Author: Ugena Whitlock

Welcome to The Front Porch Professor, a space where life’s reflections, stories, and lessons come together with a touch of Southern charm. I’m a professor, curriculum theorist, and lifelong storyteller. This blog is my front porch—a place to share essays and musings about the journey of life, learning, and the road less traveled. As someone in the late stages of my academic career, I’m embracing the transition to what’s next, finding joy in the simple pleasures: driving my Miata down winding roads, collecting antique typewriters, playing the ukulele, and soaking up the beauty of the South. Here, you’ll find thoughtful observations, a dash of humor, and reflections on the moments that shape us as learners, teachers, and human beings. Pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee, and let’s share this journey together.

Exploring Nostalgia, Place and Southern Identity in Writing

Nostalgia, Place, and Feeling Southern

In a recent essay, Evolving From Just Keep Swimming to The Front Porch Professor, I explored the journey of reimagining this blog to reflect my evolving focus on narrative storytelling. At its heart lies the front porch, a symbol that anchors my Southern identity and shapes the lens through which I write. This post builds on that foundation, unpacking the concepts of nostalgia, place, and Southern identity—terms that are complex and intertwined. Sitting on the front porch is an appropriate place from which to give them the careful exploration they deserve.

You may be asking, “Well, when are you going to start writing instead of just writing about your writing?” Good question. The process is a throwback to academic writing, where you have to describe your framework and method for presenting your ideas. In other words, I need to tell you how and why I’m going to tell you what I tell you. Then I can tell you. But you’ll be glad to know I’m about ready to start front porching.

Why The Front Porch Professor?

Claiming the title of professor in my blog name is about more than qualifications; it reflects a blend of storytelling, introspection, and intellectual curiosity. It signals that the reflections here are informed by years of observing and searching for meaning. The image of a professor on a front porch bridges the formality of academia and the warmth of casual conversation. I invite you into a space where lived experience meets thoughtful analysis, encouraging connections and deeper understanding.

Image of Dr. Ugena Whitlock at USC Upstate
Professor Whitlock

For me, the title is also a tribute. As a small-town girl from rural Alabama, raised by working-class parents, becoming a professor is a point of pride. It’s a testament to their sacrifices and the support of friends and loved ones. They are ever present in my writing, shaping the stories I tell and the perspectives I share. I am both proud of the accomplishment and humbled by the debt and responsibility I owe them.

Place and the Southern Perspective

When I write about place, I’m speaking to more than just geography. Place encompasses the physical environments where life unfolds. Place is the landscape on which contexts of culture, history, and society are painted. It’s where relationships, joys, disappointments, and lessons unfold. All this happens individually and collectively. Place is both a backdrop and a character in our stories, influencing who we are and how we navigate the world.

Image of small downtown Russellville, Alabama, with snow, church, and Roxy theater
Downtown Russellville, Alabama

Being Southern, then, adds layers to this concept. The South is more than a region; it’s a complex web of traditions, histories, and cultural markers. To call oneself Southern is to grapple with the beauty and contradictions of the place. With the South’s ugliness. Can one be proud to be a Southerner, as I am? What does this mean? What am I proud of? And what about the parts of Southern “heritage” that I am not proud of? What is my relationship to those people who claim and celebrate the ignoble parts?

Writing From a Southern Perspective

“Being Southern” is as much a state of mind as it is a physical state. My Southern identity isn’t about celebrating a romanticized version of the South–you know, moonlight and magnolias. Instead, it’s a lens through which I explore themes of home, culture, and identity. The South, for me, is a place of deep connections, shaped by family, history, and the rhythms of everyday life. Southern identity is not monolithic—I don’t assume my identity is exactly like yours, just as your experiences may differ from mine. While we may share certain aspects, identity is deeply individual and uniquely shaped by personal experiences.

Image of dinner with deviled eggs and mashed potatoes
Southern food–note the Thanksgiving Chicken and Dressing

Family and home are central to this perspective, grounding my stories in the relationships and traditions that define Southern life for me. The culture of the place is a tapestry woven through the land, neighbors, communities, histories, food, churches, schools, music, and football. These often appear in my writing, not only offering insights into shared experiences but also helping us understand the world around us and highlighting the relevance of our observations. Yes, there are lessons to be got from SEC football. Roll Tide, y’all.

Image of a handmade quilt with a crimson and white Alabama football theme. The quilt features appliqué designs of football helmets, footballs, the letter 'A,' and elephants in alternating squares. Each design is outlined with visible stitching, and the quilt is bordered with a crimson edge, showcasing school spirit and craftsmanship.
Lovingly made Alabama Quilt from my Mother

But writing from a Southern perspective also means wrestling with the region’s complexities. The South is as much about its tensions and contradictions as its traditions. It’s a place where politics, identity, and history converge, challenging us to confront difficult truths while celebrating what makes it unique. Without acknowledging the turmoil and inequalities of its past, any discussion of Southern life, identity, and culture feels inauthentic and incomplete—it’s a Southern writer’s malpractice. As someone who often says, “I love the South,” I can be trusted to both celebrate and critique it. Critique from someone who hasn’t lived it or can’t celebrate it is equally incomplete–and there are plenty of these critics around. This is my not so humble Southern opinion.

Nostalgia: A Lens for Understanding

Nostalgia, as I see it, is not about longing for a bygone era but about connecting the past with the present to find meaning that may inform the future. The word itself comes from the Greek words nostos, meaning “homecoming,” and algos, meaning “pain” or “longing.” It speaks to a deep yearning for the familiarity and comfort of home, even if that home is more an idea than a place. Some homes are not the kind we can long for; rather, we might long to be released from their memory. This etymology captures the duality of nostalgia: it brings remembrances of warmth and connection, yet it also reminds us of what is distant or lost. The dual nature of nostalgia vies for our attention, wrestles for focus, and fights for dominance—keeping many of us in therapy for years.

Image of small stone church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama
My home church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama

It’s a complex emotion, often blending warm memories with a bittersweet awareness of time’s passage. Far from being purely personal, nostalgia is often collective, rooted in shared experiences and cultural touchstones like family recipes, cherished traditions, or the familiar strains of an old song. In my writing, nostalgia becomes a guide for exploration. Stories about homeplace and family lead me to reflections of broader themes, such as the importance of community, civility, and the pace of modern life. Nostalgia isn’t a destination where we can remain lost in the preferred past; for me, it’s like wrapping myself in an old quilt, offering warmth as I navigate the here and now. You can’t linger too long, though, because living means stepping into the day with clarity and intention.

The Front Porch as a Space for Reflection and Stories

The front porch, in this context, is both a literal and metaphorical space—a place where complex ideas meet honest, accessible conversation. It’s where intellectual rigor mingles with the warmth of shared stories, and where connections are formed through curiosity and reflection. This is the balance I strive for: nostalgia not as an escape but as a framework for growing and learning.

The front porch is open to anyone willing to join the conversation, to explore what place, the South, and our shared histories mean in today’s world. And if you aren’t Southern, you might still have a good time and make connections, too. Together, we can find clarity, joy, and meaning in the stories we tell. I believe we have a responsibility to one another to make the world a better place–a place where we indeed have the liberty to pursue the happiness of a gratifying life. Taking care of our neighbors has never been as important as it is now. It feels like not only have we forgotten how, but we have forgotten that we ought to in the first place. That’s another reason front porches are important. I hope you will join me.

Being Human When AI Works Almost As Well, Sort Of

Image of a handmade double wedding band quilt featuring interlocking circular patterns in vibrant colors on a light background. The intricate stitching and carefully pieced fabric showcase the craftsmanship and artistry of traditional quilting.
Image of brown and white English Bulldog showing side profile sitting on gray furniture
Bruno displaying AI (Actual Intelligence)

I added a page to my Homepage to explain my thoughts and personal policy regarding Artificial Intelligence. Here it is as a post.

Within 20 years (perhaps 10, probably 5), this message will no longer be necessary. Within a generation, content producers and consumers will have figured out the ethics of using Artificial Intelligence to generate all kinds of content–from graphic designs, to music, to work documents for all professions, to classroom coursework, to, yes, blogs. We will have found the balance between using AI as a tool to enhance our work and relying on it to do the work for us. We will have figured out the survival–celebration, value–of artists, academics, and writers (human anythings) so that we will not have been replaced, which is a current concern. With a nod to Faulkner, I believe when it comes to AI, we will do more than survive. We will prevail, but we are not there yet.

My institution has three options regarding AI usage in the classroom that we faculty can incorporate into our syllabi–“Generative Artificial Intelligence Use Prohibited,” “Generative Artificial Intelligence Use Allowed with Attribution,” and “Generative Artificial Intelligence Use Encouraged with Attribution.” That pretty well captures the options for use in most settings. We can prohibit the use of AI, allow its use with care, and/or encourage its use. I would argue that the first option is not only unrealistic, but it would also put users at a disadvantage. Option 3 sounds to me like it could turn into a party–a free for all for beginners and professionals alike without boundaries and guardrails. Option 2 is a reasonable place to start, as it insists upon using the creative brain first and primarily, allowing us to form a relationship with AI–which we will do, one way or another, but that is another story–where it is the tool, not us. We humans must stay in the game, after all. (To the people reading this in 20 years–I know you are laughing and shaking your heads. Enjoy!)

I think of AI like quilts. You can purchase pre-printed quilting material at Walmart or any fabric store. To make your quilt, you only have to put stuffing (called batting or wading) between the printed side and the backing, and outline the printed design with thread, and viola, a quilt. I have one or two of these that my sweet mother and aunt have given me. They are treasures, but they are nothing like the quilts they used to make before their hands got tired and bent from arthritis. Designs were intricate and colorful, made from generations old patterns. Some patterns were made with hundreds of small pieces of cloth, which were stitched painstakingly, creating a “double wedding band,” for example, on the colorful front and plain-cloth backing. These quilts are heirlooms, works of art that are lovingly protected and stored to preserve their beauty. The difference between AI generated content and human generated content is like the difference between the printed quilt and the pieced quilt.

Image of a quilt ladder displayed in a cozy room. The ladder holds a collection of colorful handmade quilts, including a double wedding band quilt, a basket design, and others with intricate patterns. A crocheted striped blanket hangs alongside them. At the top of the ladder is a plush white owl. A framed Cape Cod map hangs on the wall, with a wooden chair and a tote bag visible in the foreground.
A collection of family heirlooms! Quilt ladder displaying several hand pieced quilts.

But, you may ask, how is that a valid comparison, since AI content is sometimes indistinguishable, often superior to human generated content? The attributes of beauty, of quality—even, maybe especially, messiness and flaws—are the human elements. Our challenge is not to attempt to catch up to what AI can do–we can’t. Our challenge is what the poets have always sought to evoke in humanity. It reminds me of what Ashley Wilkes tried in vain to express to Scarlett O’Hara: “I do mind, very much, the loss of the beauty of the old life I loved. Scarlett, before the war, life was beautiful. There was a glamour to it, a perfection and a completeness and a symmetry to it like Grecian art.” Ashley, though, mourned for the lost grace and perfection (that never existed), and in so doing, sadly missed the point…and the opportunity. Human completeness and symmetry are not going anywhere; we just have to be intentional about keeping them—us—alive. Aliveness is the pearl that makes Artificial Intelligence artificial.

At the beginning of my classes, my students and I talk about the ethics of using AI for course assignments. We look at the University’s options, above, and I talk to them about Google’s standards for evaluating web content (Google will not publish just anything), the E-E-A-T Guidelines. E-E-A-T stands for expertise, experience, authoritativeness, and trust. Google holds content to this standard in part to screen content that is generated to “manipulate search rankings.” Google uses its automated ranking system to focus on “high-quality, reliable, people-first content” https://developers.google.com/search/docs/fundamentals/creating-helpful-content. I’m sure that me and my little blog and my academic writing were not what Google had in mind when it developed its regulatory content standards. My blog has 4 readers, one of whom is my sweet Mother, and the academic writing has even fewer. But just as AI reaches broadly toward various fields and modalities, so too must the ethics that guide its use.

I try to persuade my students that I would rather read work full of their own emotions, originality, and creativity than a perfectly crafted AI-generated response paper. I’m not naive—AI is too easy to use—so we talk a lot about treating it more as an editor than a creator. I encourage them to maintain and strengthen their sense of creator-ness while learning to use AI responsibly as a tool to enhance their ideas, not replace them. I want them to see themselves as authors of their own thoughts, capable of crafting their work like a beautiful, hand-pieced quilt, rather than relying on AI to assemble their ideas for them.

Image of a handmade quilt with a crimson and white Alabama football theme. The quilt features appliqué designs of football helmets, footballs, the letter 'A,' and elephants in alternating squares. Each design is outlined with visible stitching, and the quilt is bordered with a crimson edge, showcasing school spirit and craftsmanship.
Lovingly made Alabama Quilt from my Mother

Some academics will prohibit the use of AI in their courses, focusing on catching students who use it. These are likely the same individuals who hold their peers to a higher standard when it comes to leveraging AI. Over time, these attitudes will adapt. For instance, I was encouraged to find that a Google search for ‘Scholars and academics who use AI’ yielded results emphasizing the responsible and ethical use of AI in research and writing. Just today, Tom’s Guide published an article, ’12 Days of OpenAI,’ reporting on OpenAI’s release of the new Pro More subscription, designed for advanced scientific research and complex mathematical problem-solving, at a cost of $200 per month. I’m old enough to remember when personal calculators were banned in math classrooms out of fear that students wouldn’t learn to calculate on their own. Eventually, we realized that without understanding the underlying concepts, a calculator wouldn’t help a student much. Similarly, while AI has historically struggled with math, it’s improving—and for $200 a month, you can see its progress. Advances like Pro More will inevitably become irresistible and indispensable for researchers. I suspect that as AI continues to evolve, the ethics of its use in academia will become increasingly situational.

For my blog and academic writing, I drafted a disclosure to include with my work. The following is the only AI-generated content in the post. ChatGPT spit this first one out in less than 10 seconds. It’s well-organized and pretty comprehensive, and with my found time I folded a load of laundry. Scroll to the bottom to see the human-created, much simpler finished product:

Personal Ethical Policy for AI Use in Writing

As a writer, I recognize the value of artificial intelligence as a tool to enhance creativity, efficiency, and quality in my work. To maintain integrity and uphold ethical standards, I commit to the following principles:

  1. Transparency:
  • I will disclose the use of AI tools in the creation of any content where its contribution significantly impacts the final product, especially in professional, academic, or published works.
  1. Originality:
  • I will ensure that the core ideas, voice, and creative expression in my writing remain my own. AI will serve as an aid, not a replacement, for my unique perspective and narrative.
  1. Accuracy and Verification:
  • I will verify any AI-generated information, ideas, or suggestions to ensure factual accuracy, avoid misinformation, and maintain credibility in my writing.
  1. Plagiarism Prevention:
  • I will not use AI to produce content that could be considered plagiarized or misrepresented as entirely original. Proper attribution will be given where AI outputs are directly used.
  1. Mindful Usage:
  • I will use AI tools for appropriate tasks such as brainstorming, editing, and administrative writing assistance, while refraining from over-reliance that could diminish my skill development or creative input.
  1. Respect for Context:
  • In collaborative projects, I will adhere to agreed-upon policies regarding AI use and respect any ethical or legal guidelines specific to the context of my work.
  1. Commitment to Growth:
  • I will continuously evaluate the role of AI in my writing practice, striving to balance innovation with authenticity, and learning how to responsibly adapt to emerging technologies.

That’s way too much information, and notice how Chat GPT numbered each item in its own list #1, a fitting reminder that although AI organizes information with precision at light speed, creativity and meaning-making is and will continue to be a human enterprise.

AI went on to ask me: “Would you like adjustments to tailor this for a specific audience, such as professional peers, readers, or students?” I declined the offer, and here is my human version:

The work presented here is original to me. I have used AI tools such as ChatGPT sparingly and ethically for tasks such as identifying trending topics, proofreading, suggesting key words for search engine optimization. I have carefully reviewed AI-generated suggestions to ensure they align with my authentic voice and unique style, thereby preserving the creativity and integrity of the work and myself.

Image of a handmade double wedding band quilt featuring interlocking circular patterns in vibrant colors on a light background. The intricate stitching and carefully pieced fabric showcase the craftsmanship and artistry of traditional quilting.
Hand pieced Double Wedding Band Quilt

A Letter To My Students, From Their “New” Professor

Image of Dr. Ugena Whitlock at USC Upstate
Dr. Ugena Whitlock

Dear Students,

Welcome to the new semester and to our class! As your professor, I want you to know how excited I am to be back in the classroom after several years in administration. It’s been a while since I last taught a full course load—2007, to be exact. Since then, I taught an occasional class until stepping fully into administration in 2016. Now, here I am, rejoining the classroom and rediscovering the rewards of working with students like you.

Image of a brown and white English Bulldog with his tongue out. He is playing with 6 hippopotamus squeak toys lined up on a dog bed.
Bruno is ready for school

A lot has changed since I last taught full-time. We’ve experienced a global pandemic, witnessed national and global unrest, navigated four presidential elections, endured economic turbulence, and just generally undergone shifts in our society. Schools and classrooms have changed over the years, too. Teachers have left the field in significant numbers and fewer people are entering the profession. Those who stay report that their students have changed. Actually, we’ve all changed.

But amid all this change, some things remain constant—our innate human capacity for love and acceptance, and our nature as social creatures who need each other. We are curious about the world and about one another. We can laugh at ourselves. These are foundations that inspire me as a teacher, ones I hope will inspire you, too. Our humanness fills me with faith. I have faith in you and in the value of this class. We are going to explore some very interesting topics together, which I hope you will carry into your own classrooms. I hope you will also pass on to your students the faith, hope, and inspiration that I hold for you.

Close up image of brown and white English Bulldog with his tongue out.
Bruno contemplating beginning of semester

I’ll be honest with you: I feel a mix of anticipation and vulnerability as I return to the classroom. I want to create a dynamic, engaging space that feels welcoming and worthwhile for each of you. Even though it’s been a while since I’ve facilitated learning experiences for students–either online or in person–I see it as a challenge worth embracing. Why? I still believe in the power of education to make a difference—not just for your students but for you, too. I believe that we can change the world one student at a time.

Our time together will be about more than standards, objectives, and theory (though we’ll cover plenty of that stuff). It will be about understanding ourselves as educators, examining the world through a critical yet hopeful lens, and preparing for the deeply human work of teaching. I have great hope that you will find this class meaningful and empowering as you move closer to realizing your dreams—both personally and professionally.

Let’s begin our journey with curiosity, openness, and mutual respect. I’m here to support you every step of the way.

Warm regards,
Dr. Ugena Whitlock
Your “New” Professor

Image of a brown and white English Bulldog with his tongue out lying on a rug
Bruno after a long day at school

Evolving from Just Keep Swimming to The Front Porch Professor

Image of Logo for Blog The Front Porch Professor with rocking chair, typewriter, and Mazda Miata..

Time for a Change

After fourteen years maintaining my blog Just Keep Swimming, I decided it was time for a change. When I started blogging those years ago, blogs, shorthand for “weblogs,” (remember that?) were fairly new, and I was deep into building a career by writing articles for academic journals. I knew that autobiographical narrative Curriculum Theory (my professional writing) would not be a lucrative venture. It wouldn’t earn money or attract thousands of readers. I determined that I would use the blog as a journal. I wrote personal essays in memoir style that might later be crafted into journal articles–a sort of pre-writing holding station. I also told myself that my blog was really only for me. I thought this would lessen my disappointment at having no readers. That part was sad because I really wanted somebody to read what I was writing.

Image of blog logo justkeepswimming.com
Logo for Just Keep Swimming Blog

So, the blog was a patchwork of ideas and topics with loose themes and frameworks pulling them together. Not surprisingly, then, I had difficulty giving it a name. Sarah helped. The more I obsessed over finding just the right name for a blog nobody would read, the more I secretly hoped someone would. The more I obsessed, the more she tried to help me get centered. She tried to help me find some resilience somewhere. “Just keep swimming,” she said, as much a suggestion for my state of mind as for the blog title. It fit. For almost a decade, I have worked on justkeepswimming.life–mostly sporadically. During those same ten years, my career evolved from faculty member to department chair to college dean. As a small-town girl from Littleville, Alabama, I wanted to see just how far I could go. I told myself I didn’t have the time to write regularly. I did well to just keep swimming.

This Spring I will once again be a faculty member in the college, without an administrative role of any kind. I’ve been thinking about this change a lot, and I reckon it will be a good move. I am looking forward to teaching again. I am also eager to have some autonomy over my time. Faculty generally work more than 40 hours per week, but oftentimes, when and where we work is up to us. This kind of flexibility will take away an important excuse for not posting regularly—that’s the goal. Updating the blog’s purpose and branding reflects the updates going on in my life. What is my new identity–who am I now that my decades-long professional identity has changed? What kind writing do I want to do, and what will I write about? What do I, as one white Southern professor with blue collar roots, have to say?

Heading Out To the Front Porch

I reflected on what I wanted the blog to be. I asked myself why I started blogging. It isn’t to have a journal to springboard into professional papers. Nor do I write to make money or achieve celebrity status as a blogger. I write blog posts because it brings me joyful engagement. This engagement gives me purpose. It also provides an immediate connection to you, and you to me. And somewhere among the joy, purpose, and connection, there is also the urgency of needing to tell.

In her book, Why I Write, Joan Didion wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear” (“Why I Write.” The White Album, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979, pp. 192–194.). Her quote has been shortened over the years to “I never know what I think until I read what I write,” which is unfortunate since it leaves out the part about what one wants and fears. When I write I am participating in the world around me and putting meaning on what I see and experience. And yes, desire and fear are part of it, just like they are ever-present in one’s consciousness. What anything means to me won’t be what it means to you, for you are participating from your consciousness, your home place. And that’s what I’d like to evoke with my stories–for both me and you.

Image of Logo for Blog The Front Porch Professor with rocking chair, typewriter, and Mazda Miata..
New Logo for The Front Porch Professor that includes a rocking chair, antique typewriter, and Mazda Miata.

In essence, then, I am re-claiming my identity as a writer. Who am I? I value education, so I got a PhD and became a professor. I am a Southerner to my soul, and my perspectives for writing are shaped–and shape–that identity. I write about the South, my particular anchor of homeplace. Homeplace is a treasured concept for me, one that encompasses family, food, religion, politics, music, sexuality, culture–it is the landscape on which my life has been written. I view the landscape through a lens–a veil, as I like to think of it–of nostalgia. As I write, I hold the present up, looking backwards to the past—my recollection and understanding of it—with a questioning eye toward the future. To symbolize the space from which I can observe and cast a critical eye on Southern place, I chose the front porch.

A front porch is more than just a place—it’s a state of mind. It’s where stories are told, where folks sit and hang around together. It’s a place where the world slows down just enough to reflect on what truly matters to me. With The Front Porch Professor, my goal is to bring the warmth and depth of this space into the stories I share. I work through the tensions between issues that matter to readers today. I also offer honest, insider critiques of the South. Sound idyllic? It can be, but just like the South, the front porch can also be a troubled and complicated place where anguish, heartbreak, disappointment, and violence take place. Every few days, I have to sweep the porch to clear dust and cobwebs to make sure it is an inviting place for myself and others.

Who Should Read It?

The intended audience for The Front Porch Professor are folks who appreciate stories that resonate on both a personal and universal level, blending the warmth of lived experience with the relevance of today’s challenges. My readers might be older adults, reflecting on their own life journeys and drawn to narratives that echo their experiences. They might be educators or seekers who appreciate the intersection of storytelling with deeper ideas about culture, family, and identity.

This blog also speaks to those who find meaning in the everyday—the simple joys of a shared meal, the comfort of homeplace, or the peace found while sitting in the shade in a back yard. I believe there is also value for people who can’t recollect joy from their homes. There may be appeal here for them as well. Home for some–if it means anything at all–are places of atrocities, hurt, and darkness. Home may be a place of utter ambivalence. If this is you, then I invite you, too. In this blog, I look for the mysteries to be found in simplifying the complex and complicating the simple.

Why Does It Matter?

Our world is a noisy place, and it feels to me like we are distracted by it–not just distracted but affected in other ways. Noisy politics, for example, has polarized some of us to the point of violence. It has also created animosity with friends and family. We seem to have lost focus on the things that matter, which is always others. I hope my stories can balance out some of the clutter. I hope that together we can pause and look for grounding–the kind that I find from recollecting and observing what happens around me and to me.

Image of logo for the Front Porch Professor with ukelele, typewriter, rocking chair.
Alternate Logo for The Front Porch Professor that includes ukelele and typewriter with no Miata.

Maybe you, like me, want to have a deeper engagement with life around us and with others in it. Maybe you, like me, want to nourish a homeplace of the heart, our own personal touchstone where inward reflection points us out-ward toward purpose. A safe and joyful place of our making–whatever that might look like for you–where we contemplate how our own sense of belonging connects us to others. I hope The Front Porch Professor is engaging and entertaining; still, I do not consider life merely to entertain. As you read, I invite you to actively participate with me as we pause, surmise, and make meaning. Don’t just read. Come along with me on our shared journey.

Image of Dr. Ugena Whitlock, author of The Front Porch Professor.
Introducing Dr. Ugena Whitlock, The Front Porch Professor!

Gratitude, Anyway: A Christmas Message for Finding Happiness

Image of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes, one standing and one cross section showing cake icing.

I got stuck while writing this post. I knew I wanted to write about being grateful for my life and everything and everybody in it. I knew I wanted to frame it around having gratitude when those blessings might be blurred by shiny objects, such as ambition and wanderlust. I had most of it completed, but I couldn’t decided how to wrap it up without it having a rosy, yet empty, ending. Not too much as seen from the front porch is rosy; there are cobwebs and dust on my front porch. Then I took a walk on a frosty December night and the ending found me.

Does this ever happen to you? You come up with a brilliant idea—something you think is groundbreaking—only to find someone else has already beaten you to it. I suspect it happens to most writers. A blog idea I thought would be perfect was already taken. I began exploring memoir writing, only to discover someone else has already captured the same experiences with the same folksy charm! I have thought of an ideas for a book, and as I begin doing research for it, there it is–already published by somebody else! Even academic journal articles I’ve envisioned writing often already exist, in forms eerily close to what I had in mind. And every time it happens, it stings. These aren’t rare occurrences—they’ve happened more than just once or twice in my life. Here’s one that happened today: A very fine post by Jim Wallis called “Singing the Lord’s Song in a Strange Land” discusses thoughts I’ve had as an Armchair Quarterback for years—even before the election. It’s title even sounds like something I would have thought of. It’s beautiful. You should read it. Dang it. Singing the Lord’s Song in a Strange Land.

Image of painting of the Round Table at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City
The Round Table at the Algonquin Hotel

And then there’s the yearning. I can’t deny feeling a twinge of envy when I see friends and colleagues celebrating their achievements on Facebook. It’s a humbling reminder of my own aspirations and the work I still want to accomplish. A dear friend recently mentioned seeing several plays on a trip to New York City. She misses New York very deeply, and I’m happy that she makes regular visits; it does her soul good. Now, I’ve been fortunate to see my share of Broadway musicals—I even saw Bette Midler in Hello, Dolly!—an experience I still count as one of the best of my life. But life changes, as it always does, and I don’t have those same opportunities now. Sarah prefers camping with the dogs, and while I finally convinced her to upgrade tent to a pop-up camper, our adventures now involve hoisting Bruno the Bulldog up the steps to his bed.

Image of English Bulldog and stuffed bear.
Bruno and Snugs Baby

I don’t want to be a globetrotter, and I don’t long for the lifestyle of the rich and famous. I admit, though, when I’m out in the woods at midnight with a flashlight, waiting for Bruno to finish his business, it can feel like a bit of a step down from the lights on Broadway. Travel, especially to historically rich locales, thrills me. I relish every minute of it. I soak up the salty air and sea breezes of beaches from New England to Miami. And yes, theater makes me breathless. Euphoria has its place, and I appreciate it when I have it.

But adventures are the in-between spaces. The wholeness of life, for me, is found in simple joys. The whole fabric of life takes place in Spartanburg, feeding the dogs and cats—and in Alabama at my childhood homeplace. Whether tending to dogs and cats or listening to the stories my mother tells about pictures and treasures we sort through-both of us aware of time pressing down upon us—these are the things I am fiercely grateful for.

I think back to how I grew up, a child of hardworking people in Alabama. My parents taught me to be proud of where I came from, to appreciate the simple joys of home and family. They have always begun and ended every prayer by giving thanks to God. Even now, my heart remains etched with gratitude that I learned from them. I look around and see a life I love—a cozy old house in a picturesque neighborhood, my quirky cars in the driveway, my family within a few hours’ drive, and my pets curled up with Sarah and me on the couch. I’m comfortable in my own skin, grateful for work that fulfills me, and thankful for the profound blessing of having stability in my life. I’m blessed not to face food or housing insecurity, unlike so many others on this earth. I do a quick check and confirm that the reason I blog in the first place is to find joy and fulfillment–which I do.

Here’s the thing I’ve noticed: life is full of moments like these. No matter what you achieve or experience, there will always be someone smarter, more accomplished, more traveled, or more adventurous. It’s easy to let envy creep in or to feel like I’ve missed out. But at this stage in my life, I’ve learned to lean into a different perspective: gratitude, anyway. Choosing gratitude is a practice, and I have to practice it. Being grateful is as simple as the adage: It’s not having what you want but wanting what you have. I didn’t say it was an easy practice.

Image of actor Nathan Lane leaving Broadway theater after the play Angels in America
Nathan Lane Leaving Theater After Angels in America

Yes, I would really like an occasional New York weekend getaway. I’d love to see my name on the cover of a groundbreaking book or a memoir about a girl from a working-class family in the South–kind of like “The View from Rural Missouri by Jess Piper, which is a terrific collection by a Renaissance Woman from Missouri, at https://jesspiper.substack.com/. Dang it. But I also find happiness in where I am, not just in those imagined greener pastures. There’s a profound joy and relief in realizing that life isn’t a race or competition. I take satisfaction in setting my own goals and working toward them at my own pace—leaving room for reflection and leisure along the way. I will get where I get when I get there. I wonder why it has taken me so long to be at peace with this. I am grateful that I am.

Image of the Statue of Liberty
Statue of Liberty

Here is where I had trouble sticking the ending. So I set it aside and went to the Spartanburg Christmas Parade. We live in a neighborhood that looks like Bedford Falls in It’s A Wonderful Life, and we can walk the two blocks to the parade route. We walked arm-in-arm to Main Street, got hot chocolate, and found a spot among the crowd to watch the parade. If you’ve ever been to a hometown Christmas parade, you know exactly what it was like. There were fire engines driven by Grinches, lights strung from cars and trucks and tractors, local beauty queens wearing Santa hats instead of tiaras, and marching bands. Oh, the marching bands. One of my most wonderful experiences was marching in my high school band. Memories of it fill me with happiness and exhilaration. As soon as I heard the drum cadence marking the band’s approach, I felt that feeling again. Then they began to play. It was at that moment the meaning of what I had been trying to capture in my writing became physically real to me. I began to cry as they marched by, joyful in the present and in jubilant memories. This, I knew, was gratitude.

Image of parade float and parade walkers in Spartanburg Christmas Parade.
Spartanburg Christmas Parade Float

While I’ve been struggling with disappointment at the parade passing me by, I just needed the reminder that parades don’t pass a person by—we experience them, marching right alongside. So, I’ll keep dreaming and working toward new goals, and I’ll keep finding happiness right here, in this moment. Gratitude, I understand, is not to be approached as “anyway.” Gratitude is an attitude–a mindset of unwavering, ongoing appreciation, regardless of the circumstance. Although I won’t always be successful, and although some days will be easier than others, I choose Gratitude, always.

Image of Spartanburg School for the Deaf and Blind Bus in Spartanburg Christmas Parade
Spartanburg School for the Deaf and Blind Bus in Spartanburg Christmas Parade
Image of Spartanburg Waste Truck in Christmas Parade
Spartanburg Waste Co. Truck in Christmas Parade

The Battle for GLP-1 Drugs: Trulicity, Mounjaro, Zepbound, and Compounded Drugs (Semaglutide and Tirzepatide)

Image of feet standing on scales. Scales spell HELP! in display.

First, let’s talk about the latest news around the drugs themselves. In a recent article in The Atlantic titled “Ozempic Killed Diet and Exercise,” Daniel Engber refutes the long-held premise that weight loss is simply a matter of eating less and moving more. Engber speaks with Dr. Tom Wadden, an obesity expert at the University of Pennsylvania, who argues that diet and exercise should remain the standard therapy for people with moderate obesity. However, for those with significant weight to lose (BMIs over 35), he concedes, “I don’t think lifestyle modification is any longer the cornerstone of obesity treatment.” To which—and I think I speak for many of us who have struggled with obesity and tried to lose weight—I respectfully say, duh. https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2024/12/diet-exercise-ozempic/680909/

The Rise of GLP-1 Medications

What has worked are GLP-1 receptor agonist medications, such as Trulicity, Mounjaro and Zepbound, manufactured by Eli Lily; and Ozempic and Wegovy, manufactured by Novo Nordisk. (Based on how they work, Ozempic and Wegovy are classified as semaglutides; Mounjaro and Zepbound are tirzepatides, and Trulicity is a dulaglutide.) While each medication has been proven effective to varying degrees, paying full price for them can be prohibitively expensive. Generic versions are available online at significantly lower costs, but these often come in vials rather than injection pens, requiring users to administer shots with syringes.

Image of man injecting compounded GLP-1 drugs into stomach.
Self-injection of Compounded GLP-1

Today, Eli Lilly announced a partnership with the direct-to-consumer service Ro to provide more affordable vials of Zepbound. This move is likely a response to competition from compounding pharmacies, which sell vials at around 70% less than the full price of Zepbound. Compounding pharmacies can do this because they mix the medications themselves rather than just sell mass-produced drugs ordered from companies like Eli Lily–like conventional pharmacies do. A one-month vial of Semaglutide costs $249 through compound pharmacies, compared to $600 or more for brand-name versions. https://www.cnbc.com/2024/12/11/ro-to-offer-weight-loss-drug-zepbound-vials-by-working-with-eli-lilly.html

The Shortage and Big Pharma’s Response: The Plot Thickens

Over the last two years, Eli Lilly and its main competitor Novo Nordisk have struggled to keep up with the skyrocketing demand for GLP-1 drugs. Once word got out about their effectiveness for weight loss, everyone with pounds to shed wanted in. Public figures like Elon Musk famously used Wegovy, and the internet exploded with people scrambling to fill prescriptions. Without insurance coverage, the full price of Zepbound is around $1,200 per month. Using Lily’s discount card, I paid $600 per month. In case you are wondering, it was worth every penny.

Then I discovered OrderlyMeds, which works with compounding pharmacies to offer generic vials of the meds for a fraction of the price. Get ready for this: a one-month vial of Semaglutide is $249; Zepbound is $350. 70% cheaper than full price. There’s a catch: The FDA will only allow compounding pharmacies to manufacture during drug shortages.

Suddenly–shock–Lily and Novo Nordisk declared the shortage over! Citing issues of safety and principle, they petitioned the FDA to order compounding to stop. But as University of California law professor Robin Feldman quipped in an NPR report, “When someone tells you, ‘it’s not the money, it’s the principles,’ [it’s] the money.” Shocking. Ro to offer lower-price vials of weight loss drug Zepbound by teaming up with Eli Lilly.

Image of two vials of Eli Lily's GLP-1 drug Zepbound.
Vials of Zepbound

What Comes Next?

The FDA has allowed compounding pharmacies to continue production while reviewing the shortage designation. However, most experts anticipate that compounding will soon be prohibited. This leaves patients with four options, as I see it:

1. Hope for Insurance Coverage: Many insurers only cover GLP-1 medications for Type II diabetes, but not for obesity treatment. My insurance through the State of South Carolina will not cover any kind of bariatric treatment (surgery or GLP-1 drugs). Instead, they provide diet and exercise lifestyle coaches to promote the diet and exercise option. See above–it still doesn’t work.

2. Pay Full Price: $1,200 is higher than most mortgages.

3. Use Discount Cards from the Manufacturer: Lilly’s 50% off coupon lowers costs to around $600 per month. These cards have expiration dates and can be discontinued at any time.

4. Wait for competition among drug companies to result in lower prices for the GLP-1 meds. This will happen, but it could take a decade. https://www.protectourcare.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/greedwatch2023.pdf

Image of injection pens of Zepbound by Eli Lily Company.
Zepbound Injection Pens

The Bigger Picture

The pharmaceutical giants’ resistance to compounding reveals their priorities. In 2023, Eli Lilly and Novo Nordisk each reported revenues of over $34 billion. I understand profit margins, but c’mon—let’s think about affordability and access here.

Adding insult to injury, the upcoming administration’s appointment of Robert F. Kennedy Jr. as Secretary of Health and Human Services raises further concerns. Kennedy’s dismissive stance on GLP-1 medications—advocating instead for “three meals of good food for every man, woman, and child”—shows a lack of understanding about the challenges of obesity. Again, please see above: diet and exercise do not work.

For those of us who have lived with this struggle, the idea that better food alone can solve obesity not only feels both naive and dismissive, it makes me mad! If I could regulate three healthy meals a day, I wouldn’t have spent most of my adult life clinically obese. But, said Dr. Jody Dushay, an assistant professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School and an attending physician in endocrinology at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, declared to CNN, “It is wrong to assume that people with high body weight and BMI just sit around and eat low-quality food.”

Image of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes, one standing and one cross section showing cake icing.
My Weakness: Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes

To be honest, I have eaten my share of high caloric junk food. Over the last 50 years (I was overweight by the time I was in 3rd grade),I have also tried Weight Watchers, Nutri System, Slim Fast, Alli (with gross results,IYKYK), low-carb diets, Keto, and old-fashioned calorie counting. That doesn’t include going with my mom to the Elaine Powers Studio when I was 10 years old (remember the old belt machines that were supposed to melt the fat away?). The only other time in my life, before GLP-1, that I lost a significant amount of weight, 40 pounds before plateauing, was when I counted Weight Watcher “points” and walked 30-minutes every day. When I stopped, all the weight came back plus more. This is life for millions of people like me. “Serves you right,” you may be saying, “for stopping your healthy lifestyle!” Blaming folks like me supports insurance companies’ refusal to pay for treatments–other than, you guessed it, healthy lifestyle programs. https://www.cnn.com/2024/11/17/health/rfk-jr-ozempic/index.html

Black and white image of woman using vibrating belt machine
Vibrating Belt Jiggling Fat Machine

As we move into a new year, the battle over GLP-1 medications—and the broader issue of healthcare affordability—is far from over. Patients like me deserve solutions that prioritize health over profit. Until then, we’re left navigating a system where greed and ideology often outweigh the needs of the people. Those of us clinging to GLP-1 medications as a lifeline will keep scrambling to find ways to stay on them as long as we can, fully aware of what will happen if we can’t.

Image of marching band, includes trumpet players, tuba players, and drums in background. Ugena Whitlock with mellophone in foreground.
Ugena at higher weight, marching with the Atlanta Freedom Bands and about to play mellophone

My Friend Duncan: The Scottish Terrier Who Won My Heart and Changed My Life

Image of Scottish Terrier Puppy sitting among potted plants

I still look for Duncan when I move from one room to another. I hear the little “click, click, click” of his toenails as he toddles across the wood floor. I think of him every time the leaves fall, expecting him to chase the light that dances between the shadows. I keep his little blue plaid collar with a spiffy bowtie on my dresser. I call our new dog–and sometimes call my son Daniel–“Duncan” when I’m in a hurry. I miss him.

Image of Scottish Terrier standing on two legs looking out the window. Also pictures are potted plant and distressed dining chair.
Duncan standing on two legs looking out the window

I got Duncan for company and road trips, having been without a dog in the house for a few years. I had owned terriers before, but never a Scottish Terrier. While he was typical of the terrier breed, he was a Scottie, which gave him unique attributes, like not wanting his feet touched. He would yip and howl in holy terror at nail clipping time. He was a detached little fellow who did not need to be in my lap. In fact, I think he preferred to lie quietly at my feet. I discovered his staunch independence the day I brought him home. He was 10 weeks old, and I took him outside to the big front yard to start working on toilet training. I am used to puppies who want to be right with you–underfoot. Scottish Terriers have old people personalities even as puppies. I looked away from him for a minute to speak to a neighbor, and when I turned around, he was gone.

I looked all over for him–up and down the street, all sides of the house, under the porch, under the car. By this time my neighbor, who had returned to her porch, could see I was getting frantic. I yelled across our yards, “I just got him, and now he’s gone!” My neighbor had four kids, who all had friends, and who were all out in her driveway on bikes. She gave them marching orders: “Get on your bikes and look for the puppy.” And off they peddled, circling the block. It reminded me of communities coming together in movies, you know, like you don’t often see in real life. None of them had Duncan with them when they came back together.

Image of a senior aged Scottish Terrier
My old man

It was then the next-door neighbor on the other side yelled to me from his back porch. “I see something little and dark. Is that him?” To this day, I don’t know how he had seen Duncan. I trudged to the pine tree he was pointing at in the far back of my wooded, sloped lot. There, under the tree in a patch of knee-high weeds sat Duncan. He was calm and stoic looking, peering through the fence toward the woods like Ferdinand the Bull in the story. This was the first of his sojourns, each one scaring me worse than the ones before.

When he was a young dog, he could escape from the average fence by burrowing under it. Terriers–from the French word “terre,” which means earth–were bred to “go to ground.” His favorite escape was to the woods to sniff for critters. Once, he cornered an especially slow squirrel and did not know what to do with it; fortunately for everyone but the squirrel, it died sitting there before Duncan could acquire the taste for blood. Usually, he headed off in the same direction–toward the woods–and the same neighbor would report a sighting after Sarah and I had been driving around the neighborhood for half an hour.

Image of Scottish Terrier next to a laptop computer
Duncan at work

One Sunday we came home from church to discover that not only had one of the kids left the gate open, but I had rushed out of the house (typical Sunday) without remembering to bring Duncan inside from his morning potty. Animal control had left a yellow note on the front door telling us when and where to come to bail him out. The one crabby neighbor in the neighborhood had called them. She had been afraid of a Scottish Terrier who was sniffing the ground and heading away from her house. We rushed to the pound, where one of the volunteers brought him out, jauntily jogging and smiling as he met us. The volunteer was happy with him, but not with us. She frowned as she took the opportunity to chastise us and issue warnings about consequences if it happened again. It didn’t. After that escape, we reinforced the bottom of the chain link fence with chicken wire, which I’m sure did not increase our property value.

He lived longer than the typical 10-year lifespan of a Scottie. One day I suddenly realized he was approaching 13, and I knew then he was living on borrowed time. He was noticeably slowing down, asking to be pulled in the wagon as we explored local trails. I had never been able to train myself to be a good leash walker (note how I said train me, not him). Duncan tugged and ran ahead until he found the perfect patch of ground, where he would have sniffed every blade of grass if I had let him. I couldn’t take him on brisk walks with cardio benefits because he would take three steps, stop to sniff, repeat. Now that he was a senior, we went on short walks with fewer stops and tugs. He reverted to peeing in the house on corners of the furniture when he got up for his nightly midnight drink. We began to crate him at night.

In the spring of his thirteenth year, he started throwing up. He was still eating and drinking, behaviors that I knew usually slowed and stopped at the end of life. I did not think we were there yet. The vet gave us a prescription for pancreatitis and told us to bring him back in a couple of weeks if the vomiting continued. After a few days, it got better…until it started again. The first night he threw up in his crate, we held our breath hoping it was a fluke. The second night we planned to take him to the vet for a re-check on the pancreatitis. Our wonderful vet gave us the dreadful news. “The pancreatitis is fine,” he said. “It’s these lumps I’m worried about. Let’s get him a scan.” The results showed golf ball-sized tumors in his abdomen. That was the first time I cried at the vet’s office.

Image of Scottish Terrier sitting on window ledge looking outside at a tree and building
Duncan on guard

Being the thoughtful person that she is, and to bring me out of my sadness to focus on what was really important during all of this, Sarah began to plan Duncan’s “bucket list.” At first, I just went along. But then I started to understand; it was really our bucket list–mine and his, together. We loaded up the little red wagon we had bought to cart the old man around and went camping. It makes me happy to think of him sitting in the middle of the campsite in that little wagon. We hit the trails and took road trips. He got a pup cup from the local ice cream shop. The only item on the list we did not get to was taking a trip to Alabama so that my folks could see him again. My sweet mother proudly reminds me that it was she who house trained Duncan when he stayed with them for a couple of weeks. She misses him, too.

The end came soon after. In three weeks, his belly was hard and swollen, and he began panting through the night. He was dying. I held him in my arms as we went into the veterinary room, held him when the kind vet administered the first shot, the one that sent him into a deep, peaceful sleep. But I could not bear the final shot. When I broke down and collapsed in the chair, Sarah petted and soothed him for the last time. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, and it broke me. I am crying now as I remember, and it is only now, months after, that I can bear to write about it. I still cannot look at the rosewood box with his ashes; Sarah has put it away for now.

Image of Scottish Terrier under gardinia bush with gardinia flowers. Also pictured is a lab mix black dog.
Duncan under the gardinias

I don’t use the word “pet” when I can help it now. I don’t use the language of ownership anymore. I have done so here to reflect the lessons learned from my Duncan. He was my friend. A stalwart sentry, he was a proud dog who carried himself with dignity. Even during his last months, he never slouched or walked with his head down. Each step was deliberate and graceful, almost tiptoeing. He had the presence of a little gentleman. Duncan was lovingly stubborn until the end, tilting his head and gently pulling on his leash if he was not yet ready to continue our stroll. When he was groomed in that standard “show dog” cut, his brindle patterns were tiger-colored, swirling around on his back and neck like a chocolate and caramel brownie. He was magnificent.

Duncan has helped me navigate the passing of time, which is the gift from him I appreciate most. Life is short; if you want to see how short, reflect on the lifespan of a beloved furry companion. I grieved his death more deeply than I ever have before, with my immediate family still living. I am forced to prepare for inevitable loss of parents and the sad yearning of looking into the void where they once were. I picture Duncan looking at me and tilting his head, like when he was listening to me. “Yes, it’s indescribably hard,” he seems to think. “Just keep your nose down and keep tracking.” On days I work from home, I look at the sunbeams on the rug and think about how he used to sit and stare at the beams, expecting to catch one at any minute, his whole body alert and quivering, his tail wagging in anticipation. And after all, that’s life, isn’t it? Head down, keep tracking, and always look for that sunbeam you’re about to catch. Thank you, friend.

Image of Scottish Terrier named Duncan in a pond. His tongue is out as though he is smiling.
Duncan in a pond

A final note, throughout the essay, I have referred to “we,” plural. In reality, Sarah provided Duncan’s end-of-life care and doctor visits. Reading this, she jokes about the so-called loyalty of Scotties, since when she entered my life, he adopted her as his person. He sat in her lap and asked for pets the day he met her–and continued to do so for the next 10 years. She reminds me that Duncan was in fact affectionate with her, if not so much with me. She was the only human whom he would allow to touch his feet. She made me the lovely Scottie bookmark in the picture, and I thank her for caring for us both.

Image of Scottish Terrier named Duncan reclining regally on a settee
Duncan looking regal and thoughtful
Image of Ugena Whitlock holding Scottish Terrier Duncan while on vacation.
Duncan and Me
Image of red bookmark with green tassle that shows two large Scottish Terriers, two large white Scottish Terriers, two small black Scottish Terriers, and two small white Scottish Terriers.
Beautiful intricate Scottish Terrier bookmark by Sarah

Exciting News: A New Chapter for the Blog!

Image of Logo for Blog The Front Porch Professor with rocking chair, typewriter, and Mazda Miata..

Hello, friends! I’m thrilled to share that my blog is getting a fresh start under a new name: “The Front Porch Professor.” This new space will continue to feature the reflections, stories, and observations you’ve enjoyed, with a renewed focus on life, learning, and the journey ahead—all with a touch of Southern charm.

I’m currently working on exporting all my posts from Just Keep Swimming to the new blog, so nothing will be lost. If you’ve been following here, I hope you’ll join me on this new adventure! With any luck, your subscription will carry over seamlessly, but if not, I’ll share the link to the new blog soon so you can continue following along.

Thank you for your support and encouragement—stay tuned for updates and more from “The Front Porch Professor.”

Five Things as Prompted by the Management

Share five things you’re good at.

  1. Singing Alto
  2. I’m a good speller
  3. I can color-match clothes
  4. Cooking with grease
  5. Identifying good documentaries
  6. (Thinking of clever replies)

The Old Man and the Coon, or, Tales of Daddy and Popeye

I am not a phone talker. Nobody in my family is, but it occurred to me today that I had not spoken to my parents in a while. So I called them. Daddy is 83, and Mother is 80. My son Daniel lives with them and they all take care of one another. Mother and Daniel have an English Bulldog named Boo Baby, and Daddy has an 18 year-old Rat Terrier named Popeye. In dog years, he’s older than Daddy. Now, when the phone rings at the house, Mother picks up the downstairs phone, and Daddy picks up the extension in his room simultaneously. He waits his turn patiently for me and Mother to catch up, and then he will say something like, “Well, I’m still here.” That’s Mom’s cue to turn me over to him. So, I went through my topics–work, weather, how I’m doing, more weather, and the proper name of Grandpa’s Whiskers (it’s Cleome). Then it was time to talk to Daddy.

He eventually asked, “Did I tell you about Popeye nearly getting hit by a car the other day?” I said no, what happened? Popeye is deaf and blind and has already been hit by a car once in his life when he was much younger. They keep him in a pen outside with a box fan beneath a beach umbrella continuously running to keep him cool in the Alabama heat. Daddy lets him out in the yard when he goes outside, and that day he followed Daddy to the mailbox. While Daddy got the mail, Popeye stopped in the middle of the road to wait on him. A car came speeding around the curve–Daddy is very attuned to traffic these days–and Popeye didn’t move. My father then steps out into the road and attempts to slow the oncoming car, which did not stop but veered into the other lane, barely missing Daddy and Popeye.

This is Daddy’s story about the Raccoon, which he and everybody else in my family calls a coon (I come from a family of coon hunters.). Here’s how he told it.

Last night, me and Pop went out to close up the barn. He went down the back of the barn and started barking. I thought ‘uh-oh’ he’s treed something. And I looked up and there was a big ol’ coon hanging from the rafter by his hind legs reaching down towards Popeye! I thought that if he got him, he’d tear Popeye up. So I said, c’mon Pop, let’s go get the shotgun. I come in the house and got the shotgun and told Daniel and your Mama that I reckon I was gonna have to kill that coon. Popeye had come up to the gate by the house, and he was ready for me and him to go back and get the coon. So we went out there, and there was the coon, but when he saw us, he slipped out the back of the barn. So I said alright Pop, let’s go back in the house. Now, can you imagine an old man and old dog out in the dark at the barn with a shotgun gonna shoot a coon?

I told him that I wondered about that but decided just to let him tell it. He got a chuckle out of that. My dad is very proud of me, especially of me getting a Ph.D. He kids me about how far I’ve come from Littleville, Alabama, and has modified my nickname of “Miss Bean” to be more formally “Dr. Miss Bean.” As we were hanging up (Whitlocks do NOT stay on the phone), he said, “You need to write a book about that. Only thing, nobody would know what you were talking about.” I bet I could tell it so they would, I thought to myself. So, that’s what I did. Before I moved away from Alabama for the first time, Daddy gave me some advice my great-grandmother gave her son as he went off to war: “Don’t forget who you are.” That was it. Daddy knew that I knew what it meant. Who I am is of that place. I come from a patch of land in Littleville where my dad and his little dog put up the chickens every night and my mom and my son work their little flower garden and fill 10 hummingbird feeders every day. Where we will have barbeque and fried catfish from Swamp Johns and homemade ice cream when I go to visit. Daddy, I haven’t forgotten.