth; got it? A dollar’s worth—that’s all that I can afford these days. Anyway, there I stood, head down, facing the pump, so no one would see me.
Lo and behold from three islands away, someone yelled:
“Hey, Professor Staff!“
§ § §
But here’s what I want to know? Have any of you—since you did that R thing—had to pump gas only to discover that you were down to your last dollar?
Come on: let me see hands. You’re pumping gas and only have a dollar to your name?
Just what I figured. I guess that I should have retired, too. But I decided to be different.
OK. What else is new? I’m always different.
So to be different this time, I decided to reinvent myself.
Obviously, you’re getting a better paycheck than I’m getting.
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But that’s okay. Reinvention has had some good sides to it.
For starters, I took $400 cash, instead of the rocking chair. I wonder. How many of you opted for the rocking chair?
That’s great! You all rock!
(President Blosser, I hope you noticed. Did you see all those hands that didn’t go up? It might be time to reconsider the rocking chair.)
As for me, I didn’t need to consider or reconsider.
I took my money and bought myself a gorgeous coral bracelet. Yep. That’s what I did. See. Take a gander. I think it rocks, too.
When I finish, you all can come up close to get a better look while you drool.
For those of you who took the rocking chair, I’ve got a sweet deal for you. Let me see your hands again.
Great. I’ll visit you at your home so that you can see my bracelet while you rock … and drool.
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I don’t know about what you’ve experienced since you retired, but since I started reinventing myself—got it? Reinventing. There’s a difference!–I’ve heard some really silly if not downright dumb retirement jokes.
I sure hope that you haven’t heard them. You’re going to hear them again.
Question: When is a retiree’s bedtime? Answer: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.
Question: How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Only one, but it might take all day.
Question: Why does a retiree often say he doesn’t miss work but misses the people he used to work with? Answer: He’s too polite to tell the whole truth.
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I also get asked some really dumb questions, far dumber than the ones my students never asked. I mean, really dumb.
Just the other day, my phone rang. It was a friend. Like you, they retired. They know, though, that I did NOT do that R thing. They know fully well fully well that I’m reinventing myself.
Dingaling. Dingaling. Dingaling.
Joy of all bored joys. Someone’s calling!
“Hey. How’s it going.”
“Good. Real good. I don’t imagine that I interrupted anything important did I?”
“Nope. I’m just lying on the couch, counting the ceiling tiles that I don’t have, just to pass the time.”
Idiot! They know fully well that I have a schedule just as rigid as the one that I didn’t have when I was teaching. These days I’m just doing a little research here and there and a little writing here and there. But you know, when you do those little things, your entire life is so loosey-goosey.
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Yep. Loosey-goosey. That’s how I managed to get two books published this year.
I need to see some hands. How many of you would have the nerve to write about foolin’ around in bed with whoever it is that you’re foolin’ around with?
Just what I thought. You did that R thing. You’re probably not foolin’ around with anybody. You should have reinvented yourself, like I did. Then you could have invited anybody and everybody to hop in bed with you, the way more than 7,000 people have hopped in bed with me since I got smart and reinvented myself.
I mean just look here. It’s a gorgeous book. Hard is really gorgeous. Feels good. Soft is gorgeous, too. It feels good, too, but hard feels lots better. If you want to feel it, buy your own dang copy!
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Then while I’m counting ceiling tiles that I don’t have—you know, just to pass away my idle days—I cranked out another book: Green Mountain Stories.
It’s a gorgeous book, too. It’s available in hard copy only. It feels so good. But again, if you want to feel it, buy it!
And I am not going to tell you what it’s about. If you want to know, buy it. And shame on you if you don’t. You need to get some learning and find out all about Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, especially you women who have probably never heard of her. Shame on you. Shame I say. Shame. Buy your own copy and get some smarts.
And while you’re buying those books, remember the gifting season is fast upon us. These books will be the perfect gift—an absolutely pluperfect gift—that you can give yourself, your family, your friends—and, perhaps, even your enemies, especially the ones who think folks like me have no busy sharing with the world the shenanigans that I’ve been carrying on in bed.
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Come on now. You can be as green about my two books as you want to be—and some of you are showing color already—but don’t be jealous. Please don’t. Let me tell you why.
When I taught Creative Writing, I always told my students—even the really superior ones that I never had:
“Don’t give up your day job. Got it? Don’t give up your day job.”
And what do you think I did? What do you think I did? Come on: give it up. What do you think I did?
I went and gave up my day job. Well, it wasn’t much of one anyway, and the pay was pitifully low. But the royalty payments I’m getting from these two books are lower. Actually, the payments are pathetic. Plumb pathetic. They weren’t too bad the first month or two. $370. $276. $180. $85. Then those payments went from little to less to almost nothing. I got a check yesterday—yes, a check, a paper check; I didn’t know they even existed anymore—a whopping $1.85.
Yep. I should have listened to the advice that I gave: Don’t give up your day job!
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All right. I’m about to wrap things up. I realize that I’ll be ending far short of the three hours that Andy said I couldn’t have, but remember: you get what you pay for and …
I wish that I had time to talk about some of the really fun essays in my book In Bed. Truthfully, they’re all funny. They are! Want proof? Fine. I’ll give you some.
One reviewer said: “The essays are most philosophical, but what I’m drawn to most often is the humor.”
Here’s another: “Engaging, poignant, humorous, heart-felt. A must read.” Did you get that? “A must read.” (Thank you, Dr. Cheryl.)
Here’s another: “Universal appeal and connectivity. Souls gathered around a complex and intriguing thought or proposition. Whimsical observations turned into moments of community meaning.” (Thank you, Morgan.)
How’s this for a final review comment. There are lots more, of course, but I’m running out of time: But how’s this: “Reminds me of Dave Berry and his dry sarcasm and satire.” OMG. I think I died and went to Heaven.
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Sadly, I won’t get to amuse you with any of the things that I hadn’t planned to amuse you with. Like …
1. How I’m keeping my house clean…by having imaginary guests.
2. How I’m staying fit as a fiddle…the inefficient way
3. How I’m enjoying living with a writer … me.
I wish that I could talk about those and more, but I can’t. Andy was as cheap with my time as he was with my speaker’s fee.
Anyway, you’ll find all those topics and more In Bed. So, go buy your own dang copy! And when you do, I hope that you’ll read all 55 essays in bed, which is exactly where I wrote them, night after night.
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Andy, thank you so much for inviting me to speak.
Colleagues, thank you all so much for coming out.
It really is great to be home despite all of my banter. Laurel Ridge will always hold a special place in my heart. It opened its doors to me way back in 1999 in ye olden Lord Fairfax Community College days. When those doors opened, my childhood dream of becoming a college professor came true.
Whatever you’re doing since you did that R thing, I hope that you are having as much fun as I’m having with my own reinvention!
The Wired Researcher 