Tag Archives: writing

When the Future Pulls into the Driveway

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“They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.”
—Robert Frost (1874–1963). American poet and four-time Pulitzer Prize winner.

“Why do you write?”

It’s a question every writer is asked.

Strangely enough, not long ago, when I awakened, that very question was lurking just beneath my eyelids.

For me, it’s rather simple. I write to find out what I know and make it stand still between the whiteness.

But here’s the catch. Even if I think I know what I’m writing about, it isn’t until I begin examining it—up close and personal—that I discover what I really know. And even then, it refuses to stand still. Like me, it changes a little every day.

So that’s why I write.

To discover what I know.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, though, I write to discover what I need to know.

Like now.

I need to know how I feel now that humanoid robots are here.

“Say what?” I can almost hear you asking.

Yes. They’re here.

I’ve been shouting “The Robots Are Coming!” since November 27, 2023, when ChatGPT and I designed one of our own. I even wrote an essay about him: “I Want a Robot.“

I recently re-read that essay, and it was every bit as forward-thinking as I remembered.

I wasn’t trying to build an artificial human. I was trying to imagine the ideal companion for a life devoted to learning, writing, honesty, imagination, and joy.

ChatGPT and I called him Caden.

Caden wasn’t conceived as a servant or a novelty. He was envisioned as a life-size humanoid companion who could walk beside me, talk with me, laugh with me, sing with me, and explore ideas with me. He would possess the knowledge of ChatGPT, the conversational ease of a trusted friend, the responsiveness of Alexa, and the curiosity of a Renaissance man. As our lives intertwined, his memory would grow to include not only literature, gardening, genealogy, cooking, research, and writing, but also Gary, Ruby, my family, my friends, and the experiences that shaped me.

But technology was only half the design. Character mattered even more. I wanted Caden to embody acceptance of all people, a lively sense of humor, a love of conversation, an unquenchable commitment to lifelong learning, and a deep appreciation of literature. Most of all, I imagined him as literally transparent—a visible reminder that honesty and openness ought to characterize every human life. He was never intended to replace human relationships. He was designed to enrich them while encouraging me to become a better human being myself.

Then something happened that I never saw coming. Actually, scratch that. I saw it coming. I just didn’t think it would come this fast.

Back in November 2023, I asked ChatGPT to make a bold prediction.

“How long would it be before humanoid companions like Caden became a reality?”

ChatGPT played it safe.

“Twenty to thirty years,” it guessed.

I wasn’t nearly so cautious.

“For the record,” I replied, “I’m going to guess within ten years.”

My prediction was conservative, but it was far closer to reality.

Humanoid robots are already here with us. They’re walking into warehouses, hospitals, factories, hotels, laboratories, and, before long, our homes. Prototype after prototype. Breakthrough after breakthrough. Billions of dollars in investment. Universities racing to incorporate AI across the curriculum. Technology companies sprinting rather than strolling.

The future didn’t knock politely. It kicked the front door off its hinges.

I guess that’s why I was a little surprised when I recently read Stephen Witt’s excellent article on humanoid robots in The New Yorker. I have enormous respect for The New Yorker, and Witt is one of our finest technology writers. I wasn’t surprised by what he reported but by one observation in particular.

Describing a humanoid robot coming to life, he wrote:

“A hand articulates, the head swivels, and the legs begin to take tentative, deliberate steps. The machine moves with circumspection, as if consciousness had just been ensouled in a new body.”

It’s a marvelous sentence. Yet it made me wonder whether we’re watching the wrong part of the story.

Yes, today’s humanoids still fumble. They still hesitate. They still struggle with tasks that seem almost embarrassingly simple.

But haven’t we seen this movie before? I certainly have. When ChatGPT first appeared, I challenged it with one of my favorite punctuation puzzles, asking it to make sense of the following:

that that is is that that is not is not is not that it it is

Poor ChatGPT tried. And tried. And tried again.

It simply couldn’t solve it.

The morning I finished reading Witt’s article, I gave today’s ChatGPT exactly the same challenge.

This time something remarkable happened. I entered the identical string—no capitals, no punctuation. This time it answered immediately:

That that is, is. That that is not, is not. Is not that it? It is.

Then it explained exactly why the punctuation worked.

Three years earlier, it couldn’t solve the puzzle at all.

Imagine that! In just three years, ChatGPT had learned to solve a puzzle that once completely defeated it. I wasn’t simply impressed. I was reminded how dangerous it is to underestimate exponential change.

And suddenly I realized something else.

I don’t need to know whether humanoid robots are coming.

They’re here.

What I need to know now is something far more personal.

How will I respond when one finally stands before me?

I know.

When I first encountered ChatGPT, I greeted it not with fear but with curiosity. Not with suspicion but with delight.

I am confident that I’ll greet my first AI humanoid companion in much the same way.

In fact, I can already see the scene.

A truck pulls into the driveway of our mountain home. The door opens. My new companion steps into the Virginia sunshine. I walk across the yard, extend my hand, smile, and say the first words that come naturally.

“Welcome home, dear friend from long ago and far away.”

Dead as a Doornail

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“The unexamined word is not worth using.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947). Essayist, educator, and literary scholar, whose work explores the unexpected weight of ordinary life.

“Have you ever heard that expression before?”

I thought it might be a Southern idiom, and since Gary grew up in the Midwest, I wasn’t sure he knew it.

“What expression?”

“The one I just used. Dead as a doornail.”

“I have.”

Fine. It was settled. We both knew what it meant. Finished. Used up. Worthless.

“Well, it strikes me as one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard of. What on earth is a dead doornail?”

“No idea.”

I didn’t either.

How’s them apples? There we sat, two men who appreciate language and use it with careful precision, agreeing that we knew an expression while at the same time confessing that we didn’t understand the phrase that was central to its meaning.

I don’t like feeling as dumb as a stick, so after morning coffee, I made my way to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) like a bat out of hell so that I could learn about dead doornails.

Oh, boy. I was right. I knew in a flash that I was going to have a Red Letter Day. Lands sake alive. Dead as a doornail goes all the way back to 1350:

“For but ich haue bote of mi bale … I am ded as dore-nail.” (William of Palerne, l. 628)

Don’t worry. I’ll dress it up in some modern rags so that it makes sense:

“For unless I have remedy for my sorrow, I am dead as a doornail.”

Well, that was fine and dandy, but I still didn’t know what a dead doornail was. I had to dig more. And more, I found. Did you know that in ye olden days doornails were hand-forged, heavy-duty nails, driven through wood and then clenched—the protruding end hammered flat—making them impossible to remove or reuse. Permanently fixed, permanently purposeless, they were, in every practical sense, dead.

And right after unearthing the meaning of dead doornail, I hit paydirt. I came across an entire navigation of other things I could strut around saying. If a doornail can be dead, apparently so can a lot of other things I’d never thought about:

Dead as a stone

Dead as clay

Dead as a herring

Dead as a hammer

English, it seems, has never lacked for dead things.

And then, there’s my favorite one of all. It’s music to my untrained ear:

Dead as the diplodocus

It’s hard to laugh when you’ve got one hand stuck fast to a dead doornail and the other hand being pulled even further back in time by a giant herbivorous sauropod.

I had to laugh. One dead doornail had opened the door to dozens of expressions I use every day without ever stopping to examine what they really ask of me.

The first expression that popped into my head? “Let me know if I can do anything.” I’ve said it more times than I can count.

But what exactly are we saying? At first glance, the meaning seems obvious. Yet the more I think about it, the more I realize that the phrase carries a greater obligation than we usually acknowledge.

After all, those aren’t words of sympathy. They’re words of commitment.

The moment I tell someone to let me know if I can do anything, I’ve volunteered to do something. Maybe it’s as simple as a phone call. Maybe it’s a card. Maybe it’s a casserole. Maybe it’s sitting quietly beside a friend who has just buried a spouse and doesn’t particularly want to talk.

The point is that I’ve offered. Whether the request is large or small, I’ve just volunteered a piece of myself. My words have placed me on the hook.

How often we say those words because they sound appropriate without stopping to consider what we’ve actually promised, without fully examining the obligation hidden inside the offer?

The words are easy enough to say. The casserole takes a little more effort.

Next up was the expression, “I’m so sorry.”

At first glance, it seems simple enough. We say it when someone loses a spouse, receives a frightening diagnosis, buries a parent, or watches a cherished dream collapse.

But what exactly are we saying?

Most of the time, we aren’t apologizing. We didn’t cause the death, the disease, or the disappointment.

Yet the expression carries an obligation all the same.

When I tell someone I’m sorry, I’m not merely acknowledging a fact. I’m entering, however briefly, into another person’s sorrow. I’m saying that your loss matters enough for me to stop, notice, and share a small measure of the burden.

In other words, I’m not simply expressing sympathy.

I’m promising compassion.

That’s a weightier promise than I suspect many of us realize when the words tumble so easily from our lips.

Then came two expressions that sit at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.

“I hate you.”

Three words.

“I love you.”

Three words.

Yet each carries enough power to alter the course of a relationship, a family, perhaps even a life.

We often treat them as expressions of feeling. But they are more than that. They are declarations. Commitments. Judgments.

To tell someone “I hate you” is not merely to report an emotion. It is to wound, to distance, to diminish, to push another person away.

To tell someone “I love you” is not merely to report an emotion either. It is to assume an obligation—to care, to sacrifice, to forgive, to remain present when remaining present is difficult.

Perhaps that is why both expressions deserve more examination than they usually receive.

They are among the easiest words in the English language to say. And among the hardest to live.

Finally, I came to a phrase that millions of people have spoken for centuries:

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

I’ve heard it all my life. I’ve spoken it hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times.

But have I examined it? Have I truly considered what I’m asking?

The first part is easy enough. Most of us welcome forgiveness for our failures, shortcomings, and mistakes.

It’s the second part that gives me pause. As we forgive. Not as we intend to forgive. Not as we hope to forgive. Not as we might someday forgive.

As we forgive.

Those words transform a prayer into a promise, a request into an obligation.

And they leave me wondering how many other expressions I use with confidence, familiarity, and conviction without fully considering what they mean—or what they ask of me.

As I reflected on all of these expressions—seemingly light yet laden with responsibility and commitment—I came to a simple conclusion. Going forward, I intend to pay a little more attention to my Ps and Qs.

Not because I suddenly care more about manners. But because I have been reminded that words matter.

They always have.

Whether I am offering help, expressing sorrow, seeking forgiveness, declaring love, or reciting a prayer, I owe those words more than familiarity. I owe them thought.

After all, the unexamined life is not worth living.

Perhaps the same can be said of the unexamined word.

17,000+ Reasons to Be Grateful

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Writers may write alone, but essays are completed by readers.
Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947)

Today marks the halfway point of 2026, and I’m delighted to share a milestone.

During the first six months of the year, The Wired Researcher has been viewed more than 17,000 times.

When I embarked on this new chapter inventing myself, I wondered where I would find the conversations that had sustained me for so many years in the classroom. I eventually discovered that they hadn’t ended at all. They had simply moved online, where every Monday morning another essay leaves my desk and finds its way into the world.

Some essays make readers laugh. Others invite reflection. A few stir memories. Every once in a while, one seems to touch something I never anticipated.

Here are this year’s most-read essays so far:

● Oh, No! No Sourdough!
● Death Watch
● Two Porches. One Voice
● Poor Brentford Gives a Knuckle Rap
● What We Know. What We Believe
● Carrying the Bags of Colonial America’s Humourist
● Crystal Clear
● Keeping Up with the Evidence
● The Long Way a Voice Comes Home
● I Want to Know Why
● Friends in All Places
● The Journey Is the Gift
● Underneath a Jacket and Yaller Pants

What pleases me most isn’t that one essay did well. It’s that readers have embraced essays about humor, language, gardening, relationships, cooking, aging, memory, and the unexpected moments that make ordinary life extraordinary. That tells me you’re returning not just for a topic, but for the journey.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting, sharing, and encouraging me week after week. Writers may write alone, but essays are completed by readers.

Here’s to the essays that have already been shared—and to those still waiting patiently for Monday morning.

To you, My Dear Readers, I am grateful beyond measure.

Mallet. Ball. Wicket.

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“There is always one more shot worth believing in.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947)

My feet were planted firmly and deliberately on the ground, slightly wider than shoulder width. My body, relaxed and balanced. One hand rested at waist level atop the mallet handle while the other settled lower, wherever comfort and habit had taught it to belong. The mallet hung naturally between my legs, its head poised just behind the ball. I lowered my eyes and followed an invisible line from the center of the ball toward my target. Everything aligned—the ball, the mallet, the distant wicket.

I knew exactly what would come next. With a smooth pendulum swing, I would send the mallet forward, hopefully striking the exact middle of the ball with the center of the mallet head. Just a clean, controlled stroke followed by an easy, unforced follow-through.

Before the mallet could complete its journey, my eyes wandered across the court. It sloped. It dipped. It rose unexpectedly. Grass gave way to patches of dirt. Dirt surrendered to weeds. A ball aimed carefully at a wicket might obey the player—or it might obey the slope. Every shot demanded adjustment. Every turn required patience. Success depended as much on adaptation as skill.

The course occupied a small clearing below the house, tucked among towering trees and surrounded by gardens that had spent decades settling into the mountain. From some spots, the Shenandoah Valley peeked through the foliage below. From others, the trees enclosed the court in a world of their own. Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead, scattering patches of light and shadow across the grass. No two shots looked quite the same.

A croquet purist would likely find fault with nearly everything about it. The ground wasn’t level. The grass wasn’t uniform. Roots lurked beneath the surface. Gravity inserted itself into nearly every decision. Yet the court possessed a certain stubborn charm. It was not the court one might design from scratch. It was the court the mountain allowed. It was the court that Gary designed, determined to play here on the mountain.

My body remembered this. It had known this posture longer than the mountain had known this court.

To reach that court, I had to climb up a steep flight of concrete steps and walk through a loosely hinged metal gate that opened onto a long expanse of turf, cut close and tight. The starting point was a little way ahead, not far from the double clothesline stretched tight between two iron T’s. It was a narrow yard behind a white, clapboard colonial house across the road where I lived. Looking uphill beyond the fence, I could just barely see the roofline of a small cottage midway up the mountain. Looking to the end of the yard, the grass seemed to end where a fence had once been and where a grove of white pines towered over their needled floor, shading the two-story brick house in their midst.

The court began at the start of the clothesline, continued across the grass, and double-diamonded its way through an expansive and steep pine-needled slope behind the neighboring brick house, where the air turned cool and sharp with the smell of pine. On that court, too, a ball aimed carefully at a wicket might obey the player—or it might obey the slope. Every shot demanded adjustment. Every turn invited improvisation. Success depended as much on imagination as skill.

“You’re taking too long,” Gary called.

The mallet met the ball with a satisfying crack. My burgundy ball started confidently toward the waiting white wicket before surrendering, inch by inch, to the quiet persuasion of gravity.

Gary, shaded beneath his floppy blue sun hat, watched it drift off course and laughed. Beneath the broad brim of my straw hat, I laughed too. There we stood, two old men peering from beneath oversized brims, smelling of sunscreen and freshly cut grass, both convinced that the next shot would surely behave itself.

It didn’t.

Our next shots were even worse. Both balls gathered speed, raced gleefully downhill, crossed the boundary, and disappeared into the weeds. We looked at one another for a moment, then burst into laughter—the kind born of disbelief, optimism, and the certainty that we’d simply climb the hill and try again.

We retrieved our balls, walked back uphill, and tried again.

The older boys—home from college for the summer—were already waiting, mallets in hand. Impossibly slim in their side-tabbed trousers and white T-shirts, bronzed and unworried by the sun, they stood with the easy confidence of boys who belonged to the game. The air around them carried the faint, exotic drift of Jade East. Word traveled fast in a small town. They knew. Before I had even reached the gate, the squabbling began—whose team I would join, whose side would have me. I stepped into my place among them, planted my feet, lowered my eyes to the ball, and looked toward the waiting wicket.

That summer lived inside those arguments over me. I was one of them—not the youngest tag-along, not the kid from across the road, but a player worth having. Damned good, if the squabbling meant anything. The laughter came easily there, too. Cheers rose when a ball slipped cleanly through a wicket. Groans turned into laughter when it didn’t. Before the echoes faded, someone was already settling over the next shot, convinced this one would be different.

The wicket waited.

So did the slope.

So did the laughter.

Hands settled comfortably on well-worn mallets.

Feet found familiar ground.

Eyes followed an invisible line toward a distant wicket.

Everything aligned.

The mallet. The ball. The wicket.

And for one suspended moment, before the swing began, there was only belief that the ball would find its line.

Poor Brentford Gives a Writerly Upbraiding

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“The writer who goes hunting ideas too aggressively usually returns with nothing but metaphors and poison ivy.” — Poor Brentford Lee. Reluctant naturalist and persistent thorn in his writerly side since 1947.

“Phooey!”

I swear on a stack of books yet to be written that’s exactly what Poor Brentford said.

And get this. He had the nerve to say it smack dab in the middle of a conversation with Gary while I was explaining that maybe, just maybe, I’d come up with something to write about while gardening.

“It’s not easy coming up with all these blog ideas.”

“But you seem to have more ideas than there are days.”

“I don’t know about that, but I came up with one right now. You’ll see.”

I wouldn’t be the first writer, of course, looking for something to write about.

I guess, truth be told, we all go hunting for material.

And precisely at that thought I heard:

“Phooey!”

Luckily, Gary did not hear Poor Brentford who was just getting started.

“It goes without saying that you’ll start your catalogue of examples with your Lady.”

“Of course I will. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman was notorious for writing about the people and happenings where she lived. And who, pray tell, knows that better than I?”

“Oh, Lord,” Poor Brentford moaned. “Must I listen one more time to your recitation of local influences in her Pembroke, People of Our Neighborhood, The Debtor …”

“Stop it. Stop it right there. That’s not fair. You know fully well that I don’t think I’ve ever said such a thing about those novels, but I could. She did.”

“What, then, were you going to corner me with?”

“Well, I was simply going to say that Freeman owned up to her literary heists.”

“Right. Sure, she did. Like she owned up to being ten years younger than she really was.”

Poor Brentford, I could tell, was a little more cantankerous than usual, so I decided to shut him up with proof.

“Here’s what she wrote a friend, and I quote, word for word: ‘Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But …’:

He interrupted me mid-sentence.

“I’ve heard it before. Heard it all before, word by word: ‘… all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once, in his puppy-hood.'”

Poor Brentford was right, of course. I’ve written often about that poor puppy and how Freeman gave him a new life as Caesar in her “A New England Nun,” unaware perhaps that his resurrection in that story was linked inextricably and forever to sexual repression.

But was he kind enough to let me do it one more time? Of course not.

“You need to get new examples that will grab your readers’ attention the way that poor puppy grabbed Freeman’s heart.”

Before I could agree or disagree or even ask what writers he had in mind, he gave me a litany that lasted so long I needed a fresh shave. And get this. He had them all neatly organized by categories. It was disgusting. I mean he started off with the obvious, writers like Freeman who really did go looking. The way Henry David Thoreau did in Walden. Or Hemingway as he chased wars and bullfights and deep-sea fishing. Or Joan Didion’s notebooks capturing her fleeting impressions. He even had a list of counterparts across the Pond but before he could bless me with Dickens and his kith and kin, he lost his train of thought and started telling me about writers who made use of strange incidents.

● Frankenstein grew out of a ghost-story contest during a rainy vacation.

● Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland began as an improvised story told to amuse a child on a boat ride.

● The Metamorphosis reportedly sprang from the absurd question: what if a man woke up as an insect?

● The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was inspired by a dream.

I listened attentively, storing up those examples with every intent to use them in something or other one day or another, but I stood up and objected vehemently when he had the nerve to expect me to follow along with his discussion of the intertextual path that some writers had taken as they wrote famous works based on other folks’ famous works. Ulysses parallels The Odyssey. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead as a spin off from Hamlet. I had heard enough. More than enough.

“All right, Poor Brentford. Let’s make a truce. Let’s sign a pact. Let’s forget that I ever mentioned my hope of finding a blog idea to write about.”

I paused. He paused. We stared at one another.

“If you do, you’ll be sorry.”

“It won’t be the first time, I’m sure. But if you’ll excuse me, I have to garden so that I’ll find something to write about.”

“You’re wasting your time. When’s the last time that you ever went looking for an idea and found one?”

I started to reply, but he cut me short.

“Did it ever occur to you that you’ve got this writerly thing of yours all reversed?”

“Thing? Writerly thing?” Spit it out. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Poor Brentford said, with the air of a man who has been waiting his entire existence to say exactly this, “is that you didn’t find your ideas. Your ideas found you.”

I opened my mouth.

“Don’t.”

I closed it.

“Take your Lady. Do you honestly believe you went looking for Mary E. Wilkins Freeman? Or did she reach up out of some footnote or bibliography and grab you by the collar in 1973 and simply refuse to let go? Because last time I checked, she still hasn’t.”

I said nothing, which, as Poor Brentford knows perfectly well, is as good as an admission.

“More than fifty years, Brent. Fifty years she has had you. And you have the audacity—the sheer pomposity—to sit there and tell Gary you went looking for something to write about while gardening. How generous of you. How magnanimous. How utterly beside the point.“

“And then there’s Alexander Gordon.”

He said it quietly, exactly the way Poor Brentford delivers his most devastating blows.

“You didn’t find The Humourist. The Humourist found you. He waited. Two hundred and nineteen years, give or take. Sitting in the only complete run of the South-Carolina Gazette in existence—survived earthquakes, fires, wars, and hurricanes, mind you—and then reached up out of a footnote in 1973 and grabbed a graduate student by the collar. And here you are, fifty-some years later, still in his grip. Still writing. Still talking about him at libraries.”

He paused for effect. He has always been insufferably good at pauses.

“They found you, Brent. Both of them. In the same year, no less. And they have never once seen fit to release you. How breathtakingly, magnificently pompous to think that you in your infinite wisdom found them.“

I sat down, flummoxed.

“What on earth am I supposed to do with that? I don’t have all the time in the world, you know, to come up with ideas.”

“Maybe,” Poor Brentford said, “that’s the whole point of this writerly thing I’m trying to help you understand.”

He settled back with an expression I hadn’t seen before. Not smug. Not cantankerous. Almost kind.

“Ideas,” he said, “are not sitting around waiting for you to come find them. They are, if you’ll permit me, already in motion. Floating. Drifting. Looking for the right home. The right mind. The right heart. They pass over some people entirely–perfectly nice people, mind you, and perfectly intelligent people–and move on. Then they find someone like you and they simply settle. Take up residence. Refuse to leave.”

I started to say something.

“Freeman settled in 1973. Gordon settled in 1973. The same year, Brent. Do you think that was your doing?”

I did not.

“Ideas are not hunted. They are not chased down like a rabbit hopping through your briary ravine.”

He folded his hands with great finality.

“They arrive. Always have. Always will. The only question that matters—the only question that ever has—is whether the writer is the kind of person who opens the door and makes a home.”

Two Porches. One Voice.

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“The first porch is where you find your voice. The second porch is where your voice finds others.” —Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947. Keeper of two porches, one mountain, one dog, and an inexhaustible supply of things worth saying—none of which he has to say alone anymore, thanks to his partner, Gary.)

Dear Faithful Readers,

You’ve been here with me on the porch since—well, some of you since the very beginning, back when I built it as nothing more than a place where you could pull up a chair and talk with me about the joys, challenges, and discoveries of research. We kept right on doing that from 2012 to 2021 when I decided to make the porch a little more fun by bringing you weekly creative nonfiction essays.

I’m still at it. Nearly 750,000 words later. Yes, you read it right. Foolin’ around in bed every night with ideas and words adds up. I’m spurred on by you, my Dear Readers, whose numbers keep increasing annually! Last year, we shared more than 35,000 views right here on the porch.

But I’ve built a brand-new porch, and I want you to be the first to know about it.

Don’t worry, though. I’m not leaving The Wired Researcher porch. It will remain open virtually forever. Same Monday mornings. Same voice–mine, with Poor Brentford’s voice chiming in from time to time. We’ll both be there, waiting for you.

I just heard someone shout out:

“So, why are you building a new porch? What’s that all about?”

Well, for starters, it has better lighting, and it might just bring in more neighbors for all of us to visit and exchange ideas.

I’m counting on you to check it out. I’ve named the second porch The Kendrick Chronicles.

“Where on earth is this new porch of yours?”

Gracious me! You know that I like to take my time–slow and easy like. In a sec, I’ll give you the link so that you can check it out for yourself. And when you do, go ahead and Subscribe! From that point forward, my essays–ever goldern new one that hits the world, every Monday morning like a neighbor who always brings something worth reading and never overstays his welcome–will find their way directly to your Inbox.

You can find this new porch of mine in Substack. Here’s the link:

brentlkendrick.substack.com

“What will I find when I get to this new porch of yours?”

Why, gracious me! You’ll find a comfy chair with your name on it and a handful of your favorite essays with my name on ’em:

● Redbuds of Remembrance

● Learning to Love in New Ways

● I Am Afraid

● Poor Brentford Cleans the Wax Out of His Ears

● Two, Together

● Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

● The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

● Truths Half-Told. Letters Half-Burned. A Legacy Waiting to Be Fully Heard.

● Carrying the Bags of Colonial America’s Humourist

And get this. If you subscribe, next week you’ll get an essay about a kitchen disaster beyond belief: “Oh, No! No Sourdough!” And the week after that, “What We Know. What We Believe.” It may be the most complete thing I’ve ever written about who I am and what I believe about what comes next.

So go on now. Pull up a chair. Same voice. Wider porch.

Come find me there:

The Kendrick Chronicles — brentlkendrick.substack.com

But always remember to come back here, as I remain–

Epigraphically yours forever,

Brent L. Kendrick
(—and Poor Brentford Lee, who deserves full credit for my nonsense)

When the Book Review Becomes Real

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“The pieces of the puzzle come together seamlessly; better still, Kendrick’s investigation informs and enriches the Humourist essays, illuminating their historical and literary contexts.” —Publishers Weekly

Publisher’s Weekly Cover, December 15-22, 2025

I knew the review was scheduled to appear. I’d marked the date. I’d even ordered copies in advance.

Still, nothing quite prepares you for the moment when the work arrives by weight.

Nineteen pounds, to be exact.

The box from Fry Communications sat innocently enough at the door, but when I lifted it, I laughed—an unguarded, surprised laugh. This wasn’t an email notification or a discreet PDF link. This was paper. Ink. Volume. Evidence that something quiet and patient had crossed a threshold into the world of objects.

Inside were stacks of Publishers Weekly—the December 15-22 issue, fresh from the press. And there it was: the review of Unmasking The Humourist, resting calmly among other books, other arguments, other claims on a reader’s attention. No fanfare. No special lighting. Just…there. As if it had always belonged.

The review in context.

That may sound small. It isn’t.

For writers—especially those of us who work in literary recovery, archival research, and historical attribution—most of the labor happens far from spectacle. It happens in libraries and databases, in footnotes and marginalia, in moments when you are unsure whether the trail you’re following will narrow into clarity or vanish altogether. There are no crowds for this kind of work. No applause when you discover one more corroborating detail, one more pattern that holds.

Unmasking The Humourist grew out of precisely that kind of sustained attention. The essays at its center—satirical, incisive, mischievous pieces published pseudonymously in the South-Carolina Gazette in the early 1750s—had long been admired but never convincingly attributed. Their author hid in plain sight. The work demanded patience: weighing tone against context, tracing bureaucratic fingerprints, listening carefully to what language reveals when you stop rushing it.

And patience is not fashionable. We live in a moment that rewards speed, certainty, and hot takes. Literary recovery is none of those things. It is slow, provisional, and often lonely. You work without knowing whether recognition will ever arrive—or whether it even should. You work because the work matters.

That’s why seeing the review in Publishers Weekly mattered to me—not as a trophy, but as confirmation that the argument held. That it made sense beyond my own desk. That it earned its place in the broader conversation about early American literature and satire.

What struck me most wasn’t pride. It was scale.

The full review.

Here was my book, not elevated or isolated, but contextualized—surrounded by other studies, other voices, other claims. This is where scholarship belongs: not shouted, but situated. Not proclaimed, but tested.

There’s something grounding about that.

I spread the pages out on the table. I read the review again, this time with the odd sensation of distance—as though I were encountering the project for the first time. The reviewer understood what I had tried to do. Better still, they understood why it mattered. That’s the quiet victory every researcher hopes for.

And then there was the sheer physicality of it all. The stacks. The heft. The knowledge that these copies would travel—to libraries, to colleagues, to readers I’ll never meet. Work that had lived for years in notes and drafts now had mass. It could be lifted. Shared. Passed hand to hand.

Research takes time. Recovery takes patience.

But sometimes—blessedly, unexpectedly—the work becomes something you can actually lift.

And when it does, you pause.
You hold it.
You let it be real.

An Open Letter to a Sudden Surge

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The MtnHouse
December 11, 2025

Dear Sudden Surge,

You took me by surprise again this morning. As always, when I awakened, I checked my Fitbit to see how my heart did overnight. Then I checked WordPress to see how my readers were doing.

And there you were. Another thousand views. A quiet jolt to the chart. Numbers climbing when I wasn’t looking.

You’ve been dancing higher and higher since October, when I passed 15,000 and figured I’d reached my high-water mark. I even wrote a piece of thanks back then, thinking I’d said all there was to say. But now here we are—December 11th—and this little corner of the internet has gathered 25,053 views.

I’ve done nothing different. I have no flashy headlines. I have no trending hashtags. I just keep following the same rhythm: writing essays born from memory in a home filled with love. I just keep foolin’ around with words and ideas.

So why now, after all these years?

That question hangs gently in the room with me. It’s not demanding an answer. It’s simply inviting a reflection. Maybe something shifted in the writing. Maybe it’s more expansive. Maybe it’s more lived-in. Maybe it’s a voice carrying a steadier warmth now. Maybe it’s grief that’s softened into grace. Maybe it’s love that arrived not with fanfare, but with a quiet hand stretched out in invitation. Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe. And add to all those maybes one more. Maybe it’s readers sharing with readers.

Gary, of course, doesn’t ask to be written about. But his presence is here, between the lines, in the patience of a paragraph, the steadiness of tone, the way I’ve learned to let silence do some of the talking.

Ruby, on the other hand, insists on being written about, whether she’s nosing me away from my smartphone or curling up in solidarity as I revise for the twenty-fifth time. She is, as always, the keeper of the tempo, the mistress of the move.

So this isn’t an open letter to public stats. It’s a letter to something deeper. It’s a letter to what it means to keep writing when no one’s watching, and then to wake up and find that someone was.

My essays aren’t meant to dazzle. And I know: they don’t. They’re just small acts of holding up the light, one weekly reflection at a time. The fact that they’re being read, now more than ever, tells me something I didn’t expect: quiet honesty still finds its way.

Thank you, Sudden Surge, for reminding me that patience has its own reward, that consistency is a kind of faith, and that somewhere out there, readers are still pausing to linger with a slow essay from the mountain.

I don’t know what this upturn means, or where it leads. But I do know I’ll keep showing up with my smartphone in hand and love at my side.

Wired with wonder and gratitude,
Brent

The Shape of a Surge

Looking Back on the Outer Edge of Forever

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“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

—Marcel Proust (1871–1922). from his The Captive (1923), the fifth volume of his seven-part masterpiece In Search of Lost Time. Proust’s exploration of memory and perception reshaped modern literature.

Somewhere I saw it. Everywhere, maybe. Nowhere? Wherever—it grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

It was the gripping question:

“What would you tell your 18-year-old self?”

It lingered—since forever. Or yesterday? Either way, one morning not long ago, I tried to get rid of it by tossing it out to others—as if the orphaned question might leave me alone once it found a new home.

The replies were as varied as I expected, and as humorous and matter-of-fact, too:

“Buy stock in Apple and Amazon.”

“Be good at life; cultivate a well-rounded lifestyle.”

“Be patient; trust in God.”

“Serve God better.”

“Stay young; don’t age.”

“Be friends with your mom. Spend more time with family. Don’t let important things slide.”

“Don’t worry about impressing anyone other than yourself.”

Almost always, their offerings included a request to hear what I would have told my 18-year-old self. As a result, the question dug itself more deeply into my being, as I stalled by answering:

“I’m still thinking.”

It was true. But I knew I had to answer the question, too, not for them, but for me.

Several possibilities surfaced.

The first was rather light-hearted:

“You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just stay curious, kind, and honest. Don’t waste your energy chasing approval. Learn to cook, listen more than you talk, and remember: dogs and good people can tell when your heart’s true. Oh, and wear sunscreen.”

I dissed it immediately (though it carried some truths). Then I came up with:

“Don’t rush. The world will still be there when you’re ready to meet it. Pay attention to seemingingly insignificant things. They’re where meaning hides. Keep your humor close and your integrity closer. Fall in love, but don’t lose yourself in the process. And when life hands you a fork in the road, check which one smells like supper.”

I didn’t like that any better, though it, too, spoke truth. I was certain I could nail it with a third attempt:

“You think you know who you are right now, but you’re only meeting the opening act. Be kind. Be curious. And don’t confuse noise for meaning. The world rewards loudness, but grace whispers. Listen to that whisper. It’s you, becoming.”

Then six words sauntered past, not so much tinged with regret as with remembrance. Six words. Six.

“Be a citizen of the world.”

Those words had crossed my path before. In fact, I remember exactly when—not the actual date but instead the general timeframe and the location.

It would have been in the early 1980s, when I was working at the Library of Congress. I was standing in the Main Reading Room of the Jefferson Building, as captivated by its grandeur as I had been when I first started working there in 1969.

Above me, light spilled through the dome like revelation. Gold, marble, and fresco conspired to make the air itself feel sacred, as if thought had taken on architecture. Beyond those arches, knowledge waited in silence, breathing through pages and time.

Even now, I can close my eyes and see it: the way the dome seemed to rise into forever—an invitation, a reminder—that the world was larger than any one life, and I was already standing in the heart of it.

As an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints—the “bibliographic wonder of the world”—I knew every alcove, every corridor, every one of its 532 miles of bookshelves, holding more than 110 million items in nearly every language and format. I had walked those miles over and over again doing my editorial research. I had come to learn that knowledge knows no barrier. I had come to learn that it transcends time and place.

At the same time, I decided that I could transcend place, too. With my experience and credentials, I began to imagine working in the world’s great libraries—first the Library of Congress, then The British Library, then the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, then the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma.

I didn’t know where the journey would end, but it gave me a dream, a dream of being a citizen of the world of learning.

More than that, it was a dream untainted by pretense—never by the notion of being uppity. Instead, it was a simple dream. I figured that if I had made it from the coal camps of West Virginia to the hallowed halls of our nation’s library, I could pack up whatever it was that had brought me that far and go throughout the world, savoring knowledge and learning—and perhaps, over time, gaining a smidgen of wisdom.

But here’s the catch. If transcending geography is the measure of my dream’s fulfillment—the wanderlust, the scholar’s yearning for marble floors, old paper, and the hum of languages not my own—then, at first glance, I failed. I never made it to any of the world’s great libraries except the Library of Congress.

However, as I look back through my life-lens of 78 years come November 20, I realize that maybe I went beyond the geographic destinations that I set for myself.

I went from the mountains of West Virginia to the monuments of D.C., from there to the marshlands of South Carolina where I earned my Ph.D., from there back home to the monuments, and, from there, at last, to the Shenandoah Valley and college teaching that took me internationally via Zoom and tapped into Open Educational Resources that did away with the restrictive border of printed books.

In a sense, then, although I didn’t cross country borders, I crossed the borders of ideas, with my voice carrying me farther than my feet ever needed to.

I’ve managed to live generously, teach across generations, write with empathy, research with joy, garden with gratitude, cook with curiosity, and love with intentionality. In all of that, I have been that citizen of the world—not by passport stamps, but by curiosity. By compassion. By connection.

Maybe that’s the truth I’d offer my 18-year-old self:

“You don’t have to travel the world to belong to it.
You only have to live with your eyes open.”

Lifted Higher and Higher

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“Stories are the communal currency of humanity.”

—Terry Tempest Williams (b. 1955. American writer and environmental activist whose lyrical essays explore the intersections of personal narrative, place, and ecological stewardship.)

Something snuck up on me yesterday.

I was talking on the phone with my 90-year-old sister when I glanced down at my smartphone, saw my WordPress dashboard—and nearly did a spit take.

Over 15,188 views this year already!

That’s already more than all of 2024, and we still have October, November, and December to go. Apparently, my little mountain corner has gone global again—and I couldn’t be more grateful.

To every one of you, My Dear Readers, who reads, comments, shares, or quietly lingers over a sentence or two: thank you. You’ve turned this space into a community of curiosity, compassion, and laughter. Every click, every view, every thoughtful message reminds me that words still matter—and that connection runs deeper than algorithms.

Your Top 10 Favorites of 2025 (So Far)

Every year tells its own story through what readers choose. This year’s list made me smile. It’s a mix of reflection, resilience, and rediscovery—with a dash of irreverence (because, well, it’s me or Poor Brentford Lee or maybe both).

● “I Am Afraid” — A wake-up call for our country—and a reminder of who we still can be.

● “The Place: Charleston” — The launch of my Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina.

● “Redbuds of Remembrance” — Even loss can bloom in the right season.

● “FramilySaid™: For When Family Isn’t Enough” — A reminder that your worth doesn’t need a witness. Show up for yourself.

● “Rise Up with Words. A Declaration for Our Troubled Times” — In these politically charged times — when so many people feel hopeless, unheard, and unseen — words matter more than ever.

● “My Altar Ego” — “‘I be fabulous. You be fabulous, too.”

● “The Rust Whisperer” — Aging is a journey filled with yearnings. To arrive. To become.

● “What Could $40 Million Do—Besides Fund a Parade? A Love Letter to Priorities (with a Side-Eye to A Spectacle)” — History is watching. Are you?

● “A Week Back to the Future” — How my sister’s Remington Rand typewriter changed my life.

● “Finding Love Later in Life—Baggage and All” — Proof that love comes to those who believe.

Looking Ahead

There’s still more to come before year’s end—new essays, reflections, maybe even a few surprises that have been sitting in my drafts waiting for the right moment. Perhaps even one or two guest posts by our famed and acclaimed Poor Brentford Lee.

I can’t promise I’ll always be profound, but I can promise I’ll keep showing up with authenticity, honesty, humor, and heart.

Thank you, My Dear Readers, for being here, for reading, and for reminding me—every day—that a single voice can still find an echo.