Curiosity and attunement

This is the first of three articles about Seven Habits of Historically Conscious People—the basis of a forthcoming book of the same working title.

Do you ever feel lost, like the world makes no sense? The truth is, without historical thinking, it really doesn’t. Oh no, you think, you’re talking about history? Boring! If you think history is boring, it’s probably because no one told you how much it’s messing with your life right now. I’m here to tell you. But fret not. I have seven healthy habits to develop your historical consciousness. In this article, I offer the first two of the seven habits: curiosity and attunement — simple habits you can implement in your own life.

I often discuss historical consciousness because it is the greatest gift that studying history can offer. I refer to it as a learned superpower or the secret sauce of engaging with history. One of my mentors-in-print, historian John Lukacs, wrote a compelling and original book — something I also find loads of fun — published in the late 1960s called Historical Consciousness and the Remembered Past. 

Historical consciousness refers to living with a constant awareness of how the past influences the present. To be historically conscious is to live humbly, gratefully, and responsibly in time—remembering the past, reflecting on the present, and preparing for the future. Lukacs said that we might define history not as the remembered past, nor as today, nor as this minute, but that it hasn’t always been that way; it became the remembered past when people began to realize that the past affects us in profound ways. That means there was a time when human beings behaved without consciously recognizing that they were shaped by what had happened before. By “remembered past,” he means the things that happened in the past that we are presently aware of.

Modern people like you and me will have one of two reactions to what I just said. The first response is from people who, in a sense, are still in the old way of doing things: ignorant of the past that shapes their daily lives. They live for the present moment and perhaps give some thought to the future. This first group, which is a diminishing majority, thinks that talk about developing a historical consciousness is, at worst, gobbledegook and, at most, a waste of time. Who cares about the past? It’s old news. What have you done for me lately? They do not realize that they actually dishonor people of the past, their future selves, and their own contributions to the larger story of history by their contempt for the past. This group is embracing “presentism,” judging the past by present standards. Presentism reminds me of that most arrogant of Mark Twain’s books, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Sound harsh? I don’t mean to, but I will talk about this issue in the next episode of this series and unpack it a bit. And by the way, I have designed this series so you can jump in at any point and won’t feel lost. Each episode stands on its own.

Here is the second response of a growing minority who are at least drawn to the past to learn something more about themselves. I am on a mission to convince you that this is the group you want to be in, and you will find this is the “brand” of all my podcasts, vlogs, and blogs. And I am embarking on this mission at the age of seventy, so I am running out of time. I am being too dramatic and self-important there. The second group basically thinks history matters and wants to learn more about it, conscious of its sometimes unperceived impact on our lives. So if you are in this second group, well, we need to talk. So let’s continue to unpack habits that help us step into this advanced role of historical sensitivity.

By the way, those who diminish the past sometimes like to quote the apostle Paul as an ally because he famously said, “Forgetting what lies behind, I reach forward for the upward call of God.” But they are mistaken because what St. Paul was saying was that he had spent his past life building the legalist’s resume to earn his way to participate in the resurrection. But when St. Paul encountered Christ, he learned that one comes to God and the resurrection from the dead not according to one’s personal righteous deeds, but by God’s grace, which led him to faith in something that happened in history —something that — guess what —would affect him now and forever. Paul, at the time he wrote the letter to the Philippians, believed in a historical event that Jesus is God’s Son, lived a perfect life, died on a Roman cross for him, and became the firstfruits of a resurrection that Paul could take part in. So, Paul had to repent by jettisoning his hard-earned resume to receive the free gift of righteousness, acceptable to the One who raises people from the dead: Jesus. Ironic that implicit in Paul’s exercising faith in what Jesus did in history meant leaving Paul’s historical-agnostic position of his own righteousness. In short, St. Paul’s forgetting what lies behind does not mean the whole past, just the defective theology he held up until his conversion.

We all have some awareness of the past, but it can sometimes feel overwhelming to learn history deeply enough to become happier, healthier, and more confident. Think of historical habits as processes to put in place, allowing yourself time to integrate them. You may already have some of these habits or be able to adopt new ones, which may then lead you to others. These habits include curiosity, filling knowledge gaps, reading widely, embracing the golden rule of storytelling, prioritizing history, and seeking to expand your understanding. 

To be curious, we must be present with people, both living and dead, and give them our genuine, careful attention.

Interesting stories occur all around us, but often we fail to notice them. We hear people say intriguing things, but we rarely think twice because we are too focused on our own agendas. I speak from personal experience; I often get so caught up in my own projects or become obsessed with my own problems that I neglect to notice those around me. This neglect applies to history as well. We cultivate curiosity by being present, which means giving our full attention to others.

Years ago, I asked my father to share his memories of his childhood in the 1920s and 1930s. He began talking about the neighborhood grocery store owned by my grandfather. My dad worked at the store after school and on weekends. While describing the store, he mentioned, “There was a gas station across the street, where Charlie pumped gas.” My father laughed and added, “The old men always talked about him while they sat around the stove, wondering where he got his money.” He then continued with his story. I interrupted, asking, “Hold on, Dad. What about Charlie? Was he rich or something?” My father replied, “Oh no, nothing like that.” I probed further, asking, “Well, why did they wonder where his money came from?” I remember my father pausing, lifting his shoulders and eyebrows while pushing out his lower lip—a ritual he performed before answering. “Well,” he said, “I guess it was because Charlie would close down the station for a few minutes at noon every day to come across to the store.” 

I was curious: “Why did that make the old men think he was secretly rich? Did he load up on groceries?” Dad made a shushing sound, a sign that he was amused. “No, he just came into the store and bought one thing—a five-cent bottle of Coca-Cola. He’d pull it from the ice chest machine, use the bottle opener, and drink it right there in the store because he didn’t want to leave a deposit on the bottle and go back to the station.” I learned a great deal about Depression-era habits from this, but a pressing question remained. “But why did the old men think he was rich? Did you think he was rich?” His reply was, “Oh, I didn’t think he was rich. I just thought he was wasteful, I suppose.” 

I was confused. “But Dad, he left the bottle. How was he wasteful?” He explained, “Things were different then. The old men thought it was strange that anyone —let alone a young guy —would spend a nickel a day on a Coca-Cola. And it wasn’t just the nickel, Liam; it was the fact that he was an addict.” 

“What?” I exclaimed. “I thought they stopped using cocaine in Coca-Cola by that time.” Dad shook his head. “Yes, you’re right about that. But we thought it must be an addiction for anyone to do something as silly as drinking a soda every day. Why throw away a quarter or thirty cents a week on sugar water that could rot your teeth?”

In that moment, the past came alive. I was not only with my father, but I felt as if someone had opened a door. I could visualize the old men sitting around the stove, looking through the store’s front windows, watching Charlie cross the street. “Here he comes again!” I imagined the red Coca-Cola ice chest lined with galvanized metal, filled with ice and little green bottles capped with red and white. During the Depression, folks treasured those bottles for special occasions of celebration and refreshment. A bottle of Coke would cost nearly a dollar today, which seems almost insignificant now, but during that time of scarcity, even enjoying a daily soda felt extravagant. This sense of excess was prevalent during the Great Depression, which shaped my father’s life and influenced his habits, attitudes, and actions. He never wasted anything. Leftovers were a staple; he saved boxes, hoarded fuses, and made sure everyone in the family used toilet paper efficiently. When my grandfather passed away, we discovered boxes of Prince Albert pipe tobacco tins that he had saved, along with large balls of rubber bands. Hearing the story of Charlie, the Coca-Cola addict, helped me make sense of my father’s peculiar behaviors. It became clear that spending money was seen as irresponsible and extravagant unless the spender maximized it. One can carry frugality too far, but it isn’t a bad idea.

This interaction was a goldmine of information for me. It deepened my understanding of why my father was the way he was, which also allowed me to understand my own story better. I struck upon this rich vein of insight by exercising curiosity, which required me to be present. Because I was paying attention, I picked up on that seemingly strange remark about a gas station attendant. I gained profound insight not only into my father but also into how history impacted my family.

So, curiosity is an essential habit in developing the superpower of historical consciousness. To develop curiosity, we must be present with people, both living and dead, and give them our genuine, careful attention.

Next, let’s move on to attunement. We’re going to “Mind the Gap,” as they warn on the tube in London. The gap is in our knowledge, and we’re not only going to watch our step, we’re going to develop the habit of closing the gaps in our understanding almost painlessly and effortlessly. 

*******

Have you ever been sure about a story, only to find out later you only knew half of it? That feeling—that shock of realizing there was more to the story—is precisely what I mean by learning humility in history. 

In London, they remind passengers, ‘Mind the Gap.’ It’s a warning to watch your step before you board the train. History gives us the same warning: mind the gap between what we think we know about the past, and what really happened.” I’ll give you four attitudes to help you approach the past with respect and humility.

In a previous episode, I discussed the importance of curiosity as the first habit in developing historical consciousness. However, I would like to discuss another historic railway to illustrate our need for the second habit, attunement, which emphasizes respect and humility and arises from recognizing the gaps in our knowledge of the past. I discussed the importance of curiosity as the first habit in developing historical consciousness. However, I would like to discuss another historic railway to illustrate our need for the second habit, attunement, which emphasizes respect and humility. I love Christ Tarrant’s television series, “Extreme Railway Journeys.” He really understands how much history has been affected by building, maintaining, and travelling on railways.

In the following exchange about The Bridge on the River Kwai and the real “Death Railway” built by Asian slaves, and Allied POWs under Japanese control during World War II, the interviewer (CT) asks historian Andrew Snow how accurately the film reflects what happened. Eighty thousand forced laborers, including 130 Americans, died in its construction. Snow explains that the movie, based on a novel by the same author who wrote Planet of the Apes, takes significant liberties with fact. While some incidents occurred, the central idea of British prisoners teaching the Japanese how to build a bridge is pure fiction. In reality, Snow notes, the Japanese were already highly skilled engineers who knew exactly how to construct a railway. The discussion then turns to the site itself—CT observes that the flood of tourists in casual hats seems disrespectful, given the suffering that took place there. Snow agrees that many visitors do not appreciate the site’s history, often taking short excursions without understanding its background. 

During the program, a clip shows a middle-aged Japanese woman tourist marching playfully to the “Colonel Bogey March” music, played by a solo Thai violinist to entertain tourists at the bridge. This familiar tune was the one that the British Commonwealth soldiers were supposed to have whistled to keep up their morale as their Japanese overlords used them as virtual slaves in the building of the railway line that connected Thailand to Burma (present-day Myanmar). 

When asked about Japanese visitors, Snow explains that they typically view the bridge as an impressive engineering achievement, since Japanese schools rarely teach the full wartime story. When they do learn what truly happened, he says, they are usually shocked and apologetic, for “you can’t be responsible for something you were never told.”

Snow was very charitable, as a historian should be, toward people with gaps in their historical knowledge. To his credit, and to those he has revealed the full facts of the story, there is sorrow because knowing the truth forces one to reckon with “these were my people” — the truth. And there should be repentance. How can we be sure this never happens again? That kind of response is what we would call attunement; What I like to call “Mind the Gap,” to play on the wonderful warning from the London Underground. 

In developing historical consciousness, we must recognize that we frequently do not know the stories of the past, and even when we think we do, our understanding is often incomplete. 

The Second Habit that leads to historical consciousness (remembering the remembered past): “Mind the Gap” = attunement. Allow me to describe what I mean by attunement with the past. It comes from Music, the precise adjustment of instruments to produce the correct pitch, symbolizing harmony.

1. Attunement involves being mindful that we are neither omniscient nor detached when it comes to the past. We are characters within the story, not outside it.

History has affected us, whether we recognize it or not. French philosopher Gabriel Marcel believed it was essential to know our ancestors so we could understand their eating habits, which might explain not only how we should eat but also why we have the preferences we do. More significantly, history shapes how and where we find ourselves in this moment. For instance, why was I born in Kansas when my grandfather came from Ulster? My family used to be farmers, so why are none of them farmers today? My maternal grandparents married and lived their lives in ways that were completely different from their upbringing. Why did that happen? How did my town come into existence?

Because we are insiders in our own histories, we have an inherent bias regarding historical events. We cannot judge history, as that would be a proud pretense—unless we are corrupt judges. Judging can look something like these examples:

- “Medieval people were so ignorant; they believed in demons and thought the world was flat.”

- “We shouldn’t respect the founders; they were just racists and misogynists who allowed slavery and denied rights to women!”

- “Martin Luther favored class warfare and aided the knights in their oppression of the peasantry.”

- “Who cares whether the Holodomor—the Ukrainian famine of the 1930s—was intentional or not? Stalin is long dead, and that was a long time ago.”

We arrogantly stand above history when we view our present time as the most enlightened, advanced, and relevant, without considering the context of historical events. Additionally, when a crisis occurs in our time, we often claim it has no precedent, declaring, “This is the worst!” or romanticizing the 1960s as “the best time to be alive!” This attitude reflects pride.

Instead, we need humility: we live our lives within history, not beyond it. John Lukacs stated, “Humility begins when we see that we are not wiser than our ancestors; we are only later.”

2. Attunement also means recognizing that when we encounter the past, we are engaging with real human beings. We should approach their stories with respect, empathy, and caution.

The past is not meaningless; it is not merely useful for proving a point in our favor. Instead, it is complex, and there has never been a golden age we could or should return to. Simultaneously, one should not use history to justify any future utopian vision.

3. Attunement requires us to be truth-tellers regarding the past. Speaking the truth reflects humility in action.

Since we are not outside history, we must acknowledge our assumptions and admit when evidence is scant. Even when evidence is strong, we should refrain from claiming certainty about what happened if we do not have all the facts. We should also allow evidence to challenge our theories and cherished ideas, even if we tie those notions to our core identity.

The Southern writer Flannery O’Connor famously stated, “The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” The true mark of sincere people of faith is their affirmation that “You shall know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” There is no need to fear the truth, even if acknowledging it requires a change. At the same time, the truth cannot be measured by whether it provokes anger, as Gloria Steinem once thought!

4. Attunement involves cultivating a genuine appreciation for the past.

You might wonder how it’s possible to love the past when much of it seems unlovable. Additionally, it’s easy to romanticize certain parts of history, often referred to as the “Golden Age.”

To love the past means acknowledging that the events and people of that time are worthy of understanding on their own terms.

I once attended a class taught by seminary professor John Walvoord, where students were required to present on various theological topics. One student chose to present on a historical figure who had profoundly disagreed with Walvoord on several critical doctrinal issues. Instead of providing a balanced view, the student attacked Walvoord’s opponent in a mocking tone, perhaps believing Walvoord would appreciate it. However, Walvoord interrupted the presentation, stating, “You need to be more charitable. The man you mention has his own story that deserves our respect. In scholarly debate, as in all aspects of life, kindness is essential because it fosters understanding—a quality we should all strive for.”

We may demonstrate our appreciation for the past by a genuine desire to be fair and to listen attentively. Loving the past does not mean idolizing it; instead, it means recognizing that every story, even if we don’t know all the details, is worthwhile and deserving of remembrance.

When reflecting on the past, we should approach it with humility. We can ask ourselves questions like, “How might people in the past have viewed the world?” and “What lessons can they teach us about our own blind spots?” Consider how you would like future generations to remember you, your loved ones, your community, or your country. Would you want them to apply their current standards to you and your experiences, potentially misunderstanding your life and the context of your time? This idea connects to the Golden Rule: we should treat people from the past as we would want to be treated ourselves.

5. Attunement also means being proactive in filling the gaps in our knowledge of the past.

We should strive to read widely and travel as much as possible. Cultivating curiosity can help with this. We should listen attentively and be present when others share their stories, and we may need to consider multiple perspectives on an issue. Don’t you want to continue growing and learning, regardless of what others might think?

We summarize our guiding principle for developing historical consciousness as “Mind the Gap.” Our understanding of the past, even for historians, is inherently imperfect and incomplete, which should encourage humility and a desire to attune to history. 

Attunement involves humility (acknowledging that we are part of history and not above it), respect (valuing the past and its people), honesty (letting evidence shape our conclusions rather than preconceived notions), empathy (seeing past individuals as real human beings), love (remembering the past as an act of care for truth and understanding), and persistence (seizing every opportunity to hear others’ stories, both past and present).

Practicing humility means recognizing that both our understanding of the past and the past itself are fragile and human. It is the historian’s way of expressing, “I am part of this story too—therefore, I need to listen before I speak.” Curiosity is also part of attunement as we must be present with people, both living and dead, and give them our genuine, careful attention.

In the next installment of this mini-series, we will explore the third and fourth habits necessary for developing historical consciousness: reading and practicing respect by recalling the golden rule of historical consciousness.

A Haunted Night at Bodsey House — Where History Lives and Legends Linger

I caught a fleeting glimpse of three figures walking away from me. I couldn’t discern any hands or faces…

This is a work of historical fiction based on real-life occurrences. It contains a collage of typical reports about a real place. I confess that I wrote it for fun. The genre is English Ghost story, and the sitz im leben is a cold autumn or winter night, preferably stormy, with a blazing fire, good coffee, and family and friends gathered around. It is meant to be read aloud. Please don’t take it too seriously, even though some of it actually happened—I swear!

I. The Ghostly Trio in the Farmyard

The leafless tree trunks wept with clear, melted liquid, as if they were stout gray candles, unlit against the leaden Cambridgeshire sky. I hugged my heavy coat tightly around my torso as gust after gust of icy New Year’s east winds howled over the fens, warning me against pushing further. A Kansas boy, I was not intimidated by flatlands and winds, even in January, mainly because I was eager to view a relic of history: war-era bunker installations on the farmland. They stood pristine after half a century, still awaiting a German invasion that never came.

I was on holiday with my family, invited to stay at Bodsey Lodge (or House) in the lowlands northwest of Cambridge, England. The core of the house was a thousand years old. It had once been a hunting lodge of King Cnut the Great—the Viking king of England, Norway, and Denmark—a generation before William the Conqueror triumphed over one of Cnut’s successors, Harald, at Hastings in 1066.

I had looked forward to this part of our European tour because I wanted to explore this historical structure and its grounds. I was eagerly anticipating an adventure, but no one else at the lodge wanted to join me after we unpacked. The warm fire, friendly company, and hearty food and drink were too tempting, even for my usually adventurous children. Only a history professor with an insatiable curiosity would venture out in weather like this. Our host had considered accompanying me to examine the site, but suggested we do it the following morning. I, however, could not wait. He told me to walk north, past the farm outbuildings, where I would find the bunker on a little knoll with an unobstructed view of the fens before me.

I was doing my best to navigate the area when, for a brief moment, I forgot about my mission to curse the blustery wind. To my left, to the west, there was a line of trees that marked the toll road, hiding the lodge grounds from the usually busy two-lane road. The friends we traveled with had been here before and mentioned that the lodge was surprisingly quiet, given the steady traffic motoring north toward the historic bridge a kilometer away. The lodge building itself was a break in the trees, its west walls nearly touching the toll road—what an American would call a zero setback, a dangerous faux pas in either architecture or road construction, or perhaps an intriguing conspiracy involving both. To my right, there were impenetrable empty pens and more outbuildings. The only way was forward.

Suddenly, a cloth that had been blowing free wrapped around my ankles, and I struggled to free myself. When I finally raised my head, I caught a fleeting glimpse of three figures walking away from me. I couldn’t discern any hands or faces, only guessed at their gender because they all wore capes— or were they robes? The adult walked between two children, arms draped around their shoulders. I had just enough time to see that the adult’s robe was a dusty black while the children’s capes appeared to be made of soft animal skins. I imagined their coats lined with some wool, but I saw no evidence of that.

I heard nothing, but in an instant, they rounded a corner of an outbuilding and vanished from sight. Was our host aware that they were on the property? They were not far ahead of me, but I knew my shouts wouldn’t reach them over the roar of the wind. So, I ran after them. As soon as I turned the corner, they had disappeared! Before me stood the knoll and bunker. They either went down the knoll, out of my line of sight, or entered the bunker. I assumed the latter and recklessly ventured inside, though I have no recollection of how I did so.

The interior of the bunker was still, damp, and dark compared to the outdoors, but there was enough light to see. The trio was nowhere to be found. I peered out through the slotted openings of the bunker, scanning the fens. They had vanished completely. Without having completed the study I had intended, I dashed outside, looked in every direction, and returned to the spot where I had first seen them, as if I could somehow recreate the sighting. All my efforts were in vain. A deeper chill settled within me, surpassing even the wind, as I made my way back to the lodge, determined to report my experience to our host.

I began to question my senses. Had I really seen them? Had I done everything I could to locate them after I rounded the corner? Who were they?

II. Cnut the Great and the tragedy on Whittlesea Mere

As I walked, I remembered that this place had once been Cnut’s processionary home. Cnut apparently had no central palace; instead, he moved his court with him throughout his realm, showcasing his power rather than focusing on administrative efficiency. The current house was constructed around an eleventh-century hunting lodge, and to the northwest lay Whittlesea Mere. This shallow ancient lake was once the largest lowland lake in England. It measured three miles long and two miles wide, growing in size due to flooding. This flooding issue troubled the Victorians, who undertook a massive drainage project that led to the lake’s disappearance in 1851. The hunting lodge survived because it was built on what would have been an island during flooding. This situation offered a strategic advantage but also made it a dream location for hunters, as wildlife was attracted to the lake. Although the site was isolated, it was connected to village civilization on the other side of the mere by boat.

The most famous story about Cnut concerns his alleged standing on the seashore, commanding the tides to remain still. We may interpret this story in two ways: either as an act of arrogance or as a display of wisdom. The intention behind this event was to convey an essential lesson about spirituality—only God is sovereign. The second most well-known story of Cnut as an English king involves Whittlesea Mere and this particular lodge.

According to A Catalog of Cambridgeshire Folk Tales by Maureen James, published in 2014, a well-known local story recounts:

Cnut built a hunting lodge at Bodsey, near Ramsey, which he could reach by crossing Whittlesea Mere. It was said that Cnut’s twin sons would travel across the mere on their way to school at Peterborough Abbey.

One day, while the sons and their servants were sailing over Whittlesea Mere, a sudden and turbulent storm arose, surrounding them and leaving them in utter despair for their lives. However, by the mercy of God, some were rescued safely from the furious waves. Conversely, others, according to divine judgment, were allowed to pass from this life.

One day, while the sons and their servants were sailing over Whittlesea Mere, a sudden and turbulent storm arose, surrounding them and leaving them in utter despair for their lives.

After the storm subsided and Cnut realized his sons had drowned, he ordered his soldiers and servants to use their swords to mark out a ditch in the marshes between Ramsey and Whittlesey. Then, he commanded workers to clean up the area. The causeway that the soldiers made with their swords became known as the King’s Ditch or Cnut’s Dyke.

The lasting nature of this story is shown in an event that happened in February 1913, reported in the Cambridge Independent Press. During excavations at a monastic cemetery in Peterborough, two tiny coffins were discovered. At first, many believed this finding confirmed the final resting place of Cnut’s twin sons, as the coffins were dated to the eleventh century. But, the bodies inside were only about 2.5 feet tall, suggesting they were infants or toddlers.

The problem arose from this: by that time, Cnut’s sons would have been between six and ten years old, the typical age for attending the abbey school. In the twentieth century, popular opinion shifted back to a local tradition that the sons were buried beneath the flagstones in the central hall, or ermitage, of Bodsey Lodge, the very house where my family was staying for a few days. I suddenly found myself intrigued by that central hall. I didn’t need to wonder if I would be able to see it, as we would be dining in that room tonight—perhaps over the graves of two princes from pre-Norman England.

My history training usually dismisses undocumented tales, but I had to admit, with a chill running down my spine, that I was curious about the three cloaked figures I had seen in the farmyard. I was determined to keep this apparition to myself and see if a reasonable explanation surfaced. I returned to the lodge, put on my best face, and joined in the warm fellowship. Yet, at the forefront of my mind were those three cloaked figures. I wondered…

III. A Bump in the Fright

The hosts had instructed us to gather in the dining room, the oldest part of the lodge, which remains from Cnut’s main hall. As I entered the room, I noticed it didn’t seem very grand or spacious, but I was surprised to find that the ceiling was higher than I had expected. I went up to our room on the second level, which the British call the first floor. Our bedroom overlooked the toll road on the west side, alarmingly close. I wanted to change into something more appropriate and found my wife, Precious (yes, that is her real name), there. She was fastening an earring and appeared to be preoccupied.

“Where are the kids?” I asked.

“They’re already downstairs,” Precious replied, fastening her earring. “They’re excited about the story our host told them—laughing about dining on the graves of Viking princes.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” I said, smiling faintly. “I have to admit, I love the idea of this place. Imagine—a thousand-year-old building.”

“Hold on there, professor,” she said, her voice flat. “Only that dining room is that old. The rest of the house was added bit by bit over the centuries.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, shifting my weight. “But tell me… what’s wrong? You don’t quite seem yourself.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. The whole idea of eating dinner over the graves of those little boys creeps me out, even if it was a thousand years ago.” Her eyes flicked toward the door. “And…”

“And what?” I asked. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She toyed with the earring for a moment, as though buying time. Then she met my eyes. “Liam, twice, walking between here and the bath, I felt… something.”

“And?” I prompted.

“Oh, it’s silly. I’m probably tired and imagined it. Anyway, we should get to the dining room. The kids have been there for a while.”

I know that tone. Precious was trying to close the subject. But something in her voice made me press. “Not until you finish. What happened in the hall?”

“Nothing. I imagined it. A muscle cramp or something.”

“A muscle cramp?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You’d better tell me.”

She exhaled, resigned. “All right. When I walked to the bathroom, it felt like someone pushed me against the wall.”

“That doesn’t sound like a cramp.”

“Fine,” she said sharply. “It felt like someone was hurrying down the hall toward me and brushed me aside. It happened again a few minutes ago. The floors are uneven. I must have slipped.”

It was true—the place had no accurate angles, no level floors. Still, I shook my head. “You didn’t slip. And deep down, you know it wasn’t a cramp.”

She stared at me. “Then what?”

“You were pushed.”

“Oh, Liam,” she whispered. “You’re scaring me. There was no one there.”

I mumbled, more to myself than to her, “Yes, there was. Someone’s come to play.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Forget it. We’d better get to dinner.”

She seemed relieved to let the subject go.

IV. Voices and Comfort in the Central Hall

The dining room was warm with firelight, but our children were unnervingly still. Hope and Jesse sat rigidly in their chairs, their usual mischief replaced with blank stares. I tried to sound cheerful.

“Hey, guys. How long have you been here?”

“Shush, Dad,” Hope hissed.

“Shush?” I echoed. Hope was eleven and spirited, but she had never told me to shush before.

“He’s gone, Hope,” ten-year-old Jesse said quietly.

“Dad scared him away,” Hope snapped. “We want to go find him.”

Precious’s voice cut through. “I don’t want you wandering around this house by yourselves.”

“I’m staying here,” Jesse said quickly. “I don’t want to go with Hope.”

“I can’t go alone!” Hope shot back. “You have to come with me.”

“Hope’s a scaredy-cat,” Jesse teased.

“Am not! Besides, you almost cried,” she retorted.

I raised my voice just enough to stop the squabbling. “Hope, who’s gone?”

“The little boys,” she said. “We heard them crying, but we couldn’t see them.”

“Yeah,” Jesse added, “but the light thing was swinging back and forth. Like a monkey was playing on it.”

“Liam!” Precious snapped, as though this were somehow my doing.

Just then, our hosts and friends entered. I leaned toward the kids. “Keep this to yourselves, all right?”

“Why?” Jesse whispered.

“Just do it,” I hissed back.

Our host appeared—a slight, balding man with a fringe of white hair and a short grey beard. His glasses caught the firelight; his blue eyes sparkled with the look of a man who knows something. He set down a plate of rolls and honey.

“I’ll do as you say, Liam,” he chuckled. “But what do you want me to do?”

I felt my ears burning. Precious later told me they’d turned scarlet.

“Oh, nothing,” I muttered.

“I imagined you might have met one of our ghosts,” he said lightly.

“So you know about them?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He looked amused. “Know about them? I live here. They’re buried under us.” He tapped the flagstones beneath the table. “Two Viking princes. Cnut’s twin sons. They’re not always around, but with children here…” He let the thought dangle.

His wife swept in with more food. He moved easily around the table, watching our faces with quiet amusement. “Oh, come on,” he said finally. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“No,” I replied automatically.

“Neither do I,” he said, his voice softening. “But I do believe in the supernatural world. Just like C. S. Lewis did, and as you do.”

“Of course,” I said, matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing the weather.

“I can’t prove what they are,” he continued, “but I believe they’re… playing roles. Their activity’s been increasing lately. But let’s not spoil the evening. We’ve grown used to them over the years. You may, too.” And so we ate.

The food was warm and familiar; the flagstones beneath our feet were not. The princes—or whatever they were—kept their distance but, as our host put it, stayed “underfoot.” We lingered at the table longer than was wise, reluctant to part with the firelight and company. But eventually, we climbed the creaking stairs and retired to our rooms. The house settled around us—or perhaps it didn’t.

V. The Flashing Lights

All four of us encountered the hallway bully that night. My wife and I were unsettled; the children, perversely, found it thrilling, making extra bathroom trips as though it were an amusement ride. The wind grew sharper outside, the house colder. The bedclothes were heavy, almost oppressive. Still, they slept—blissfully unaware of what might walk those halls.

I awoke to a crash. Our door had slammed open, striking the wall with a force that shook me out of half-sleep. Beside me, my wife stirred, mumbling, “No… no, no, no!” Her fear was contagious. For a heartbeat, I expected to see the caped figures looming in the doorway.

Instead, it was Doug and Carrie.

“Don’t you knock?” I snapped, my heart still hammering.

“Take it easy, take it easy!” Doug hissed, hands raised like a man talking down a wild animal. “We’re losing our minds and just got a little excited.”

“Losing your minds?” I said. “I’m guessing it’s not the plumbing.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “The lights in the north bedroom kept turning on after we switched them off. Five, six times. We thought it was a short.”

Carrie picked up where he left off. “I told him to unplug it. He did. And then the unplugged lamp came on.”

“That,” Doug said flatly, “was the limit.”

My wife had gone to check the children and returned shaking her head. “They’re still asleep somehow. I brought extra sleeping masks. Why don’t you try them?”

Doug grimaced. “I doubt sleep’s in the cards.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Carrie coaxed. “Let’s try. We need rest.”

“You know,” I said, leaning back, “your room overlooks what used to be the mere. There’s a storm blowing in. People have reported lights out there for centuries, long before there was electricity. Some say it’s someone still trying to guide the boat back to shore.”

Doug’s jaw slackened. Carrie laughed softly. “See, Doug? They’ve been here long before us, and they’ll be here after we’re gone.”

She herded him back down the corridor with masks in hand. They passed the rest of the night almost without incident. I wish I could say the same for myself.

VI. Confrontation in Cnut’s Ermitage

I opened my eyes at 4:00 a.m. exactly. The kind of hour when night has thinned but refuses to let morning in. One look at the clock, and I knew I had finished sleeping. I sat up. Precious wasn’t there. I pulled on my robe and slippers, checked the bathroom—empty. I wasn’t alarmed yet. I thought she might be in the children’s room. But when I opened their door, I froze. The beds were neat, untouched. The room was empty.

The panic came swiftly. The only other possibility was Doug and Carrie’s room. I made my way down two turns of an older, narrower corridor, the air colder with each step. At the end of the hall, a faint flicker of light shone under their door. The lamps were still going mad. I didn’t bother knocking. I pushed the door open. The light blinked off almost the instant I entered—but not fast enough to hide what I saw: two perfectly made beds. No one inside. The room was as empty as the rest of the house.

There was nothing for it now but to go downstairs and check the hosts’ apartment. The door to their section of the house stood ajar, the darkness behind it unbroken. There was no one there.

I passed through the kitchen, my steps muffled on the uneven floorboards, and stopped before the swinging door that led to the dining hall. For several long seconds, I just stared at it, weighing my nerve. Even if my family wasn’t inside, I felt certain the answer to this mystery lay there. I told myself, they may need me. I have to find out what’s waiting.

That sounded melodramatic, but fear has a way of pulling odd performances out of a man. I felt like a poor understudy thrust into a role he didn’t want.

I pushed the door open against the cold brass plate and stepped into the hallway. If anything, the air here was more frigid than in the rest of the house. But something was off at once: in the massive medieval fireplace, a roaring fire crackled and spat—yet the room remained icy. My breath fogged in the air, and the flames threw long shadows across the flagstones.

My eyes, drawn first to the fire, slowly scanned the rest of the room. Then I saw them.

Or rather—them.

The three caped figures stood in the shadows on the far side of the hall: an adult and two smaller shapes, most likely children. Their faces were turned away from me toward the blank wall. For a moment, I couldn’t move. I was frozen, rooted to the spot like prey that knows it’s already been seen.

When I get nervous, I talk too much. It’s a reflex, a bad one. So I blurted out, “What have you done with my family and friends?”

A high, metallic voice answered, brittle as breaking glass.

“The children need playmates. They will stay with us.”

“And the others?” I demanded.

“We will deal with them as we see fit. You should not have come to the Fens. The king is not pleased. This is his domain.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady. “Before I ask the obvious question, can I satisfy a historian’s curiosity?”

“Your time is short,” the voice hissed. “But ask.”

“What kind of eleventh-century ghosts speak modern English? You shouldn’t even know what a historian is. Historical consciousness didn’t exist in your era.”

The temperature rose sharply, the heat biting into my skin. Though the figures’ faces were hidden, I could feel the fury in the room shift toward me like a physical force. This fellow didn’t care for history.

“You have talked too much. The children are bored. And as for your unspoken question—we know you wonder what we will do with you. Step toward the fire.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You already know. You have no choice.”

Before I could move—or refuse—my body lifted from the floor. My toes scraped the stone as an invisible pressure propelled me forward. My arms and legs were locked. Slowly, inevitably, I was drawn toward the flames. The closer I came, the hotter it grew, until my eyes burned as though they might melt before my skin.

Then came a violent surge forward—a jolt of unbearable heat—

—and everything went black.

VII. Denouement

“Liam. Liam. Wake up.”

It was my wife’s voice, warm and familiar. A hand pressed my shoulder. For a moment, relief flooded me. Then came the slap—a hard, ringing slap across my face. That wasn’t heaven.

“Liam, you’re scaring me to death. Wake up.”

I opened my eyes. Precious was nearly sitting on my chest, wild-eyed. Behind her, Hope and Jesse giggled in the doorway, clearly delighted by the spectacle of their mother whacking me awake.

“It’s morning,” she said briskly. “We’re dressed, packed, and ready to leave for London. Doug and Carrie are coming with us. Our hosts thought it best—apparently, the children have attracted a little… interest.”

“Fine with me,” I muttered, still half dazed. “But wait—how did you escape the caped ghouls?”

“What?” they said in chorus.

I realized I’d never told anyone about my earlier encounter in the farmyard.

“Did he say cape gulls?” Carrie asked, sticking her head into the room.

I felt like Dorothy waking up in Kansas after Oz. “I thought they were going to immolate me,” I said weakly. “I challenged their ghostly credentials.”

My wife rolled her eyes. “Liam, that was your dream. It didn’t happen.”

My children laughed again.

But the smell of wood smoke still lingered in my nostrils. And my feet, strangely, still felt cold.

“Well, whaddaya know?” I said, my voice still groggy. “Just like Hollywood. All a dream. The next thing you’ll tell me is that the credits are about to roll. Why, when Doug and Carrie crashed our room—”

“No, Liam.” Precious cut me off. Her tone was firm, and that alone made me sit up a little straighter. “That part was real. They had to change rooms. Even with the sleeping masks, the lights kept going on and off.”

I blinked. “Then… all the other stuff happened too? The voices in the hall, the crying children, the bumps in the night—”

I stopped.

For reasons I can’t explain, I held back the one detail that mattered most: the ghostly trio I had seen in the farmyard. That was mine alone—or it had been.

“Yes,” Precious said quietly. “All of it happened. But I’m not as scared as I was last night. Maybe I should be. Now, can you please get up so we can leave before I change my mind?”

The room was filled with the cheerful clatter of morning packing—zippers, footsteps, muffled laughter—. Still, under it all, the memory of that cold fire and those figures pressed against my chest like a weight.

We never spoke about it much after that day. But the truth is: except for that final, terrible dream, we all knew something had happened in that house.

We left Bodsey house with the winter sun low over the fields. Its light, thin, and cold. The wind had quieted, but the house stood there.

Watching just as it had for centuries. I didn’t look back often; once was enough.

Only I knew what I saw in the farmyard

And now—for the first time—so do you.

History in a Tux: Laughs, Lessons, and ‘What’s My Line?’

In this post, I delve into part of the fascinating world of cultural history and television shows.

If you could be a time traveler, would you choose to go forward or backward in time? Would your curiosity about the future lead you to explore what’s to come, or would your desire for justice push you to visit the past to right wrongs for yourself and others? Have you ever felt like you were born in the wrong era? Perhaps you think you should have lived during the time of Jesus, in Jane Austen’s England, or the Roaring Twenties?

Did you know that even we history professors occasionally binge-watch our favorite TV shows? Today, I invite you to join me in a binge-watching session as we explore some cultural history together. I’ll recommend what I believe is one of the best television series that provides us with a glimpse of genuine history from its time—one that may not make us want to live then, but offers plenty to discuss and consider how it fits into our own stories. It certainly is part of my story—though I am an old guy! I’ll share at least three observations and possibly some additional insights as well.

What’s My Line?

Harry and John, but who is that guy in the middle?

Look, I don’t believe I was born in the wrong era. You and I came into this world exactly when we were meant to. While it’s common to long for another time, sometimes we wish to escape painful experiences, rejections, disappointments, and fears. Entertainment can temporarily transport us to different times and places.

Books do this, and so do classic television shows from earlier generations. Historians need breaks just like everyone else; however, I’ve discovered that I never quite lose my historian’s curiosity. Novels and TV shows set in the past often tell us more about the time they were created than about the era they depict. For instance, the comedy series M*A*S*H* was more reflective of the 1960s than the Korean War, just as Hogan’s Heroes is more about the 1960s than World War II. This anachronistic tendency is why quality shows that unapologetically represent their own time are such treasures. Two examples come to mind: one is the 1970s comedy about New York City policemen, Barney Miller, which I could discuss in a future discussion, and the other is a panel show from the 1950s and 1960s called What’s My Line? I want to share some historically significant insights about what life was like in the 1950s, based on the experiences of both mid-range celebrities and average contestants who appeared as “challengers” on the show.

Let’s set the stage. A historian must first acknowledge their personal biases. Although our perceptions of the 1950s are evolving, American culture has had a complex relationship with that era for a long time. Common images include stay-at-home moms, simplicity, postwar prosperity as the last standing nation, a grandfatherly president, and a culture of conformity. We might be surprised by the stricter gender roles and the overshadowing societal issues, such as the Cold War, the threat of nuclear weapons, segregation, and the groups that did not benefit from the economic and cultural boom of that time. I’ll highlight some of these nuances in this iconic TV panel game show.

What’s My Line? premiered on CBS in 1950 and is often regarded as the most incredible creation of the Mark Goodson-Bill Todman game show development team. Bennett Cerf, a Random House publisher and storyteller, summarized it well: “A panel of four people tried to determine the occupations of contestants by asking them questions that they could answer with a Yes or No. A special feature of the show was the appearance of the Mystery Guest—always a well-known person whom the panelists attempted to identify while blindfolded.” Cerf noted that the show “went viral,” in a sense, and attributed its success to the relatable and likable personalities of the panelists and moderator, which made audiences feel as if they were part of the family. I can personally attest to this sense of belonging; my wife and I watch these episodes regularly, and despite the generational gap, we feel as if the show’s regulars are part of our extended family.

However, there are surprising elements within the show that suggest we need a more comprehensive historical analysis to understand the era fully. While media analysts and popular writers have reflected on it, 70 years later provides a suitable timeframe for historians to begin accurately assessing it. We are often quick to judge individuals from earlier times based on contemporary values; our assessment may inflate our sense of self-approval, but our perceptions can sometimes be mere “straw men”—figments of our imagination—until we weigh them against historical evidence. Therefore, let me share my three surprising takeaways from binge-watching “What’s My Line” reruns, inviting you to join me in this journey of discovery.

1. People dressed differently, more formally, in the 1950s. People dressed up, and both enjoyed it and respected those who did.

As you watch, notice the lovely gowns, hair, and makeup of the women, especially the celebrity panelists, but also the contestants. Some of the dresses and hats are laughable today, but dressing up was important. The men all wore at least suits and ties, and the moderator, John Charles Daly, and permanent male panelist-publisher Bennett Cerf wore tuxedos. Along with this notice, the men often remark that the women look lovely or even jokingly leer at a beautiful “actress” and rarely let an attractive woman contestant escape without a compliment on her beauty. There is a dark side to this “dressing up,” too, related to the second observation.

2. Notice how there were reactions to unusual appearances: how men in the audience whistled at beautiful contestants, and people laughed at overweight and “misplaced” contestants.

Wolf calls from the audience never fail to astonish me, as it would not happen on network television today. It’s politically incorrect, chauvinism, and would it surprise you that most of the people connected with this show and the network were considered political liberals? There is an even darker side. The audience would laugh, and the panel would insult anyone who had an unusual appearance or one that contradicted their occupation. Comedian Jerry Lewis lampooned a short, obviously overweight woman whose job was to market reducing pills. The audience laughed at an Army nurse who was a 6-foot-6-inch man. Lady men’s barbers appeared in at least three episodes.

3. The women were brilliant and outplayed their male counterparts.

Brilliant women who break the postwar mold are surprising, given the stereotype of the 1950s. But they were not just smart. Male counterparts and the audience accepted them and respected them. And when you watch, note how their real careers are appreciated in the introductions and by comments throughout the program. Here are two career women: Journalist Dorothy Kilgallen and actress/talk show host Arlene Francis. Ms. Kilgallen had no great physical attributes, but you might think she is beautiful, nevertheless. Arlene Francis was physically lovely and a master of double entendre. No panelist ever received more spontaneous applause than Arlene Francis. Even the legendary quip master Fred Allen and raconteur Cerf were no match for her. And yet, even these role model women made cultural assumptions about jobs more commonly associated with women and about women’s roles in domestic life. Still, these two women made genius Orson Welles seem incompetent by comparison.

Historians use these kinds of cultural clues to paint a more complex picture of society that goes beyond our assumptions. We forget how much people used to dress up. Without all the distractions that give life more options but limit the budget, we may devote more of our disposable income to how we dress. The whistling thing: let’s not bring that back. We don’t want to objectify anyone to express a desire for sexual conquest. And June Cleaver, step aside! Were sitcom women a stereotype foisted upon audiences rather than a reflection of where women were really at? Women certainly made emancipating contributions to winning WWII, and perhaps they were beginning to reap the societal benefits during a traditional time.

Sometimes, what happens off-screen can reveal more than social and cultural clues. It can even highlight political views. I will close with one of the great stories about What’s My Line? that most Americans did not know at the time. 

It is the story of how an executive-branch appointee got a small measure of revenge on the President of the United States who fired him. I begin with three sentences of significant background information.

The biggest political drama of the 1950s began in the summer of 1950, when World War II hero Gen. Douglas MacArthur found himself at odds with his commander-in-chief as he led the American military effort in Korea. In April 1951, President Harry Truman removed MacArthur as Supreme Allied Commander in Korea for insubordination, specifically for underestimating the Chinese threat and exceeding his authority in responding when the threat became real. It is not an exaggeration to say that Truman and MacArthur couldn’t stand one another. 

Fast forward five years. In 1956, America’s Greatest TV game show, What’s My Line, selected then-Ex-President Truman as its featured mystery guest during a special episode broadcast from Chicago in its seventh season. Television was still in its infancy, and getting an ex-US President to appear in such a playful setting was unprecedented and a bit undignified. According to Bennett Cerf, a WML panelist writing years later in his autobiography, At Random, Truman was all set to appear on the show when the producers placed a courtesy call to the show’s sponsors to inform them of that week’s guests. The response was shockingly unexpected. “Absolutely Not! We will pull our sponsorship if President Truman appears.” The humiliated producers had to go to Truman and inform him that he was off the show. Their ratings coup was foiled, and they scrambled to find a celebrity to replace him.

You see, the sponsor of What’s My Line? was Remington Rand, which made office products and electric shavers. And the Chairman of the Board of Remington Rand was a retired military officer named Douglas MacArthur. I am not Paul Harvey, but friends, that is the rest of the story!

Erasmus and the Perils of Isolation: A Renaissance Perspective

Where would you turn if you felt lonely and isolated? It seems logical to seek out another human being, but for many of us, that idea feels foreign. It's not as simple as it should be, is it? It often feels easier to interact through a dating site, watch a YouTube video, or pick up a self-help book. In fact, around 700 million self-help books are sold globally each year! These books have been in mass production for over 500 years. In this video, I will explore the original self-help bestseller, written by Desiderius Erasmus in 1500, to gain some timeless advice for dealing with feelings of loneliness and disconnection. Specifically, I will unpack three wise ideas about connection from the Renaissance thinker, Desiderius Erasmus.

Erasmus and his buddy, Sir Thomas More in the sixteenth-century version of spilling the tea.

Erasmus was one of history’s most outstanding scholars. He sought to compile classical proverbs and created a collection of over 4,000 sayings, known as the “Adagia” or Adages. While he was a prolific writer, I believe that Adagia is more important than his more famous work dedicated to his friend Sir Thomas More, known for "A Man for All Seasons." Erasmus had a clear goal, driven by his desire for moral and spiritual renewal: to cultivate friendships and build a network of like-minded individuals who generously shared their insights.

The Adagia serves as a treasury of wisdom from friendly souls of the past. These individuals were not so different from us; they simply paid close attention to life and made valuable observations. Erasmus worked hard to uncover these gems, carefully preserving them for us. Each saying comes with its source, meaning, and practical application. Let’s take a look at three insights that can encourage us in our loneliness.

The First Insight: “True friendship is a rare thing.” Erasmus reminds us that real friends challenge us and enrich our lives rather than drain our energy. Authentic friendship is a divine gift, not a casual label.

We all need friends, yet we often struggle to understand what true friendship really means. Erasmus states, “Amicitia res rara” (“True friendship is a rare thing”). Have you ever wondered if you truly know what a friend is? A real friend is someone who may lay themselves on the line to confront us when we’re on a dangerous path, even if it risks upsetting us. They invest time in our lives, are present when they are with us, and together we uplift each other rather than simply depleting our energies. Erasmus warns us not to misuse the term “friend.” Many claim the title, but few actually embody it. He echoes Cicero’s “De Amicitia,” explaining that genuine friendship is a divine gift, not just a casual acquaintance. When you seek a friend, understand the depth of what you are asking for; it’s not about someone who never challenges you—such desires reflect a narcissistic tendency, which leads to an inability to be or have true friends.

The Second Insight: Isolation poses dangers: “Alone, either a king or a demon.” Erasmus cautions that solitude can lead to tyranny or madness. Without love and community, humanity can become monstrous.

While true friendship is rare, our need for friends is underscored by the dangers of isolation. Erasmus states, “Solus aut rex aut daemon” (“Alone, either a king or a demon”). On one hand, solitude can empower a tyrant; on the other, it can lead a person into despair and madness. For ordinary individuals, isolation is perilous. How serious is this threat? 

Erasmus provides another adage: “Homo homini monstrum,” meaning “Man is a monster to man.” Without love and community, human beings can turn against one another. Erasmus warns us that this is often the fate of societies driven by greed or envy. In contrast, the Christian life has the power to transform “monsters” back into “gods” for one another. Isolation deprives us of the joy inherent in loving and being loved. As contemporary psychologist Larry Crabb puts it, “Connecting is life. Loneliness is the ultimate horror.” Separation is at the core of our struggles as human beings, whether from God or from one another. And what do we become when we separate even from ourselves?

Erasmus answers this concern with his proverb, reinforcing the idea of “Homo homini monstrum.” Without love and community, humans may devour one another, succumbing to a society driven by avarice or envy. Yet, the Christian life can redeem us, transforming “monsters” back into “gods” for each other.

While friends are rare, our longing for them is vital. If we grow cynical about finding true friendship, we risk either descending into madness or exploiting those around us, leading to something akin to the funeral difficulties encountered by Erasmus in his life.

Erasmus was a wanderer, living in nine different cities—far apart by sixteenth-century standards, particularly in an era when most people rarely traveled beyond their birthplace. He found stability late in life when he settled in Basel, Switzerland.

When he died in 1536, Erasmus was buried in the Basel Cathedral. Although he was denied Catholic last rites, he was admired for his scholarship by Protestants and criticized by Catholics for refusing to take sides. Some viewed him with suspicion as a proto-Protestant. According to Yale historian Roland Bainton, “He died as he lived, a lonely man, but honored by all Europe.” Interestingly, Erasmus, a Catholic priest, was interred in a Protestant cathedral. This situation highlights an important lesson about the consequences of not committing to a position during turbulent times, which I will discuss in a future video. His loneliness seems to have deepened as he neared death, at the same age I am now. What can he possibly teach us? With his objective scholarly perspective, combined with his painful experiences, Erasmus may have valuable insights to share.

Let’s ask Erasmus: Where do we find real friendship that helps us overcome disillusionment and loneliness? There is one final piece that completes our puzzle. In my next video in this short series, I will delve into Erasmus’s thoughts on community and where we can find authentic friendships.

Friends are essential, but they are rare. If we become disenchanted with our search for true friendship, we might either spiral into madness or exploit others. So, where can we find genuine friendships that help us overcome disillusionment and loneliness?

First, community is fundamental to our humanity. Erasmus asserted, “To live is to think with friends.” Engaging genuinely with others uplifts our minds and souls. We need to understand that we are designed for community, which is God’s plan for maintaining our humanity. Erasmus shared two critical insights on this topic. First, we are not merely victims of false friendships; we have also been insincere ourselves. Desiring an authentic life, we must be willing to take risks in a community filled with true but flawed friends, just like us. “To live is to think with friends.” He connects this idea to Christian fellowship: conversations with friends elevate the mind, just as the apostles lived in “one accord.” A life absent from this kind of community is but a shadow of true existence. This elevated community flips the script: “Man is a god to man.” Erasmus interprets this as the high calling of love, where one individual becomes “as a god” when they offer care, comfort, or wisdom to another. He aligns this notion with the Christian duty to be the hands of Christ to our neighbors. In community, we learn not only to seek friendship but also to be friends ourselves.

Erasmus had a clear purpose: he aimed for moral renewal and cultivated friendships within a network of like-minded individuals. Driven by curiosity, he explored libraries and universities, learning languages and literature as a means of engaging during the age of exploration.

Erasmus sought excellence, constantly striving to influence others until his death at the age of 70. His motivation stemmed from within; he loved his work and was dedicated to it wholeheartedly. While he was not wealthy, he enjoyed the freedom to create his own schedule and remained productive out of passion rather than the pursuit of financial gain. These were five of six internal motivations he possessed. But without the final internal motivation, the first five can still lead to isolation.

Despite his strong internal motivation and notable achievements, Erasmus faced loneliness due to his vows and the sacrifices he made for scholarship. Nevertheless, he acknowledged that community is vital for fostering care, sympathy, and encouragement, leading to his three key insights, which I will summarize here along with a conclusion:

1. True friendship is rare. Genuine friends challenge and enrich our lives, making friendship a divine gift rather than just a casual label.

2. Isolation carries dangers. Erasmus warned that solitude can lead to tyranny or madness; without love and community, humanity can become monstrous. The third insight will be our focus, as the rarity of friends and the peril of isolation present grave concerns.

3. Community is essential for thriving. Erasmus expressed a profound truth: “To live is to think with friends.” This sentiment highlights the transformative power of authentic engagement with others, uplifting our minds and nurturing our souls in ways that isolation cannot. While internal motivations are essential—such as purpose, curiosity, excellence, love for one’s work, and independence—they are insufficient on their own. One additional internal motivation is closely related to the external stimulus of the community: availability, also referred to as readiness.

This elevated sense of community has the potential to change the monstrous elements of life into something deeply meaningful. Erasmus insightfully pointed out that “Man is a ‘god’ to man,” implying that the high calling of love involves one individual serving as a source of joy and support for another. We must openly acknowledge our need for authentic relationships, embodying a willingness to give and receive within a circle of genuinely imperfect friends. Erasmus’s wisdom highlights a crucial internal motivation that appears to be lacking in our world: availability and readiness. A life lacking meaningful connections is merely a shadow of existence, devoid of the vibrancy and depth that authentic interactions provide.

This perspective aligns with the Christian duty to act as Christ’s hands on Earth, reminding us to cultivate genuine and purposeful friendships rather than superficial ones.

For those of us who endured the pandemic, isolation acted as an obstacle that hindered our full human potential. We have come to realize that we need a community to unlock the essential internal motivation: our willingness to be available to others. This willingness is only activated when we take the risk to build relationships.

Let me conclude with this: My family and friends in our village know that I use the Zettelkasten method to create a rich resource of information. This involves taking notes on fleeting thoughts and connecting them to form a complete picture of any project that piques my interest. I have developed a range of positive internal motivations that help me expand my collection. However, if I lack the final motivation—availability—I may be tempted to hoard my ‘collection.' “Nein,” said the inventor of this method, German sociologist Niklas Luhmann. "You do not want to be a hoarder." The purpose of this collection is to write, publish books and articles, produce videos, create art, write blogs, record podcasts, and generate many other resources to benefit others.

In the same way, we yearn for community to receive love and friendship, so that we can share our personal treasures for the benefit of others. Erasmus’s collection includes thousands of proverbs, but the half-dozen or so I've mentioned express a lonely scholar’s desire for friendship and a community that nurtures it. Erasmus hoped his ideas would help reform the Western Church into such a community, but other brilliant scholars, like his friend Philip Melanchthon, also took up that cause. Melanchthon admired many of Erasmus’s ideals but found that the divide between human peacemakers was too great, and the significant differences could not be reconciled in his lifetime. Although we have yet to realize an ideal community on Earth, many have discovered the joy of availability with the relatively few friends they have.

The Shed as a Historian’s Laboratory

Some historians pore over libraries and archives, some interview witnesses and examine wagon wheel ruts, and still others fill card catalogs. I go out to a shed.

I call it Mossbunker, after the humble Atlantic menhaden — the small, oily fish that once nourished fields of maize in New England. According to tradition, Squanto taught the Pilgrims to drop a few mossbunkers into the ground alongside their kernels of corn, ensuring a rich harvest. My Mossbunker serves the same symbolic purpose: it is a place where ideas are sown, fertilized, and eventually grow into the books, blogs, podcasts, and videos I share with the world.

This is Mossbunker during construction. The man on the left was the foreman.

I am afraid I was more in the way, helping in any way possible and learning more all the time.

Mossbunker is modest: 120 square feet with a wood floor and metal roof, built in 2021-22, in the throes of the pandemic, from recycled and repurposed materials. Friends from the village helped me raise its frame. Or should I say I helped them? Lined with hundreds of volumes of bound books, the shed hums with the presence of past scholars — a laboratory of history in miniature. Though not yet fully finished (I still plan to clad the exterior in cedar shingles before winter sets in), it already carries the feel of a sanctuary, complete with months of dust.

I am hardly the first historian to retreat into such a space. David McCullough famously wrote his masterworks from a writing shed at his home. For him, the separation was essential: a simple outbuilding became a threshold. Step inside, and the world receded; the only thing left was the work.

That is the same spirit I find in Mossbunker. Its metal roof rattles under Nebraska rains, its books whisper when I reach for them, its reclaimed wood reminds me that the past is never wasted. Here, among these quiet walls, I chase the stories of Erasmus, Luther, Calvin, Mary Queen of Scots, and others — not as dead relics, but as living voices that speak into our time.

Every historian needs a laboratory. Mine just happens to look like a fisherman’s hut turned book-lined chapel, fertilized with memory and imagination.

Creating a children’s book series at 52

Most people look forward to losing a job in mid-life as either a scramble for new employment (often at lower pay), or as early retirement, a time to slow down, relax, and maybe take up a new hobby. But for one Kansas-born artist, losing a job at an inconvenient time of life was just the beginning of a whole new career as a children’s book author.

In my latest video interview, I had the pleasure of talking with Jay Risner, who didn’t publish his first book until he was in his 60s. What started as a long-held idea turned into a full-blown series — 19 books (and counting) featuring a charming, slightly clueless, and entirely lovable bull.

Mr. Cow

The stories aren’t about grand adventures or wild fantasy. They’re about the everyday stuff kids find endlessly entertaining — building a swing, forgetting what you were supposed to be doing, fixing things with duct tape. Mr. Cow has a fun group of friends in the neighborhood to join in the adventure: Chuckles the Toad, Larry the Mailman, and the little girl next door. And the magic? Parents love them too. Especially dads.

In fact, that was the whole idea.

He always wanted to write books that dads would actually enjoy reading with their kids. And judging by the feedback he’s gotten — mission accomplished."

Growing up in Independence, Kansas, a town made famous by author Laura Ingalls Wilder, instilled in him a deep appreciation for simple pleasures, practical problem-solving, and animals with big personalities. He loved drawing and later became a graphic and web designer. While he pursued his art in his spare time, it wasn’t until the “plug was pulled” on his job at age 52 that he finally said, “If not now, when?”

Watch the first of three videos on YouTube, and look for two more that will appear at 11 a.m. Central Time on the History Bro OS Channel: https://youtu.be/4zEJwiao1pE. And be sure to Like, Subscribe, or Comment on the video as you watch.

Now, he’s not only writing these books — he’s illustrating them, too. And while the bull might bumble his way through projects, his stories are full of warmth, humor, and that quiet, everyday kind of joy that’s hard to fake.

Please find out more about Jay and Mr. Cow books (including where to find them) at mrcowbooks.com.

Friday Pensées

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

Pensées are a collection of thoughts as I look back on the previous week of posts and think forward to new topics I would like to cover. Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), the French Christian mathematician, recorded fragments of ideas he intended to incorporate into a book on apologetics. Pascal died before incorporating these fragments into a book, but his method inspired me. Occasionally, I wish to share my random thoughts in a post, hoping to expand each idea into an essay. I want to do this every Friday as a regular feature. Still, I have learned it isn't good to make promises until I have developed the discipline of a steady rhythm.

The following are this week's thoughts in no particular order.

I am reading Steven J. Keillor's Providence Forms a Nation in the Womb of Time. The book is Keillor's first volume in the three-part, A Providential History of the United States. I intend to produce a review of these books when I have finished reading them. So far, two quotes have stayed with me.

The first quote is from John Winthrop (1587-1649), the Puritan attorney and critical figure in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. He said, "A family is a little commonwealth, and a commonwealth is a great family." 

The second is from John Cotton (1585-1652), the Cambridge-trained Puritan theologian. He encouraged parents to bring their children into the "adult" church services: "Bring them to church and help them to remember something, and tell them the meaning of it...and encourage them, and that will make them delight in it." Church services are to be delightful. 

I envision a book of contemplative essays. I have in mind here a particular genre. I can describe contemplative literature but must compose a definition and taxis. Swiss physician and philosopher Max Picard (1888-1965) wrote two books that have been influential in my thinking: The Flight From God and The World of Silence.

The first essay could be "Why I don't give advice." So far, my reasons for not giving advice are a) you won't take my advice, or b) you will take my advice. Both possibilities are frightening.

We need to ask ourselves why we want the approval of certain people who make a living on iconoclasm. Being a sucker for the "knowing look" can blind us to our faith, family, and values. There is much to unpack here, and it will prove worthwhile.

Having a guide to identifying and appreciating contemplative literature would be valuable. I wish I had one.

Have politicians made you feel stupid yet? But don't worry, it isn't you. The elites have many weapons, and one of them is exaggeration, and I know I am prone to exaggerate myself. Thus, I would like to write an essay on the sin of exaggeration. Why am I so prone to it? 

Looking back on the fun I had writing about G. K. Chesterton last week, I would like to explore something he put in the mouth of Father Brown and ask a question. What did Chesterton mean when he wrote it is bad theology to attack reason?

Considering the improbability of human life, what if billions of people are actually "few." Why are Malthusians so unimaginative that they cannot see that there is enough for everyone everywhere all the time? Life is precious, and it is a miracle.

The movie Men in Black inspired me to think outside the box. Influencers have indoctrinated us to believe that the expanding universe is so enormous that it makes us insignificant. Some are so awed by the size of the cosmos that they have begun to replace trusting God with "trusting the universe” and other such nonsense. The universe does nothing for me. It certainly cannot direct me in any path but that which is dangerous (think rogue asteroids, comets run amok, and supernovas). But what if we are small relative to the universe, but what we call the universe is small itself? What if it is "portable" as a dimension? Sound insane? Stay tuned.

The haunted milk house (3).

One cool, wet summer day, a large cardboard box arrived on the front porch of my family’s two-story farmhouse. It was a repurposed refrigerator carton addressed to my father. It was neither wrapped nor taped, and the top of the box was unsealed and closed with the flaps alternating in the typical way one must close a box without tape. I say it was addressed to my father because the following legend appeared on one side: “To Dr. R. Atchison.” There was no form, but it was evident that the postal service had not made the delivery. Someone brought it directly to the porch and left it there.

I remember the box, but I had no curiosity about its contents. My father always received packages of all sizes, many of them from dental laboratories. The enormous box size was not exciting enough to stir me, and I barely noticed when it was no longer on the porch later that day.

Later that same afternoon, the storm clouds cleared, but the coolness remained. Early evening was festooned with a glorious golden light. After supper, I went out behind the milk house to sit in my brother’s inoperable 1956 Dodge sedan. I wanted to listen to the ball game on my transistor radio because the car battery was dead. I was an A’s fan, and they were playing the hated Yankees, so I was intent on the game but had a devil of a time tuning in the station. The storm was not far away, and the sound from the little box crackled. The station frequency moved along the dial, so I had to adjust the tuning dial constantly.

I remember pushing the dial too far in one direction, and I neither heard the voice of announcer Monte Moore nor the static of the interfering storm. During the crucial interval of silence, I heard what sounded like a bagpipe coming from behind the Dodge and inside the milk house. The roots of my closely cropped hair tingled. “What was that?” I breathed aloud. I snapped off the radio and sat in silence. The night was quiet except for the chirping of a few cicadas and the buzzing of an annoying June bug tumbling over the car’s hood. I listened, but no further sound was forthcoming. After a while, I turned on the radio again, but there was no sound. I turned up the volume but still no sound. My last battery was dead, so that was the end of the ball game. And that was the moment the bagpipe sounded again. “Who is doing that? I asked no one in particular. My family had a habit of needing to assign responsibility for all unpleasant phenomena. It made us feel better, but it had no practical application. “I bet Sean is trying to prank me.”

Until the fall he went to college, my number three brother was always playing practical jokes at my expense. He was nearly six years older than me and had ruined the glory of the first time my parents allowed me to stay at home alone. My parents had gone to the Leavenworth Officers’ Club for dinner and left me, sans older brothers, in charge of the house. Sean was spending the evening at the bowling alley with a couple of his friends and talked them into helping him scare the living daylights out of me. One of his buddies was an overgrown kid with a deep voice. Just after it became dark, the three friends parked their car next door, and two of them crept up to the door while the other took a side window. At a prearranged signal, they began beating on the window and sides of the house while the heavy boy bellowed, “Open up, or we’ll kill you!” I screamed and wet my clothes, so frightened that fluids escaped every orifice. I slid under my parents’ bed, and the miscreants entered the house with my brother’s key. They laughed and bantered about my stupidity so hard, and for so long, I became nauseated and felt constricted like someone with claustrophobia. I escaped to my room and shut the door, but their jolly voices seemed to shake the house until I fell asleep, completely exhausted.

Incidents like my first night alone made me vigilant about my brother’s malevolence. The eerie bagpipe sounds seemed linked to another of Sean’s nefarious plots. I slipped quietly out of the car, closing the door carefully without letting it latch. The entrance to the milkhouse was on the opposite side of the building. I determined to go inside before the twilight turned to complete darkness. I also planned an escape route through the back door of my home, through the kitchen and hallway, and up the stairs to my room. I crept to the milk house door just as the streetlight illuminated the road. It was silent, with no traffic on the street, and it seemed even the nocturnal fauna fell silent. I slowly placed my hand on the door and jumped back. There was no noise; only a grasshopper or katydid had been sitting on the knob. Nevertheless, I had to pause to catch my breath. I started again. Slowly, I turned the handle. The interior of the milk house was dark already. Only the faint light behind me made it possible to see the assorted junk and boxes as ghostly shadows. I thought I would have to go to the house to get a flashlight, and just as I turned my back, I heard the awful wheezing, its volume magnified and coming from a large box just inside the door. I imagined it was something coming after me. I screamed and slammed the door behind me, but just as I did, there was enough light to see the writing on the box: “To Dr. R. Atchison.” It was the box that had been on the front porch earlier! How did it get into the milk house? It was large enough to hold a body or a skeleton. Had a ghost been brought into our outbuilding, or had some already present evil spirit possessed the skeleton? I cannot recall all the irrational threads running through my mind. Still, the ghost possibility seemed credible based on the unearthly groaning that suggested a creature in torment!

I ran in the house’s back door, intending to rush quickly to my bed and bury myself under the covers, when I heard a voice from the living room.

“Say, young man!”

It was my father. He was sitting on the sofa with a cardboard box full of files from the office. He often caught up on his paperwork at night.

“Hear, hear! What a business! Cut that out! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I did,” I said, and my voice trailed off as I instantly regretted this confession.

“Don’t you know there’s no such thing as ghosts? At least, that’s what they say.” His reading glasses had slid down his nose, and he had a pencil in his mouth. He was speaking to me while jotting notations on a chart.

“I just imagined something, Dad. But I was scared there for a minute.” I only now noticed I was shaking.

Now he put down the pencil and his glasses and looked at me. I looked back in silence and then got chatty.

“Hey, Dad, did you see that box on the front porch earlier? It was addressed to you.”

He smiled. “I did see it.”

“Did you do anything with it?”

“Let’s see. No. I asked your brother to put it away. It should be in the milk house.”

“Hey, Dad, can you tell me what’s in it?” I thought I was interrogating my father, but he was questioning me. He smirked the family smirk that often preceded a laugh at foolishness.

“Now, Liam, I want you to stay away from that box. I cannot tell you what is in it because it will only frighten you. I must confess it frightens me a little. So, well, unearthly.”

I felt my hair stand on end again. My dad was a dentist but also a man of science. I wanted to avoid imagining what he might keep around the place for study and experimentation. He already kept a skull in his office lab, right next to my favorite drawer with the bottles of mercury.

“I’ll stay away.”

“That’s my boy! Go in, say good night to your mother, and get ready for bed. And say! No coming downstairs tonight, and no sneaking outside through the window! All you need is to break your back falling off the roof!” Ugh! I hated how he could anticipate my boneheadedness.

So I went to bed. Before I dropped off to sleep, I looked out the window at the milk house and shuddered. I pulled the covers over my head.

Morning came. My first conscious thought was whether last night was a dream. Sean dispelled that thought when he stomped into my room.

“The rotten A’s lost again. They are worthless. And Dad wants to see you downstairs before he goes to work. My guess is you are in trouble. Were you fooling around in the milk house last night? Escaped convicts sometimes sleep in there, you know.”

I didn’t hear a thing he said after the word “trouble.” But my conscience was clear. I couldn’t think of anything I had done, but as the youngest, I was often blamed for things I didn’t do. I complained about this, but I never became bitter. I also did many things for which I never got caught. This is the deal in families of four boys. I went downstairs quickly. When Dad was paying attention to me, I didn’t ignore his requests for my presence. I would dawdle the first time my mother called me. I wanted to gauge her seriousness by letting her call several times before I did what she wanted. But Dad was a different matter. I hopped down the stairs and found him sitting at the kitchen table singing, “Buckle Down, Winsocki.” He only sang two songs ever. The other was “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name.” I always wondered why he selected one or the other. He seemed limited in his moods and his choice of foods. This morning, he was dishing hot oatmeal into a bowl. Oatmeal was all he knew how to make. His singular presence in the kitchen usually meant my mother wasn’t feeling well.

He looked up and said, “Liam, my boy! Sit down and eat this. There’s some milk and molasses.” I didn’t like either of those things in my porridge, but I enjoyed how this interaction was starting. He was in a good mood.

“What?” He said, “No molasses? It’s one of the finer things in life.” Dad also said chicken backs and the fat cut from steaks were two finer things. He usually reserved this high praise for foods he knew his kids found disgusting.

“When you finish that, I want you to come outside with me for a few minutes” Uh-oh, this is what he usually said when he wanted me to come with him to the office for a fluoride treatment.

Despite the depressing thought of bitter fluids under my tongue, I quickly finished because he was watching me. He took my empty bowl and rinsed it out, wiped his hands on a dishcloth, and beckoned me to follow him outdoors. To my horror, he was leading me to the haunted milk house. He turned and smiled as he came to the door.

“Remember what I told you last night? Well, I changed my mind. I am going to show you what is in that box.”

He turned the knob, reached into the unlit room with his right hand, and slid the box out into the sunlight without entering the outbuilding. As he dragged the container into the open, the groaning sound of a sick bagpipe filled the air. His action surprised me, but I was no longer afraid of the box from that moment. I noticed it didn’t inspire the same fear in the clear morning sunlight.

“I bought this for Griff’s. I thought it would be interesting.” My dad was the co-owner of a fast-food hamburger joint that had been big in the 1960s. He and another man held the local franchise of Griff’s Burger Bar. In our part of the world, it competed with MacDonald’s and Smaks. Griff’s featured fifteen-cent hamburgers and an abstract-jigsaw-puzzle clown named Griffy, who was ubiquitous in their branding strategy.

Dad opened the top of the box and reached inside. The groaning resumed with greater intensity. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he pulled up a head by the hair! I almost fainted from fear. I thought I was right–dad had ordered a dead body. But I recognized the face! It was Santa Claus!

Photo by Luku Muffin on Unsplash

As my father continued to lift the head, a body followed. It was clad in a baggy Santa suit with a coat, trousers, and boots all sewn together. The groaning sound persisted all through this process. When the Santa object was extracted from the box, Dad hugged it to his chest, squeezing all the air out of the jolly old elf. The embrace resulted in a sound that was more scream than groan.

“That sound is irritating,” my father said. “But under the suit is a life-size air bladder with its valve open. Still in the box is an electric air pump that attaches to the bladder. The pump goes off and on. When it’s on, Santa grows to his full height and puts his arms out wide, like this, see?”

My dad scrunched his head down and grabbed his knees. Slowly, he raised his torso and extended his arms until his body was shaped like a cross.

“I’ll bet you were scared by the sound of trapped air escaping occasionally. It sounds a little like bagpipes.” He smiled in an amused way.

I remember that I was relieved, but I had questions. “It’s just a big doll! But why Santa? Will you just put it up at Christmas?” I asked.

“Not exactly. See, Mrs. Gershowicz will sew a red-and-white-striped clown suit like Griffy wears. The beard comes off, and we’ll turn the face into Griffy’s with starry eyes, Rudolph’s nose, and a big smile. On top of his head will be a chef’s hat with his name embroidered on it. So it won’t be Santa anymore; it’ll be a big inflated Griffy doll.”

“Dad, where will you put it?”

“Outside under the car canopy. It’s too noisy to be in the lobby.”

“Dad, Santa is scary. Will Griffy be scary too?”

“N-no,” he began and then stopped. “Well, at least I hope not. The purpose is not to scare people. It’s to get people to think of Griffy and about coming to get hamburgers when they are reminded of him.”

I caught the doubt in my father’s voice. Was this really his idea? I thought he might need a little encouragement. “Dad, I’m scared of clowns–except Griffy. I don’t think kids will be afraid of him.”

My father laughed his funny sneezy laugh, “That’s good to know, Liam, my boy. Just tell your friends there’s nothing to be afraid of. I want Griff’s to be fun and give people a little happiness.”

About a month later, Santa was transformed into Griffy and installed outside the lobby where people ordered food in the days before drive-through windows. About a week or so after that, I again heard the wheezy sound of Griffy coming from the milk house.

He had scared me as Santa in the milk house. He apparently scared children–and adults–in his short tenure as a hamburger icon.

The haunted milk house (2).

The old Milk House had only a tar paper roof, so leaks were a constant problem. My father bought many cans of tar and some kind of silver sealant to fix the roof. The building was never considered valuable enough to shingle or replace the roof. I do not think Dad ever considered that human feet rather than water were responsible for the chronic infiltration that ruined the ceilings and walls.

My brothers and I walked on the roof with frightening regularity. We did not even need a ladder. It was easy to vault onto the roof of the tool shed and then hoist oneself onto the top of the Milk House. The roof was a great place to make myself scarce if my mother required something of me. When I heard her voice, I would lie flat and still on the side, away from the house, until she stopped calling. Because the house was her sole domain, I cannot recall that she ever caught me. She assumed I was somewhere out on the farm or at a neighbor’s house. I had considerable freedom in my youth, although I did not think so then.

I was never injured from a fall off the roof. The scary interior of the structure presented the most danger. 

Water and smoke had tanned the once-white walls, cracked from the entire structure slipping into the deep clay soil. A network of deep crevices covered the whole floor and exposed dirt the builders had poured upon decades before. Meanwhile, refuse of years clogged the floor drains. I imagined others were as terrified as I would be to clear those broad drains for fear of what they might find. Useless and corroded electrical wires hung from disconnected fixtures. No one could remember a time when the lights worked. Two double and two single windows, all cracked and missing panes and glazing provided daylight as long as the yellowed paper shades were up. But the latter did not work, so someone had torn a few rollers from their hardware. The ceiling panels of paperboard were suspended intact upon a suspended wooden gridwork. The panels made a complete set that hid the forgotten attic, but water damage had bowed each of them so that they looked like the underbellies of pregnant sows. Adults warned me never to succumb to the temptation to poke the bellies for fear an ancient witches-brew of stagnant water and bat guano would gush upon my head.

While this house had not stored milk for ages, it was the repository of family cast-offs. My inventory of the remembered contents includes a clothes press, a chicken plucker, paint cans, snow tires, bicycle skeletons, salvaged exterior lumber, and turn-of-the-century armchairs. Nobody cared about the things that we stored here except that they did not care enough to junk them. My dad almost had exclusive rights to the salvage man who hauled away the burn barrels, old cars, farm machinery, and rusted implements that were the never-ending projects of the hobby farmer. Yet the contents of the Milk House were never touched.

Abiding clutter took on a mystical quality that fueled my fear by association because of what surprised me when I entered the building. The floor was sometimes covered with mouse or rat feces, and my job was to sweep it up. I gagged from the smell of dead birds that would get in but could not escape. I learned that mice love to die in old tires. I found their soft, mummified corpses on several occasions when my father asked me to haul out a snow tire. Worse was the dead body of a large gray cat, decomposing in an old, bald white wall. But what could have given me PTSD if I had known what it was in the 1960s was that dratted Great Western Duplex cabinet heater. To me, that stove was the Prime Malevolent Mover of the haunting.

[Next post: The haunting.]

The haunted milk house (1).

It only occurred to me that I grew up on a small farmstead when I was in my sixties. My father was a dentist and entrepreneur who acquired about forty acres near the town’s southern limit. When the city extended the limit a mile farther south, housing developments sprouted around the farm. Still, Dad kept the land intact with fields, woods, and a creek for over thirty years before rising land prices tempted him to develop some of it.

Photo by Derek Story on Unsplash

A few outbuildings dotted the land. Our pre-Great-War two-story house was near the main road, a bricked section of a historic military highway. This nineteenth-century road connected two frontier forts. A bridge spanned the creek a few meters south of a corner of Dad’s land. The bridge crossed the water five miles south of the parade ground flagpole. Thus, the name of the stream was Five Mile Creek. Flanking our home was a tool shed and a clay-construction-block structure we called the Milk House. An old green tarpaper barn stood on a knoll above the floodplain, halfway between the farmhouse and the creek. A few abandoned nineteenth-century structures also stood across the stream to the east. These forsaken buildings will be the subject of a future post. Some of my most vivid childhood memories on the farm concerned the Milk House.

I never remember my family storing milk in the Milk House. Since the farm was independent for almost a century, I assume some ancient farmer milked a small dairy herd in the barn and moved the cans to the cool clay block milk storage house. Then, he or some other previous owner repurposed the latter structure. I do not remember the presence of any dairy accouterments, such as a separator, so I cannot speculate whether it was more than a temporary holding place.

A vast wood stove that the Great Western Manufacturing Company fabricated early in the twentieth century dominated the interior of the house. I was a bit afraid of this monster that had never burned a stick of wood in my lifetime. Its retirement allowed it to host birds, bats, mice, and wasps in its belly and chimney, giving a fine reason for my desire to avoid it.

[Next post: Surprising secrets of the Milk House.]

Adages: Friends have all things in common.

Some people choose a meaningful word to meditate upon for each new year. This year, my wife’s word was “Gather.” The word inspires and motivates her to think and act in ways that bring people together. It is a laser focus for productivity and generosity. However, I have never been able to rally around a single word. I crave adages. An adage is a traditional saying expressing a shared experience or observation. One of the first adages came from my father and encouraged me to write down what I wanted to remember: The dullest pencil point is sharper than the keenest mind. I have become a curator for a limited edition collection of adages. 

Photo by Desiré Kranenburg on Unsplash

One of the outstanding achievements of Desiderius Erasmus (1466-1536) was his magisterial work The Adages, a remarkable attempt to collect all the extant proverbs of ancient Greek and Roman culture. As a historian, I have repeatedly opened his book and marveled at his scholarship and erudition. Interestingly, he was the first to make his living by writing printed books. One proverb in particular has always stood out as the most memorable, and it is first in the collection: Friends have all things in common. This latter is a proverb of Pythagoras that Plato quotes in Phaedrus. Whatever the Greek philosophers meant by this is not as important as what Erasmus made of it concerning his cultural situation. It was what Erasmus thought it meant and how he used it that influenced my philosophy of life in a way that has brought both the joy of simplicity and the deserved ridicule from my wonderful friends.

As a Renaissance humanist, Erasmus dedicated himself to convincing sixteenth-century rulers to adopt a “philosophy of Christ” that considered warfare, the traditional medieval solution to solving problems between countries, irrational. Erasmus says that if these bellicose princes were motivated by enlightened friendship, they would want to share their wisdom with anyone who might benefit from it. Friendship, as Plato inferred, is the real basis of satisfying community. Wisdom is its bread. What a contrast to the unenlightened ruler who constantly flexes his military muscles, perhaps dreaming of empire and glory, but dies without a true friend in the world! One should freely offer life’s most precious gifts rather than withhold them out of revenge, mistrust, or greed.

I have believed for years that Erasmus was on to something. 

Still, the prevailing view of those around me (even some friends and family) is that this philosophy is naïve at best. Something like Erasmus’ ideal was termed availability by French philosopher Gabriel Marcel (1889-1973). The latter meant by this a readiness to offer the good things I have for others at a moment’s notice based on a just demand of their claims upon me. Like the apostles Peter and John in the New Testament, I may not have silver and gold, but what I have is available to the one who has a need. One might object, “Isn’t that a dangerous proposition? Won’t someone take advantage of you and leave you with nothing?” Of course, there is a risk to living with an open hand. Others have taken advantage of me: another scholar stole my research and conclusions and published them, and my car was vandalized in England by neighbors of the family with whom I lodged. A friend of a member of my family stole my truck. Damage was done to my reputation by someone I made a generous loan–which he never repaid. Colleagues I trusted betrayed me to save their own jobs. But most of the time, I have made friends using whatever assets I had–mainly money. I didn’t buy friends; I used wealth for the sake of friendship: a cup of coffee at a morning meeting, a clever card to delight another, a proffered feast to rival that of the praiseworthy Babette. Jesus spoke of this sort of thing when he said, “Make friends for yourselves using the mammon of unrighteousness.”

Using wealth to make friends is not as absurd as it might seem. It is both fun and a relief. I often tip servers above the prevailing rate, and I most enjoy it when I can reach hilarious levels. I lend my books, dishes, and tools without obsessing continually on the date of their return. I got rid of my watch partly so I could be less concerned about spending time with people and leisurely enjoying their company. My life on the internet has been an open book. I invite a wide swath of humanity to ask me questions, read my lack of wisdom, and copy and paste whatever they find helpful. I do this, as Erasmus suggests, for the sake of friendship. It is not because I trust my would-be friends but because I trust in divine justice and eternal advocacy. You see, I own nothing. It all belongs to God. I am not arguing against private property; I am simply offering a sketch of the conscience of a fool.

Erasmus essentially said the wisdom of the Greeks and Romans embodied in their proverbs was public domain, a wealth shared by all. We can share this because the people of the past who passed on their traditions are friendly toward us, giving us the best of what they had: wisdom to live well. What a surprise to me to discover that living well is not a matter of how much I accumulate but how lightly I hold even what little I possess.

There is another Erasmean phrase I meditate upon. I think of Erasmus when I play it in my mind because he was a bibliophile. All Books are Neighbors. It should have been in Erasmus’ collection, but has a more modern provenance. What does “All Books are Neighbors” mean anyway? It sounds like an adage, but as far as I can tell, there is nothing like it anywhere in Erasmus’ venerable collection. And while at this time, a Google search of the phrase will unearth a few results, it cannot be attributed to me. I was having coffee with a friend early one morning at the Black Dog in Kansas City when a friend uttered those four words. At first, I thought I had misheard because a barista let forth a piercing jet of steam simultaneously, so I asked him to repeat himself. He said, “All books are neighbors.” He had never heard the saying until recently when a speaker used it.

Since the speaker he heard was the first person to use it, as far as I knew, the context of the speech would help give context to what I am no doubt sure my reader recognizes as an ambiguous phrase by now. The context was that the convention of language means that one can find common ground shared by any two or more books: assumptions, understandings of the audience, and meaningfulness. Marx and Smith, King and Christie, Calvin, and Kerouac, in print, all these very different authors are neighbors, and they engage in a dialogue that only makes sense if there is commonality. The commonality is so commonplace that readers don’t give a fig about their shared assumptions and move their attention to the margins of dissonance. When I heard this, I had to think whether this was true, but I decided I didn’t give a fig either. Nor was I convinced that this was the best original context. The adage was so elegant, but the context was oddly strained. It violated Occam’s Razor and all other sharp instruments of critical analysis. So I don’t think it can mean all books are neighbors to each other.

While books may be our favorite artifacts of human existence, they do not physically breathe or have the relationship capacity. We personify books in relationship to the real beings who create them. I prefer to understand the adage to mean that we cherish the written word to know we are not alone (think C. S. Lewis) and that we have access to the artifact that, as the product of human creativity, reminds, amuses, entertains, and angers us. In short, books inspire us to be human.

I have thus admitted that I adopted (stole?) this adage and invested my meaning to it as wantonly as any petty proof texter. But let us dialogue. What do you think it means? Please comment. I promise that most future posts will contain more stories than dialectic.

Assuming we accept my meaning of the adage, I chose it for this post to suggest that books, stories, history, and reading are the focus of my work. I am using an adage to inspire my idea of wanting to be more consistent with my blog as an expression of art (kitsch?) and not as a cash cow and to share my thoughts and receive feedback from my friends who are willing to take time to read. I hope my thoughts and stories entertain and inspire any who “take up and read.” That last allusion is to St. Augustine of Hippo, so you see it is true. All books are neighbors!

Telescopes of stone.

One of my singular delights rarely indulged in, is to read a design magazine unhurriedly on a Saturday morning. I roll up the magazine in one hand, my sans-handle cup filled with coffee in the other, reclined in my frightful La-Z-Boy with the early morning light streaming in through windows and skylights. This scene is a significant part of my recipe for creative thought.

When I followed my formula one morning, I relished the pages of an October 2009 issue of Dwell magazine. I turned a page, and my attention was arrested by what I took to be a picture of the vaulted ceiling that dominates the interior of the York Minster in England. Light streaming in from triptych stained-glass windows illuminated the webbed canopy. The image that caught my attention graced the cover of a book of photographs of Romanesque and Gothic cathedral vaults, and the picture accompanied a short review. The illustration drew me into the copy, and I found the real nugget of gold in the anonymous article.

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

The author wistfully observes that these kinds of buildings hold our fascination because they can and will never be built again because we cannot afford it, and because, well…”We don’t know how.” This observation was juxtaposed with the following paragraph, which I thought was an incredibly eloquent statement that deserves deeper consideration:

“These buildings, some nearly a millennium old, are charged with the grandeur of God, as though the architects, suddenly doubting that it could be read in nature, decided to codify it in stone (Dwell, Oct. 2009, 42).”

First, the author observes that (I assume) the human designers and executors charge the buildings with the grandeur of God. The conscious exercise of the architects and builders was to create and fill a space that attempted to communicate the awesomeness of God. They succeeded because they drew the eyes of those who entered this sacred space upward. Second, the author says that the designers were impelled to intention because people missed this awe in the commonplace that nature has become. In the cathedral of nature, the earth from which they derived their sustenance drew the eyes of peasants downward. The designers had a priestly duty to mediate the grand attributes of God to a less imaginative but hopefully impressionable generation. When others missed the obvious presence of God, those who knew him intimately struggled to construct a grand telescope of stone and mortar, as it were, so that they could see him if they would only look. Ironically, the author suggests we will never see their kind again.

A few pages earlier is an interview with contemporary designer Philippe Starck, who seems obsessed with liars, thieves, and bad religion. Suppose the redactor’s selectivity is an indication. In that case, Starck blames a great deal on being brought up, at least, with religious education while acknowledging that it helped make him what he is. From his self-righteous mistrust, he has fashioned a world of whimsy that includes a dream to kill (repurpose?) materiality and that he believes justifies his existence (“…I do believe we all have to try to deserve to exist.” So some don’t deserve to exist? What do we do with them (me?)? Ibid., 40) with fifteen iPods and sleep his only apparent comforts. I found the interview confusing and contradictory and wondered what wonders Starck was mediating to a suffering humanity. He needs mediation, but the dunderheads who misrepresented the God of the universe inoculated him against the best antidote to materiality. He grew up in an epoch that forgot how to build telescopes.

Instead, I can imagine microscopes being offered to Starck by well-meaning (but equally confused) emergents who would praise his art, cluck their sympathies for his mistreatment at the hands of the religious, and join him in his anti-materiality crusade without ever holding out a vision of the greater story of the God of nature and the vault. Microscopes beneath the canopy of space are plentiful, cheap, and boring.

The anonymous book reviewer uncovered an insight that we must meditate upon vis-à-vis the mediatorial designers of cathedrals: we will never see their kind again. No more telescopes of stone, mortar, and glass. Too costly. We don’t know how. Rigidity failed. The anemic identification practices of the emergent will yield no more dialogue with wanderers than his modernist forbears experienced in the last century. So, at last, I come to the question inspired by the insightful sentence: Who (rather than what) will be charged with the grandeur of God in such a way that the eyes of others will be drawn upward?

Chesterton Sesquicentennial: Confronting minds that don’t move.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936) was an English novelist and critic trained in commercial art who discovered he could write--his finest gift. He is best known today for his Father Brown stories about a mousy priest who solved deep mysteries and was generally more than he seemed to be. But Chesterton was adept at other genres and protagonists. He remains an influential proponent of the Christian worldview eighty-seven years after his death, and his critiques of science and the arts are as fresh today as when they were formulated in the lost world of pre-World War II England.

He is one of my favorite authors from one of my favorite cycles of history. I find it takes great effort not to like him. 

I read G. K. Chesterton’s All Things Considered several years ago. While I enjoy his razor-sharp wit and (get this) his plethora of memorable aphorisms, I am always a bit shocked at how narrow his understanding of the Puritans was. I notice his prejudice not only because I have studied the Puritans for years but because I am one of them, or as Chesterton would be forced to say of me, “He is a Zulu.” Before you conclude that I am comparing apples and oranges or mad, please read the book of Chesterton that I will mention. One of his stories will make my murky allusion clear.

“I must say you were rather severe upon eminent men of science such as we.”

“Bosh,” answered Grant. “I never said a word against eminent men of science. What I complain of is a vague popular philosophy which supposes itself to be scientific when it is really nothing but a new sort of religion and an uncommonly nasty one.”

Chesterton’s characterization of Puritanism was undoubtedly popular in his era, but it is unfair to my co-religionists. For example, I am not sure one can be both a Rump separatist and one who wishes to purify the English church simultaneously, though Chesterton assumes it. In several essays, he takes his straw killjoys to the woodshed for a whuppin’. But I leave discussing his views of Cromwellian times for another time. I can easily forgive him for his confounded views about seventeenth-century history because he writes darn entertaining stories with biting social critique. I approve.

An anti-Sherlock protagonist.

My collection's most prized work is The Club of Queer Trades, published years before the Great War, when Chesterton was thirty-one. Mad sleuth Basil Grant is my second favorite detective–even above Hercule Poirot. I am an avid reader of books from the Golden Age of the mystery genre. I especially crave the locked-room mysteries. In these, a murder occurs in a way that looks like the victim could only have committed suicide. Windows and doors are all locked from the inside. Readers in the pre-World War II era ate these locked room mysteries up. And I can understand why. Fans wanted to work out the solution before the sleuth revealed the answer. I dig this form of cozy murder, but sadly, I believe readers came to value mindless entertainment, except that murder in a locked room as a regular feature of mystery asked too much suspension of disbelief, even for entertainment hounds. Unfortunately, Basil Grant, Chesterton’s mad former judge detective who is an anti-Sherlock, only appears in this brief volume of six loosely connected stories with no locked rooms but plenty of improbable situations that apparently involve crimes. 

Here is my favorite descriptive extract from the book. I offer it in honor of Chesterton’s upcoming 150th birthday (May 29, 2024). I love these paragraphs because they have brought forth rivers of imagination flowing through my mind. The story’s narrator, Charles “Gully” Swinburne, AKA “Cherub,” and Basil Grant meet one day on a late Victorian London double-decker omnibus and engage in a conversation while the city rushes by:

Basil Grant and I were talking one day in what is perhaps the most perfect place for talking on earth–the top of a tolerably deserted tram car. To talk on the top of a hill is superb, but to talk on the top of a flying hill is a fairy tale.

The vast blank space of North London was flying by; the very pace gave us a sense of its immensity and its meanness. It was, as it were, a base infinitude, a squalid eternity, and we felt the real horror of the poor parts of London, the horror that is so totally missed and misrepresented by the sensational novelists who depict it as being a matter of narrow streets, filthy houses, criminals and maniacs, and dens of vice. In a narrow street, in a den of vice, you do not expect civilization, you do not expect order. But the horror of this was the fact that there was civilization, that there was order, but that civilization only showed its morbidity and order only its monotony. No one would say in going through a criminal slum, “I see no statues. I notice no cathedrals.” But here there were public buildings; only they were mostly lunatic asylums. Here there were statues; only they were mostly statues of railway engineers and philanthropists–two dingy classes of men united by their common contempt for the people. Here there were churches; only they were the churches of dim and erratic sects. Agapemonites or Irvingites. here, above all, there were broad roads and vast crossings and tramway lines and hospitals and all the real mores of civilization. But though one never knew, in one sense, what one would see next, there was one thing we knew we should not see–anything really great, central, of the first class, (p. 28) anything that humanity had adored. And with revulsion indescribable, our emotions returned, I think, to those really close and crooked entries, to those really mean streets, to those genuine slums which lie around the Thames and the City, in which, nevertheless, a real possibility remains that at any chance corner the great cross of the great cathedral of Wren may strike down the street like a thunderbolt.” – (“The painful fall of a great reputation,” in Chesterton, Gilbert Keith. The club of queer trades. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1987, pp. 27-28)

In what sense is talking on the top of a hill a great experience? Is it the solitude or the prospect of all that surrounds the hill? And so, how does talking on the top of a bus exceed that experience and vault us into the category of a fairy tale? Literary critics have argued about the proper definition of fairy tales for at least a century. In what sense does the narrator mean this experience is a fairy tale? Is it being a part of Basil’s mad world, or is it something sublime and indeed transcendent? Do you see? This is what Chesterton does to me. Even in his madcap prose, he evokes his love for England and metaphysics. The commercial artist turned literati paints his scene and then folds his philosophy in through the protagonist. Consider a scene from the Basil Grant story, “Seclusion of the Old Lady.” Two Oxford students have an old lady locked up in a room, apparently against her will. Basil’s brother, with Basil tagging along, attempts to free her, but Basil engages the students in a discussion about evolution and then agrees to accompany them to their living quarters. At the students’ flat, one of the students says, “I must say, Mr. Grant, you were rather severe upon eminent men of science such as we. I’ve half a mind to chuck my D.Sc. and turn minor poet.”

“Bosh,” answered Grant. “I never said a word against eminent men of science. What I complain of is a vague popular philosophy which supposes itself to be scientific when it is really nothing but a new sort of religion and an uncommonly nasty one…[the] Darwinian movement has made no difference to mankind, except that, instead of talking unphilosophically about philosophy, they now talk unscientifically about science.”

Chesterton hastens us to the denouement of a delightful story and injects his hatred for scientism at the same time. Few can do this as well.

As I said before, Basil is my second favorite solver of mysteries. My favorite sleuth is Dr. Gideon Fell from a series of Golden Age mysteries by American-English author John Dickson Carr. Carr based the character, Dr. Fell, on his favorite author. Perhaps you already guessed who that might be. Yep. G. K. Chesterton.

I suspect Chesterton enjoyed writing the Club of Queer Trades as much as his fans are delighted by reading it. As a historian, a curator of stories, I am inspired to cast a bit of G. K. fairy dust on a story of my own entitled. “Minds Don’t Move.” I have mentioned madness quite a bit in this post. I think we all enjoy the freedom of madness, and I am about to invite you to join me in a bit of lunacy of my own. As you listen to this experiment, I encourage you not to think too deeply about it. Just enjoy the listening.

“Minds Don’t Move,” inspired by G. K. Chesterton.

Drained from incessant grilling by the army of reporters during the news conference, Mr. Slight was escorted out of the building and across the street by four older men in expensive, dark suits. Feeling a light drizzle on his face, Mr. Slight glanced at the lowering gray skies and heard the quick splash of his loafers on the pavement. His companions led him to a highly polished black door atop a stoop with three well-worn concrete steps. The sole bearded man in the group opened the door for Mr. Slight and invited him to enter the building first with a wave of his hand.

Beyond the door was a square anteroom, a dark hallway with sconces and rich oak panels. Directly opposite the entrance was an enormous double door of oak. Somehow, the bearded man stepped to the front again and opened the doors with both hands, and this time, Mr. Slight followed into a room that glowed a rich red from the largest fireplace Mr. Slight had ever seen, and it contained a blazing fire of alarming proportions.

The bearded man addressed Mr. Slight: “Please, make yourself comfortable and sit wherever you like.” He and his companions left the room by a side door.

Mr. Slight thought this simple instruction was easier said than done. Every couch and chair in the room, save one, had a tweed-coated occupant engaged in conversation, cradling a brandy snifter or both. The room smelled of cigars, though it was strangely free of smoke. The one available chair was a red leather wingback near the giant blaze. Beside the chair was a side table with a carafe of red liquid and a black lacquered cigar box. On the other side of the table was an identical wingback chair with a completely bald man sitting in it. In his right hand was an unlit cigar, and he balanced a partially full snifter of brandy on the cushion between his legs. To achieve this balancing act, only his toes touched the floor and were turned so that he appeared pigeon-toed. Smiling, he waved the cigar toward the empty seat in a summoning gesture.

“Please sit down,” said the bald man. “And welcome to the Curmudgeon Club. My name is Eggith. I am a retired professor of philosophy.”

“Thank you, Professor Eggith,” replied Mr. Slight with a smile that matched his name.

“I watched your press conference. You handled yourself well.” Eggith broke into a friendly smile as he said this.

“What, did I utter no nonsequiturs?” asked Mr. Slight.

“Oh dear, I am afraid I haven’t looked for those since my undergraduate days. After all, we philosophers are human beings and must live in the real world. Most talk is chatter to me, but when I must, I will form a general impression of an oration in the form of its principle–if it has one.” Eggith laughed though the joke was lost on Mr. Slight.

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Slight. “How would you frame your general impression of the press interview?”

Eggith narrowed his eyes and looked away thoughtfully. “Well, hmm. Yes, yes. Here it is…”

Eggith paused for more than ten seconds and then dramatically turned to Mr. Slight and looked him directly in the eyes. Mr. Slight could see his jaw muscles twitching. Eggith opened his mouth.

“Minds don’t move,” Eggith said triumphantly.

Mr. Slight nodded his head slowly as if he understood this obscure comment. “Yes, yes, I think I see what you mean.” But he didn’t. This was sheer nonsense, and he wondered if Eggith was a bit cracked. He suppressed a laugh at the thought.

“But then,” said Mr. Slight. “Before we get too hasty, You need to tell me whether the sense in which you used the word ‘move’ is intransitive or reflexive.” This was more nonsense, made up for effect. It hit the mark: Eggith nodded vigorously as if he understood. “He’s cracked,” thought Slight. Thus, Slight pressed his case further. “If I say that I think minds are active, what then?”

Eggith’s features became completely screwed around on his face. Starting with his ears, his entire chameleon-like countenance reddened until his head looked like a great tomato with white eyebrows. He stood to his feet more violently than abruptly. Mr. Slight’s sight was drawn to Eggith’s hands. He noticed that they were unnaturally small, and now he clenched them tightly into little balls so that his arms looked like two enormous tweed matchsticks. He thrust his arms forward so they were suddenly extended straight before him. “So here is our angry philosopher,” thought Mr. Slight. “Insane with the continually buried pain and resentment of being unloved, if not abused.” These musings were interrupted by an outburst from Eggith that ended his flourishing of contortions.

“No! Minds are filtered receptors of the One Mind!” bellowed Eggith, and he turned on his heel and fled the room. Sixty or more astonished eyes crowned silent, gaping mouths as the heavy oak doors crashed behind him. Mr. Slight’s greedy eyes were on the cigar box as he lifted the polished lid.

“Well,” he whispered. “This dream is over.”

(Happy birthday, Gilbert Keith Chesterton.)

Availability as healthy curiosity.

This revised and updated article originally appeared in Mars Hill Review 3 Fall 1995: pages 42-49. It is the final essay in a series of three, considering curiosity as an antidote to the narcissism that increasingly plagues our nation, communities, and families.

In the last post, I defined curiosity as a subjective quality of people eager to learn. We also identified several unhealthy kinds of curiosity that give the word a bad name—for example, sticking our noses into someone’s private world in a pushy, inquisitive way. Or curiosity that is obsessed with oneself. Either the self-serving, vigilant curiosity that characterizes the narcissist in our world, or at least the person who has read too many self-help books or YouTube videos on some aspect of themselves or their problems. And these folks can easily ask us for advice, too. And while we should all be very cautious about offering advice at any time, don’t you want to say, “Hey, stop reading!” or “Stop watching videos” for at least a year!

But we also saw there is a healthy kind of curiosity. Curiosity about natural laws has characterized great scientists and inventors. Curiosity about God has captured all sorts of seekers throughout the centuries. It is this kind of curiosity that I wish to display, mainly as it is directed healthily toward others. My wife has become curious about the community habits of sparrows. She loves watching their joy as they crowd into the bird feeder. She has done a bit of research about them because she observed some traits that humans can learn from. I told a story about an interview I helped to conduct for a non-profit organization looking for a certain kind of employee and how one of our interviewees displayed a detrimental lack of curiosity about what we were looking for. But we also said his reaction was a fairly common one. Toward the end, we talked about how, in relationships, we have these moments when we can grow as people through curiosity. We had to prepare for those moments because we can easily miss them. I also promised we would hear from a Danish philosopher who would suggest that the opposite of employing curiosity in the silence of the teachable moment or the moment of creative tension is to fill the air with a word salad--improvising words to fill the terrifying silence that occurs when we realize we don’t know something, like what is happening right now or what to do next--in other words it is possible to chatter away, faking it until we make it perhaps, and thus leaving no room for presence, and the curiosity that is needed to have a healthy relationship with another person.

Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) said that when individuals chatter to fill the silence, they refuse to engage in the creative tension of relationships, which can bring about good change. In fact, by chattering rather than being silent in curiosity, the applicant siphoned away the essential meaning of the Christian organization to which he applied, which is to be an organization that listens to God.

Availability

Offering presence to invite curiosity is not for the faint of heart. The person who makes themself available pays dearly often..

What does it mean to chatter, according to Kierkegaard? We know what it means when someone chatters. They ramble on in a way that merely fills space and avoids staying on topic or getting to the point. He said chattering “dissolves the passionate disjunction between being silent and speaking. Only the person who can remain silent can speak and act essentially{1}.” There is a rare opportunity in a momentary disruption when caught off-guard, and a previously undetected opportunity to mature or become more human presents itself. Fearing silence because we cannot control what might follow, we fill the air with words. Any words will do. A new expression captures the essence of the useless filler: word salad. A word salad is a perfect metaphor for chatter. There is no point in word salads; they are bulk that fill

us up so that we have no room for the beautiful or substantial. Curiosity is our silence to release control and receive what God and those who serve his purposes offer us in the opportune moments of life.

Presence: Inviting Curiosity

Several times, I have mentioned that there is an unhealthy curiosity that is closer to voyeurism. Indeed, I wonder if curiosity without a relationship is voyeurism: I withhold myself from you but gawk at you. Conversely, I think curiosity accompanied by relationship is presence. By presence, I do not mean mere physical proximity or coexistence with someone else; I mean that my being is brought fully into the moment with another person. All my attention is at the disposal of the one with whom I share that moment. All words that refine the idea of presence seem weak. Most amateur meditators use mindfulness to speak of awareness of their body and its functions. No offense intended, but mindfulness is not enough. Availability is a more comprehensive word. It means I am ready for whatever I discover at this moment. I am committed and at the disposal of whoever shares this moment with me. Enjoying God’s incomparable presence places me at his disposal: “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” Curiosity toward others is more than a pursuit of personal satisfaction. It involves a risk that includes my willingness to serve without distraction. I will suspend my self-serving agenda and attend to you when with you. I cannot demand that others do the same for me, but I long for someone to be interested in at least a small way in how I feel and what I have done. Christian psychologist and counselor Dr. Larry Crabb called that a “taste of heaven.” It is a corollary of the Golden Rule that if curiosity is what I want, then that is what I can give, albeit in a sample form.

The unusual experience of receiving such curiosity is so infrequently experienced in this fallen world that the reaction to offered presence is instructive. Such presence is like a knock on the door of one’s soul. Suppose one answers the knock with reciprocal curiosity. In that case, there is communion, a sweet taste of the fellowship for which God created us. In the case of the job applicant, the knock was unanswered-just as it often is in the counseling office, at the dinner table, in the church auditorium. The panelist was beneficially present by reporting her experience with the applicant. The applicant may have been startled by this presence, either because it was hateful to him in its exposure of something he thought to hide or because he has lived life ignorant of presence, thinking it is just sharing physical proximity. Twentieth-century French philosopher Gabriel Marcel said that the goal of offering presence is to bring about an encounter:

Encounter can only be accomplished at the level of presence. Suppose it is to be an authentic encounter. In that case, it cannot be limited to coexistence at a particular point in a particular moment. Such coexistence is only a matter of “being there.” There is a genuine encounter only if there is being with. {2}

Mere coexistence in a relationship occurs when one is physically in a room but does not participate creatively with the other. The word participate is meaningful here because to participate with others, to be present, we must cross the artificial barriers we have erected between ourselves and others.

Participation is made concrete and meaningful through curiosity. In the case of the interview, the panelist creatively participated in presence with the applicant rather than merely choosing to coexist. Coexistence would have taken the form of essential questions, such as “What is your experience?” or “How would you do such and such?” The panelist’s presence, however, went to more meaningful places in the applicant’s existence by seeking to understand his experience at that moment. This seeking is curiosity. The panelist might easily have said, “At this moment, your interview is telling us something about you that perhaps you want to hide from us but cannot. And if you cannot hide this here and now, what must you be like toward your wife and family, who must endure your pose when you are not seeking to impress them at all?” This curiosity about how their closest relationship might experience them is presence because it fully engages with another in the moment by refusing to ignore the obvious. It is creative because it allows one to deceive oneself no longer. When the pose of competence to manage one’s life fails, one can only depend on God. Curiosity flourishes when we see presence as a gift bridging the gap loneliness creates. Still, it dies when placed on the cold hearth of self-protection.

You may be thinking about the same thing I have always struggled with about this presence, which is more like readiness or availability. Won’t people take advantage of me if I put myself at their disposal? What will become of time for me? Those are fair questions.

Curiosity and the Battle for the Soul

The offering of the gift of presence to another so that they might have an opportunity to respond with curiosity is the vocation of fearless warriors. But people mistake the gentle knocking of a relationship for an enemy’s attack rather than a friend’s wounds. Being present for another calls for courage and perseverance because one is engaged in the battle for a soul.

No one battles more for my soul by offering presence and inviting curiosity than my wife. When I told my wife the story of my delayed flight and my profound loneliness, a knowing smile passed kindly over her face. The lack of curiosity I received from my travel companions was like the lack of interest I demonstrated toward my wife when she knocked on the door of my soul. Often, she has lovingly highlighted the obvious in my life, only to be kept (as have others) at arm’s length. Rather than respond with curiosity, I have often sought to eradicate the silence of tension between us by insistent defensiveness: “I’m not like that at all...You misunderstood me...let me explain my position.” I never raise my voice; with calm logic and lengthy explanations, I bludgeon the very one who does battle for me. Safe behind the door of my soul, I often answer the knock of a relationship with an angry snarl.

No, offering presence to invite curiosity is not for the faint of heart. The person who makes themself available pays dearly often. I remember the quip of a middle-aged woman as we sat in the airport terminal, so far from home and one another: “This is hell,” she said. How I shared that sentiment!

I realized I longed for someone to answer my knock with a healthy curiosity on that plane in Manchester. I tasted my own medicine; I experienced what it felt like to live in a world where few answer the knock of freely offered relationships. How great is the love of God that he would send the Creator himself to a people without curiosity? How wonderful is the One who would dare to intrude on our defensive indifference and pay such a price to offer a relationship to us?

Jesus said, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock…”

{1} Søren Kierkegaard, Two Ages (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971), 97.

{2} Gabriel Marcel, “Reply to Gene Reeves,” The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel ( LaSalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1984), 273-274.

What is curiosity?

This revised and updated article appeared in Mars Hill Review 3 Fall 1995: pages 42-49. It is the second in a series of essays considering curiosity as an antidote to the narcissism that increasingly plagues our nation, communities, and families.

In my last article, I told a story about being stuck in an airplane with about 350 other passengers in a foreign country for a whole day while the mechanics worked on the engine. Basically, we had plenty of time to get to know one another, or rather, I had plenty of time to interview fellow passengers and exercise my curiosity. The point was that I felt lonely, and no one seemed interested in my life, but when I got home, I realized I got a taste of my own medicine. I am rarely curious about others and devote much more energy to ensuring people know about me. This epiphany amounted to something like The Golden Rule of Curiosity: I realized that if we want people to be interested in us, we should be interested and present for them. But isn’t this a contradiction, or at least wrong advice? After all, where did curiosity get me on that airplane? Lonely.

Lack of Curiosity

I wondered why he hadn’t even thought to ask what the panelist meant when she called him stiff and machine-like. Was he not interested in how we experienced him? Since it was our job to offer honest feedback and fill the position, our observations presented a rare opportunity for him to see himself as others saw him.

But bear with me. As I thought about the airplane, I realized that while curiosity seemed absent in my fellow passengers, my curiosity was somehow all wrong. And guess what--and you probably are way ahead of me on this--there are illegitimate curiosities. I suspect that the notion of curiosity suffers from a bad reputation. In fact, I know from talking about this for over thirty years that at least some people haven’t thought of curiosity as a virtue.

Differing kinds of curiosity

“Curiosity killed the cat,” according to the old saw. Still, I suspect this timeworn phrase does not influence our lack of curiosity about others. I have chosen to use the word curious to describe an attitude that accompanies meaningful engagement in the lives of others. To understand this, we must consider definitions of curiosity.

Curiosity is a subjective quality of persons whereby they are eager to learn. As with the proverbial cat, this eagerness can have the wrong connotation of putting our noses into a matter for which we have no invitation. It is none of our business; entering it imposes ourselves violently upon others. In this case, curiosity is more akin to voyeurism. This pushy inquisitiveness is the enjoyment of something best left a secret to the one seeking information. I can illustrate improper inquisitiveness using another conversation during the flight delay: I had asked one of my fellow passengers some long-forgotten mundane question. In answering, he mentioned in passing that he had gone through a divorce. The comment was not an invitation for me to probe but rather represented information that helped him to answer my question. The events leading to his divorce are essential to deeply understanding this man’s life. Still, he did not invite me to engage with him at that level. I did not even know his name. We both understood that this was not fair game for discussion. When we talked, I felt no natural curiosity, and there was no reason to probe further at this incipient and probably final stage of our brief relationship. His straightforward answer to an innocent question served my limited curiosity.

Further, there can be a curiosity about oneself that is unhealthy. People are so curious about themselves that their obsessions make them narcissistic and overly dependent. I am sure some narcissists on that plane reveled in the attention. I encountered some people that day who were outwardly arrogant and dismissive, who acted as if they were entitled to attention and in a special category in which the rules of propriety did not apply to them. You’ll recognize a narcissist because they will not let you have your own story. They see people as inconvenient and ghostly characters in their story. 

There is a curiosity that displays good qualities. Curiosity about natural laws has characterized great scientists and inventors. Curiosity about God has captured seekers of all kinds throughout the centuries. It is this kind of curiosity that I wish to display, mainly as it is directed healthily toward others. I did not mention curiosity toward myself first because I believe we will ask the appropriate questions about ourselves when we begin with a healthy curiosity about God and others.

Curiosity in the moment of creative tension

A mission agency director once asked me to help decide on a personnel matter for a Christian organization. A man was under consideration for a people-oriented position in the mission, and it was my task to meet with him and several other people on a panel to determine if he was suitable for the job. The man applying for the opening began our meeting with a polite but lengthy speech about his qualifications. After he finished talking, one of my fellow panelists commented to the man that he seemed very “stiff and machine-like” in presenting his accomplishments and that this was not appropriate for the position he sought. She pointed out that the applicant was a good man, but based on his presentation, he did not seem to be the kind of individual who could work well with people. With a surprised look, the man said he thought the panelist was wrong and proceeded to make another speech about his qualifications. He had not calculated this kind of interruption.

I brought him back to the original question when he finished his second speech. I told him that his lack of curiosity about the other panelist’s comment may have revealed something about his qualifications for the job. I wondered why he hadn’t even thought to ask what the panelist meant when she called him stiff and machine-like. Was he not interested in how we experienced him? Since it was our job to offer honest feedback and fill the position, our observations presented a rare opportunity for him to see himself as others saw him.

The applicant now showed a late interest in his robotic performance. Whether he was genuinely interested in feedback for future reference or “playing the interview game” by giving the answer he thought we wanted to hear, I do not know. But he had the opportunity to be healthily curious about himself by being curious about the perception of others. No matter how he chose to capitalize on his uncomfortable experience, I think it was very instructive because it brought about a moment of tension--some call this a teachable moment or the moment of truth that must be reckoned with. Yogi Berra said, “when you come to a fork in the road, take it.” The moment of tension is the fork in the road that I must take, given the opportunity, if I want my life to be better than it is. I could go the wrong way. But I can’t avoid or deny the moment.

The panelist’s observation of the applicant’s stiffness provided an opportunity for his personal growth by introducing creative tension. Moments of creative tension are often accompanied by silence. If we aren’t afraid of silence, it can serve as a backdrop against which personal issues become apparent. In this case, the applicant must have felt he had lost control of the interview when a panelist raised a disruptive observation about his stiffness. Silence followed momentarily because the applicant encountered a vacuum he felt constrained to fill. He should have replaced the void of silence with curiosity that further engaged the observer for the applicant’s benefit. For example, he could have demonstrated curiosity by asking what the panelist meant. Instead, he filled the vacuum with defensive chatter. The moment of opportunity was lost because he stuffed the crack of silence with the putty of droned self-explanation, a defensive self-justification. This defense included the cavalier undervaluing of the panelist’s feelings, which the applicant inappropriately judged “wrong.” The dismissal of the panelist’s feelings exposed a defensive attitude on the part of the applicant.

But I need to be prepared for a moment like this. It’s like you won’t see angels if you are not looking for them. I mention angels here because I happen to believe in angels. I know many people who believe in angels but don’t expect to see them. They aren’t prepared with the needed category when an encouraging and life-changing moment occurs. So, I think believers should expect to be served by angels, and in the same way, all of us should expect to have moments to employ curiosity. [SILENCE] I hope you can feel a moment of silence after that last sentence. This is a chance to be curious about this history professor who believes in angels! Don’t dismiss me as crazy, but you may ask about it.

Next time: We will conclude this brief series on curiosity by talking about its opposite: “chatter.” Yes, chatter! We’ll hear from a Danish philosopher about chatter, the bane of curiosity, and a French philosopher about presence, the lubricant of curiosity. But read on because it may not be what you think. Our Gallic friend doesn’t go for the current hipster notion of “mindfulness.” We need to use curiosity to be available to others. 

Do you want to become more of a good kind of curious? Do you want to be ready when you reach the fork in the road? I sure do. Join me next time.

Suffering from a lack of curiosity.

This revised and updated article appeared in Mars Hill Review 3 Fall 1995: pages 42-49. It is the first in a series of essays considering curiosity as an antidote to the narcissism that increasingly plagues our nation, communities, and families.

I suffer from a lack of curiosity about others and myself. I yearn for others to be curious about me. I wonder how much of the rich textures of life I miss by not being appropriately curious about others.

Photo by Toni Koraza on Unsplash

I was traveling from Britain in 1995 when a faulty cargo bay door delayed my flight to Atlanta by twenty-four hours. The flight crew should have explained the nature and length of the delay to me or the other 350 passengers. They didn’t, so we spent most of the day on a roller coaster of heightened and dashed expectations in the Manchester airport, at some moments believing our departure was imminent, but eventually ending up in a local hotel for the night.

The inconvenience of a delayed flight provides an opportunity rare in the regular world of air travel. Those who were otherwise perfect strangers became sharers in a common unpleasant experience. As the day wore on, I became acquainted with about ten fellow travelers. Indeed, our group became a clique bound by our anger, frustration, and disappointment at postponed reunions and, for some, lost income.

Anger toward an airline does not usually knit a group into lasting relationships. But I developed an interest in a number of the members of my “group.” To me, they were fascinating. One shy man was an international skydiving champion. I almost had to drag this information out of him. Others who overheard soon became as intrigued with him as I was, and he showed us the gold medal from his most recent competition. Another man was the self-confident head of a successful trucking company in a western state. As an immigrant, he thrilled me with how he came to the United States with nothing and built a fortune through hard work and determination. I met a kind and generous man who made his living writing about antebellum life in the South. As he freely offered his recently acquired Yorkshire chocolates and a pleasant smile, he seemed to embody the graciousness of a lifestyle from the vanished days about which he was an expert. A furious young woman was a southern debutante returning from her first trip to Europe on her own (a rite of passage for high society women, as she explained). She betrayed her inner fear with neither apology nor embarrassment as she gave us quite a detailed account of what her father would do to the airline as punishment for treating his “little girl” this way. A half-dozen other stories were just as intriguing as these; The mixture of personalities was as delicious as an Agatha Christie mystery. All we needed to complete the scene was an inexplicable murder, with Hercule Poirot fingering the culprit before we disembarked.

There was no murder, thank goodness, but the shared experience of a delayed flight became a time of loneliness despite my attempts to engage fellow passengers. Though I discovered many fascinating (and not a few disturbing) things about my comrades, they seemed to learn nothing about me. Many times in my life, I have refused to disclose myself to others, but this was not one of them. Far from home, I longed to share something about myself with these people. Still, no one was interested enough to ask me anything. I do not recall being bitter about this. Still, several times in my increasing loneliness, I almost began to talk about myself anyway, without invitation. However, I resisted the temptation and waited for the invitation that never came. Not only did none of my fellow passengers know my name, they didn’t know that I was a university professor or that I had an interest in writing helpful articles.

The jet finally got off the ground and landed in Georgia a whole day late. I remember leaving the plane and my companions with a strange sense of relief. It had felt like hard work to learn so much about the lives of others who shared a common stressful experience with me and yet wait in vain for them to ask me something about myself. It felt like waiting alone in a room for a knock that never came.

The joy of reuniting with my loved ones dissipated my loneliness. My family and friends seemed genuinely interested in my travels and my ordeal. But this contrast caused me to realize how greatly I suffer from a lack of curiosity about others and myself. I yearn for others to be curious about me. I wonder how much of the rich textures of life I miss by not being appropriately curious about others.

Help! I’m 66 and I can’t tie my shoes!

My feet have been a constant source of hardship to me. I walk with duck feet, and the history of my tootsies is littered with ingrown toenails, athlete’s foot, and new-shoe blisters. But one of the chief causes of shame and embarrassment is my struggle with lace-up footwear. So there it is: I don’t know how to tie my shoes to stay tied.

When my parents sent me to a country school, I was five years and ten months old. In those days, there was no kindergarten in Kansas, so I went directly into the first grade. The school building had four classrooms, a small gymnasium with no seating, and a kitchen. Eight grade levels gathered in the diminutive cinder block school, where four middle-aged women taught and administered the programs.

Mrs. Johnston was the first person I ever called teacher. I am sure most of my days in school that first year were happy, but I only seem to remember the trauma. These troubled scenes were only the first of my life archive titled “Teachers I Have Known.” We were expected to learn to tie our shoes. Why my parents did not teach me this lingers as a great mystery. Just as it must be understood that Marley was as dead as a doornail, so my listener must be certain of the fact that I went to this school with laced shoes that I could not tie myself. I also believe that most of my young colleagues were in the same circumstance. That we were an ignorant herd of fall risks is intelligence that will cause something wonderful to come of my shoe story.

I imagine that Mrs. Johnston had a checklist of objectives that each child could reach. Wisely, I think, learning to tie one’s shoes was at the top of the list. Imagine the time it would take to make sure each child kept her shoes tied. Imagine the falls, the scrapes, the bloodshed, and the tears. Nellie Johnston was a woman of imagination, albeit a limited one, as you will see.

The teacher had prepared a pile of rectangular cardboard sheets, each with a whimsical drawing of a shoe. These two-dimensional models had a hole punched where the shoe eyelets should appear and real red cotton laces woven in the traditional criss-cross shape. Each child was given one of these cardboard shoes with the idea that each could follow the teacher’s instructions as she guided their little fingers from the front of the classroom. My problem was she had provided one “shoe” too few, and I was the odd one out. I raised my hand, and she never called on me. I was still raising my hand when she began the lesson. I had never gone to school before, so I was new to hand-raising. I am sure only I remember what happened next sixty years on, but the scene remains vivid. I felt panic internally–I was five years old–and kept raising my hand. She finally saw me and turned to me with a rubicund face and hissed through her teeth, “Liam, we do not allow disruptions in this room. You will take a seat in the back of the room. Now young man!” I felt tears welling up just below the surface as I slinked to the back of the room. The incident prevented me from learning to tie my shoes with the other children. It also cost me relational capital that I never recovered for the six years I attended that school.

Someone may say, “Why didn’t you tell your parents about the incident or ask them for help tying your shoes?” That is a fair question. I have had many years to reflect on the incident to answer this post de facto question. I was the youngest of four boys in a home with high achieving parents one generation removed from immigration. I was too ashamed to tell my parents that I was disruptive and did not learn the first lesson in tying my shoes. I determined to figure out how to secure them myself in a way that made sense to one who was a neophyte in every way. I developed a method that failed every day until well into my adult life. In fact, not until I reviewed YouTube videos on the subject did I finally learn to tie my shoes. Because of muscle memory, I still feel the temptation to revert to the old comfortable yet broken way.

What a picture this is of the life of despair! My determination to go my own way rather than ask for the help I clearly needed makes me wonder about many similar issues. How much time I wasted because of a simple thing like loosely granny-knot-tied shoes! How clearly do the angry faces of other sojourners fuel our determination to never be shamed again? This is a story of victimization, but how many forgotten moments have I thoughtlessly controlled–like my teacher? What did I pass on that burned a moment of shame in the memories of others? Kyrie Eleison!

A Personal History of Coffee

About making and enjoying delicious coffee, especially for those who think they are too old to learn.

Do you want to love it? We all have coffee memories, whether we enjoy it or not. Photo by Nani Williams on Unsplash.

Almost everyone has a coffee journey, even if one cannot stand to drink it. The fascination began with watching adults huddle with steaming cups. They seemed oblivious to loud and misbehaving children all around. Some parents rewarded curiosity with sniffs of just-opened cans and steamy brews. Many recall revulsion at their first sip. Then came college all-nighters, and later, the moment when one drank one's first good cup of coffee. The Dictionary of the French Academy once declared that history is ‘the account of acts, of events, of matters worth remembering.’. If this is true (alas, it isn’t), then remembering coffee encounters shows the beverage’s historical significance. Who remembers their first green beans, potatoes, or orange juice? For that matter, who can give a full narrative of their tea drinking? You get the point. Coffee, like Kinsella’s baseball, marks the years.

My earliest coffee memory comes from my maternal grandmother’s kitchen. Josephine was a little brunette German-American lady who loved her home. It was a good thing she did, having borne eleven children. She kept a clean house for my grandfather, Jess, a career staff sergeant, but the kitchen was the heart. Officers admired Josephine’s cooking. The gallant Edmund Gruber visited often during the years he ‘rolled along’ up the ranks. My mother remembered sitting on the piano bench as a young girl with Gruber. He played Stille Nacht while the adults passed around cigarettes and cups of my grandmother’s excellent coffee.

General Edmund Gruber (1879-1941) may have had his ancestor Franz’s musical talent. He wrote the ‘5th Artillery Regimental Song,’ which we know as ‘The Caissons Go Rolling Along.’ My mother once told me that John Philip Sousa was an ‘odious man.’ It seems Sousa had stolen some credit for “Caissons” without giving her hero, Gruber, proper credit (or royalties). Even worse, in the 1950s, the words and title were changed to ‘The Army Goes Rolling Along.’

My memories of grandma’s kitchen included a ubiquitous metal percolator. It was right next to a brace of jade-colored Fire King coffee cups and my grandpa’s bottle of Tabasco. Warmed by the aromatic steam of the percolator, I liked to stand with my elbows on the counter. I stared at the perking coffee squirting into the glass cap for what seemed like hours. I imagined it was playing the Maxwell House Coffee song.

The 1950s and 1960s were a golden age of percolators. My mother had a fashionable stovetop Corningware Cornflower coffee maker. She also had a clear Pyrex percolator, which later came into my possession. It seemed like the coffee was always on, although my Irish father never drank it. Dad preferred tea and took many opportunities to accuse the beverage as unhealthful. As a dentist, he had periodontal evidence against it that never quite convinced me. But the medical man usually concluded by saying, “it will stunt your growth!” I have to admit that this final argument made me uneasy, but lost its luster when I went away to college.

I also made a curious discovery in a kitchen cupboard as a child. Inside a couple of nested stock pots was a small octagonal aluminum object that I thought was a syrup dispenser. When I asked my mother what it was, she said, “oh, it’s a little percolator that the Italians use. Your Aunt Maria gave it to me.” My Italian Aunt Maria lived in Omaha. This Moka Pot was anything but a mere percolator.

After this first encounter, it took me more than thirty years to actually try the Moka Pot as a brewing method. Some day, I will argue for its virtues for daily use. I will do so by first recounting its history and then showing how to use the pot to make a delicious cup of coffee. Until then, svegliati e annusa il caffè!

A close shave: Two pandemic-inspired projects.

Closeness or Comfort? Old age makes this an easy decision. Photo by Supply on Unsplash.

The pandemic of 2020 was the last straw. It pushed me to do two things I have resisted doing. The first is to buy an electric shaver because I am giving up closeness for convenience. I could have given up and grown a beard (I still might). The second is to start this blog I call the Mossbunker Review.

When I was a young man, there were many things about my father and other older men that puzzled me. I found the solution to one of the greatest of those mysteries when I began to have wrinkles of my own. It is nothing profound. It has to do with why so many older men who are otherwise Luddites use Remingtons and Norelcos.

My father taught me how to shave using a double-edged safety razor (DESR). While one can still buy these steel instruments on Amazon, they look barbarous (no pun intended). They are no match for the sleek plastic razors now supplied by Harry’s or Gillette. The DESR made close shaving possible without a barber by encasing a disposable blade with two thin, sharp sides. The metal case protected the skin from all but the very edge. Armed with my DESR, a styptic pencil (for cuts), and a roll of toilet paper (also for wounds), my late adolescent years became easier. My post-shave face was soft as a baby’s bottom. Except for the cuts. But my father was not doing as he taught me. He was massaging his face with floating rotary heads. And while he shed less blood than me, his face was more like 0000 sandpaper than an infant’s bum. I began to think he was a wimp. No pain, no gain.

But I was wrong. I discovered my mistake when I passed fifty and began to get wrinkles and things like skin tags. I was never warned about the latter. I wielded my safety razor as one with five decades of experience, but my skill could not match the hazards of old age. Repeated strokes would not remove the growth from the corners of my mouth and the soul patch area under my lip. The little blond soldiers would not go down regardless of how hard I pressed. The area on my upper lip right against my nose was utterly unreachable. Even fresh razors ripped open the raised parts of my skin--without cutting the stubble.

No wonder my father, grandfather, uncles, and father-in-law all graduated to Norelco. I have fought a good fight, but now I am turning on the electricity. What’s that got to do with the decision to begin this blog? Not much. I have stories I have to tell. Being a perfectionist, I put off sharing them till I could make the telling soft as a baby’s bottom. But there were cuts and blood along the way. And other things to do. I read books about writing to avoid telling them, and I wrote pieces to please other people for the same reason. I also designed other websites and wrote half a dozen other sporadic weblogs.

So I am making a new beginning, again. I am turning on the electricity, and I hope the outcome will be as sharp as it once was. Thank you for witnessing my journey.

Long before praising a pig, E. B. White wrote a sonnet to a racehorse.

Some nag! Before earning fame as a porcine rescuer, Andy White made a few bob lauding a Derby winner. (Photo by Whitney Combs on Unsplash)

E. B. “Andy” White (1899-1985) was a renowned writer for The New Yorker magazine from the 1920s and into the 1980s. We know him as the author of Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, and The Elements of Style. Andy graduated at the top of his class at Cornell in journalism, but could not land a job in New York in his field. So he bided his time tapping out poems, short stories, and letters on his Corona typewriter. Andy kept working, hoping that he could launch a career as a writer.

He finally found a job doing publicity work for the American Legion News Service in 1921 but hated the job. Never one to keep set hours, White felt that the situation did not give him time to develop as a writer with his own voice. He gave up PR when he realized that the best writers despised public relations workers. Professional writers thought of Publicity as an overpaid occupation. White saw that a career in PR caused one to lose his soul when the company forced him to spout the party line.

Early in 1922, White drew $400 out of savings and bought a Ford Model T roadster. He persuaded his friend, Cornell dropout Howard Cushman, to quit his dreary job in the city. White proposed the two make a road trip west--across the United States. Unable to afford travel, they decided to take their precious Corona typewriters instead. They would write stories and travelogues for their daily bread. If that failed, any odd job would do to secure the next sack of groceries and tank of gas.

I now claim the distinction of being the only person that ever wrote a sonnet to a racehorse and got away with it. - E. B. White

There was another difficulty that might not occur to us. The network of highways that we associate with modern American culture did not yet exist. There were no paved roads between Minneapolis and Spokane--a distance of 1400 miles. Seattle was the goal. They drove across the North Dakota prairie in wheel ruts some called a highway. The Ford ambled along, surrounded by tall grasses that obscured the driver’s side view. The most “developed” states had concrete roads that were more like one-lane sidewalks. When two automobiles encountered one another head-on, one had to yield. To allow the other car to pass meant pulling over to a dirt track that ran parallel to the paved road.

That they ever drove the prairie parkway is remarkable. The travelers ran out of funds regularly long before they made it to Minneapolis.

White and Cushman drove into Lexington, Kentucky, to fulfill a youthful longing. They thought one had not lived until one had bet on a horse race. They each had $2 to wager. Cushman’s safe strategy was to bet on the favorite. White was more intuitive and chose his horse based on his fondness for its name: Auntie Mae. A 12-1 underdog, the laconic and bedraggled Auntie Mae looked utterly out of place in the field. Andy’s long-shot somehow prevailed, while Howard’s didn’t even place. White won the enormous sum of $24.

White learned about the dangers of overweening beginner’s luck the hard way. He and Cushman decided to drive to Louisville and take in the 1922 Kentucky Derby. This time each invested six dollars using White’s fail-safe system. At the end of the day, White had sixty cents left, and Cushman lost the entire wad. What to do? Pull out the trusty Corona. White composed a sonnet in praise of Morvich, the winning horse that had broken their hearts. He drove straight to the office of the Louisville Herald and sold the sonnet to the editor for five dollars. The next morning Andy’s poem appeared on the front page. They had recouped their losses.

White sounded a triumphant note in a letter to his girlfriend, Alice. He wrote, “I now claim the distinction of being the only person that ever wrote a sonnet to a racehorse and got away with it.”