The Professor's Bayonet

Episode 118 - Keep Close

https://48bconsulting.com/ https://www.amazon.com/Keep-Close-Post-Apocalyptic-Survival-Adventure-ebook/dp/B0DSY5DD15 If you are familiar with Cormac McCarthy’s novel, The Road, you are familiar with the genre Kristen Wade also explores in her 2024 novel, Keep Close.  In Wade’s work, a massive meteor shower described as “cat’s whiskers across the sky” ushers in an apocalyptic world where individuals unlucky enough to be standing more than six feet away from anybody else are preyed upon by banshees described later in the novel as “two-legged, headless, translucent wolves.”  They are also winged, which means that they can pounce upon their quarry in a matter of seconds.  The banshees cannot be readily seen, only being perceived as shimmers in the air, but when they strike, they do so with such sudden and swift brutality that witnesses are psychologically impacted in the worse way.  Fear is their greatest weapon; the quick death is merely a tag-on.  Ren, one of the protagonists, is motivated by this fear throughout the book as she labors to return to her mother after surviving the sinking of a sailboat in the Pacific Ocean.  Her mother is in Washington state, and the miles between them, not to mention the banshees and the human bandits who would not hesitate to take cruel advantage of a seventeen-year-old girl and her younger siblings, are many.  Keep Close can undoubtedly be read as yet another post-apocalyptic novel.  Like any other novel in that genre, readers bear witness to what happens when the tenuous agreements we have amongst each other – Rousseau would call it a social contract – are jettisoned, allowing for the less-flattering proclivities to emerge.  What interests me, dear listeners, is Wade’s particular approach to this genre.  A psychoanalysis of the book might reveal Wade’s motherly instincts at play.  Most of the characters are kids or very young adults.  Those much older are, in most cases, ancillary to the plot.  They matter, but they are not central to the narrative.  They orbit around the characters whose emotional development drives the story forward.  Ren must find her mother.  Lee must save his sister.  Hank must get to Australia.  What motivates them all is fear, which makes Keep Close a truly universal story.  Fear motivates us all.  Sadness, anger, jealousy – all of these emotions can be linked to fear.  We might even argue that every parent’s complete and utter dedication to the care of their children is a reaction to fear.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of what cannot be stopped.  Fear of what the world and nature can do.  Keep Close begins, after all, with a meteor shower.  The novel begins, in other words, with a classic man versus nature set up.  The banshees are merely a manifestation of this.  And what is more, Wade reveals her motherly hand when she writes that individuals can only be spared from the wrath of these creatures by staying close to each other – by being tethered to one another with a six-foot rope.  A metaphorical umbilical cord.  The book is about keeping our children close in the face of what the world and universe throws at us.  That the banshees seem to prefer young children only underscores this reading.  Just as Ren, the older sister, insists that Lizzie, the younger sister, stays close, so, too is she trying throughout the book to get close to her mother.  When, in the end, she sets aside her fear and acts in a way that could easily lead to self-sacrifice we finally see Wade’s viewpoint on what it means for man to be pitted against nature – this classic theme.  We are to give all of ourselves.  That is the only way.  That is THE way.  Otherwise, our spirits will remain tamped down by what is out of our control, and that was never the intended story we were meant to live.  Ren discovers this.  Wade knew it all along.  We all have our banshees.  We also have the ability to live despite them.

Episode 117 - Midnight Murmurs

https://48bconsulting.com/ https://midnightmurmurs.blog/ Kevin Enners is like any writer doing his best to promote his work while continuing to generate thoughtful and engaging content.  He is a member of the Atlanta Writers Club and writes for The Kyle Pease Foundation whose stated mission is to “improve the lives of people with disabilities through sports and beyond.”  Enners is prolific.  He has even written a novella, The Crave, and hosts a blog entitled Midnight Murmurs that houses a substantial collection of scary short stories.  One of the stories, “Three Knocks at the Cabin Door,” is reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.”  In it, a man, alone in a cabin but for his dog, is tormented by the incessant sound of three sharp knocks.  Mostly, he does not know where they are coming from.  But sometimes, the knocks seem to come from specific places.  The heavy bedroom door.  The closet.  The floor beneath him.  The knocks do not let up.  Duke, the dog, grows uneasy.  The man believes he is losing his mind.  Until he peers down at his hands.  The mud.  The soil packed beneath his fingernails.  The disturbed earth near the porch.  I invite you, dear listeners, to find the February 2026 short story yourself to learn the ending.  You will see how the gothic is, if you will indulge me, alive and well today.  The short story is impressive enough.  The fact that Enners penned it by using eye-gazing technology should arouse the interest of anybody used to the battle that is writing.  Kevin Enners, you see, has cerebral palsy.  What is particularly noteworthy about Enners is how he champions writers with disabilities, observing that platforms dedicated to supporting the creative endeavors of folks with disabilities are either rare or obscure.  Spotlights shine on the creative works of many so-called marginalized groups, but for individuals like Enners, no such spotlight exists.  At least in the way Enners prefers it to exist.  Allow me to explain.  There are many preconceptions about those with disabilities.  They do not need to be articulated here, but suffice it to know that there seems to be one centered on the ability produce creative work.  For whatever reason, there is a disconnection between the immediate impression many get when encountering someone with a disability and that person’s actual ability to do the thing we are all hardwired to do: create.  In Enner’s own words, “The general public doesn't realize that people with disabilities don't have a platform where they can express themselves creatively. I am lucky to have support for my writing. I have had a lot of support from my family and friends to maintain a voice in the creative realm and write stories that I don't think any other author can or is willing to write. There is a misunderstanding between what the public thinks we can do and what we actually can do.”  His writing efforts, thus, are meant to disrupt those assumptions – to correct a way of thinking that has shoved aside the voices of those who happen to have a disability.  To read Enners is not to read an author with cerebral palsy.  It is simply to read an author – and a good one at that.  Elsewhere on The Professor’s Bayonet, I have written about how being made in the image of God, the Supreme Creator, means that we were made to create.  It is more an action, a vocation than an image.  In fact, it is far from the latter.  We only need to look at the superficial differences between us to acknowledge what is truly important about us all.  Some of us have darker skin.  Some of us are female.  Some were born with conditions like cerebral palsy.  All of us, though, were gifted in some form or another to create.  We draw.  We paint.  We nurture relationships.  We build families.  We create businesses.  And we write.  Kevin Enners writes.  And more of us should check out his blog.  It’s called Midnight Murmurs.  Just be sure to keep a light on.  You never know who might come knocking.

Episode 116 - Brokenness Restored

https://www.jannaherron.com/services https://48bconsulting.com/ Janna Herron’s brief memoir of her struggles with mental health is timely to say the very least.  Entitled Brokenness Restored: The Path to Recovery is a Healing Journey, Herron’s open rumination on what it took to come back from the brink of mental collapse is as raw as it is insightful.  She joins the chorus of so many young folks who, sadly, do battle against mental and spiritual snares alone, shining a light on the despair that goes unnoticed.  If anything, hers is a needed voice in today’s society – a voice with which to empathize, a voice to identify as a friend, someone who knows.  Herron’s ideas on loneliness, for example, are sure to land well with those in her generation who are becoming or have already become disaffected with the narrative that social media unites.  One does not have to look very far to see how isolation has become an epidemic in and of itself – how lonely people really are despite having access to the world, as it were, at their fingertips.  Herron writes that “isolation merely increases the symptoms of depression and anxiety.”  She is correct.  Indeed, she adroitly points out that so many instances of depression are cyclical: depression leads to isolation, and isolation leads to a deeper depression.  Interestingly, Herron shares that her father was once a correctional officer in a prison and that this experience served as the impetus for growing feelings of distrust.  She admits to not knowing how his experiences as an authority figure behind bars affected him internally, and she certainly extends an impressive level of grace when she recognizes how his time as a correctional officer negatively impacted his relationships at home; however, she does not excuse him from inadvertently setting a tone that would eventually engulf her, resulting in her own scuffle with weighty and unpleasant thoughts.  I would submit with Herron’s book, however, that an analysis couched in her relationship with her father – something she mentions from the very beginning – might be deeply relevant.  It is no small detail, in other words – a bit of information that could provide helpful context for how her struggle played out.  She admits, after all, that she does not “overlook the pain and hurt that he has caused.”  Could this have been the catalyst for something bigger? Herron writes that soon after arriving at Texas Woman’s University, the conviction of being unsafe persisted.  The change in location did little to ameliorate her anxiety.  To be sure, she soon found out that those feelings were justified, which led to a downward spiral that left her considering the unthinkable.  She overdosed on some medication.  Herron writes that she wanted to go home – not where she was from but heaven, her celestial home.   What many tuck away in the recesses of their psyche, Herron puts on full display for her readers to consider.  In doing so, I would argue that she names it for what it is (attempting to take one’s own life) thereby neutralizing the ideation.  What is hidden is more dangerous – she makes that clear throughout the book – so exposing it defangs it considerably, making her story more approachable and, as a result, the path toward healing clearer to those facing similar challenges.  Herron’s road to recover is circuitous.  It is not a direct shot.  Like ivy that winds itself up a tree trunk, her indirect route only made her stronger and more resilient.  God wants resilient people, and just like He did with Herron, He assures us that we were, in effect, built for the trials in which we find ourselves.  Toward the end, Herron reminds us that suppressing our emotions is no good for anybody and that what God desires is for the truth to come to light.  It will oftentimes take great effort for that truth to emerge, but, Herron writes, the endeavor is worth it.  Because you are worth it, the child of God that you are.

Episode 115 - Requiem

www.48bconsulting.com In the hustle and bustle of the current day, it is easy to forget that many in the not-too-distant past resorted to solitude and silence to work through their struggles.  It was a monastic approach to facing one’s troubles, and to those living today who cannot imagine a time without cellphones and instant access, that approach is unimaginable.  We are in the midst of a social crisis where gazing absentmindedly into glowing rectangles is the norm, but rest assured that this terrible habit will come back to haunt us if it has not already done so.  The solution?  I submit, dear listeners, that we need to harken back to a time when stillness was not to intimidating – when it was welcomed, even sought out.  As it is, we have traded healthy tranquility for convenience, and as a result, the neurosis only grows bigger.  I look out at my students before class.  All of them, everyone, is glued to their phones, and the battle only continues when I start class.  The temptation to look down is just too great.  I have mentioned before in other episodes that both sets of my grandparents suffered the loss of their oldest child.  I watched how my dad’s parents grieved his passing, and I did the same with my mom’s parents.  It was difficult not to compare and contrast – not to carefully and respectfully observe differences in coping mechanisms.  All of it was sad.  Each of my grandparents handled it uniquely.  Granny, my dad’s mom, threw herself into work as a realtor.  Her husband, my grandfather, told and retold the stories.  My gramma, my mom’s mother, sealed herself off in a little room and painted.  My grampa, her husband, retired to the woodshed.  I remember him being in that woodshed until past dark.  Summer.  Fall.  Winter.  It may have been an escape.  The grandkids were oftentimes rambunctious.  It may have been something else – something wholly unplugged, to put it in modern day parlance.  It may have even been something sacred.  He would run the fixed circular saw to make kindling for the fire.  What else he did I do not know.  Here in Georgia we have a monastery - The Monastery of the Holy Spirit – located in Conyers, about a half hour or so east of Atlanta.  The brothers take their silence reverently.  Many retreats are silent retreats, and those who participate are expected to keep mum.  It is difficult for me to drive out to the monastery, so I make do with a walk to Simpsonwood Park with my dog, Arrow.  As a general rule, I extinguish all devices upon entering the trail.  Out come the earbuds, and I take my walk through the woods with nothing but the sounds of birds should they choose to utter a peep.  It is in the silence that I am better able to hear God.  Nothing is forced.  Nothing coerced.  I simply allow the conversation to unfold as it will, discovering, at times, that the thing I wanted to pray about was not the thing that took center stage. In short, I get it.  I get the need for silence.  I get the desire for disconnection.  I can never know what he was thinking or feeling, but I wonder if his nightly retreat to the woodshed amounted to a form of prayer. What did grampa do but go to a familiar place back behind the house on the hill and do what he had been doing for years: cut kindling, stack wood, all to heat a house now occupied by two, the voices of his six daughters calling out for daddy from years past.  Here is a poem I wrote.  I hope it lands well.  Requiem  An old man sits in a  dark shed on a winter’s eve, and  he is surrounded by  cord wood packed tight,  knots out and up against the aged frame.  He is doused in the pale yellow light of  a naked bulb, and he is thinking, not  about the fixed circular saw before him or  the kindling he is making with each  screaming pass, but of something else:  his alone.  The dog  is warm inside the house.  The sky  is black and deep.  The old man  fills his wheelbarrow, rises, hoists,  and pushes, his only utterance,  the soft crunch of icy snow.

Episode 114 - Casing the Joint

My grandfather – my dad’s dad – had many titles.  He was a physician in a small Kentucky town, so everywhere we went, he was greeted with a hearty “Hello, there, Dr. Dew!”  He liked to joke that he had delivered about half of them.  He was also a Catholic deacon, so if it wasn’t Dr. Dew, it was Deacon Dew.  The heartiness would be the same.  He was also an Army officer and a pilot, an elected official and a Kentucky Colonel, but, of course, he was simply Grandfather to me.  My younger cousins called him Fafa, but that monicker never really appealed to me.  I preferred the original, more dignified title.  To be with Grandfather was to be under his tutelage.  He was always teaching – always finding an occasion to impart some bit of knowledge, some morsel of wisdom.  He had a lot of it, and the truth of the matter was that it was hard-earned.  He spent his boyhood in and out of orphanages until he eventually lied about his age and joined the service.  Little Orphan Annie had nothing on Grandfather, for his was truly a hard knocks life.  Eventually, he made his way to the University of Louisville, undergrad then medical school, and settled in the town of Vine Grove where he was known to make house calls with his little black bag and accept as payment baked goods and a chicken or two.  He practiced medicine during its golden age when insurance companies and Big Pharma did not have their noses in the exam room, and to a young man who acted as his sidekick, it was hard not to be impressed by how this little, portly man was regarded by the townsfolk.  So I listened.  I asked questions.  I was teachable.  Beyond the facts and the minute details, I sought to understand how it all fit together.  Grandfather’s medical mind laid out the framework but his Deacon mind – the one who understood deep down that everything we know, everything we see and experience has just one Author – but that framework in its proper context.  His lectures were both informative and catechismal.  They massaged the brain and awakened the heart.  The intensity was appropriate because he knew and I came to know what was at stake.  We only have a few short years to get it together as best we can, so it is good and proper to get busy and get serious.  He had buried a son.  Grandfather knew firsthand what we were all up against, but he also knew there was only one way forward.  Jesus Christ.  The Way.  The Truth.  The Life.  What I did not know then was that I was being conditioned to enter into my own spiritual battles.  If we are lucky, and I am first to admit that I was with my Grandfather, we are given a mentor to show us how to walk in the faith despite the evil that surrounds us.  He was my role model.  He showed me what a warrior can look like, and let me hasten to say, dear listeners, it is nothing like what Hollywood would have us believe.  Grandfather was the real deal.  Authentic.  Unwavering in his faith.  Steadfast in his love.  Here is a poem I wrote.  I hope it lands well.  Casing the Joint  The Class Six at Fort Knox was a   favorite destination for me and Grandfather;  we’d case the joint, he, slowly pushing a cart  up and down each aisle as he pontificated  about booze: the generic brand of bourbon  being just as good as Beam, the wine,  the beer, where it was from, how it was made.  Inevitably, a couple of bottles would find  themselves in the cart, and Grandfather  would always pay – this little man in flannel and  Old Spice who pontificated about  pretty much anything – then we’d make our way  back to the house, me at the wheel,  he in the seat next to mine, carrying on with  the lesson I had heard a thousand times before  and wish now I could hear as many more, his  casing long done, his last bottle bought, and me,  walking this long aisle without a lookout.