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The Faces of Love

Preface / Introduction

Happy Valentines Day! As our thoughts turn to those whom we care about and who make adifference in our lives, explore various aspects of love in these articles. Enjoy!

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Table of Contents

1. And as she aged, she asked with trepidation 'Am I still beautiful to you?' And he said, 'yes, yes,more beautiful than ever....' 2. 'Nobody wants you when you're old and gray.' On the matter of turning 65... and other outrages. 3. 'Don't change a hair for me. Not if you care for me'. Your Extreme Valentine, 2012. 4. 'Don't laugh at my jokes too much'. Thoughts on senior nookie, assisted living, love after eighty,and unexpected bliss at the end of life. 5. Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool reopens. Thoughts on the man, his enduring greatness, andwhy over 24 million people visit annually and come away refreshed in mind and spirit. 6. 'M' is for the million things she gave me. Of my mother, my sister, and 'Shut The Door', oncepretty in pink. 7. 'With a song in my heart for you'. On the lasting joy and bliss of business... why it's absolutelynecessary for your complete and total success. 8. 'Girls, you know what they want.' Tales of Ma Pfeiffer, the quiddities and contortions ofcourtship, a world on the edge of destruction. Cornell College, 1965. 9. 'And run, if you will, to the top of the hill/Open your arms...' Thoughts on turning 66. 'All theleaves have gone green'.

And as she aged, she asked with trepidation 'Am I stillbeautiful to you?' And he said, 'yes, yes, more beautiful thanever....' By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. The world is graying as the Baby Boomers, now millions of us in our sixties,get older and older still day by inexorable day. Farseeing Stephen Sondheim, who I once met when Iwas at Harvard many years ago, wrote the musical for us back in 1971. It's called "Follies", and ithas the perfect music for today's article...a knock-out number called "Beautiful Girls."

If you know it, you'll be glad to hear again the lyrics and music to age by... and if you've never heardit before, you are in for a treat you'll want repeated over and over again, not least for its profoundmessage that, aging, we are yet deeply and profoundly desirable...and that if we're lucky we have theempathetic people around us, especially that special person, to say so... You'll find this song in anysearch engine. Go find it now... and listen to it, really listen... You are about to make a very specialperson so very happy....

Can you even remember the last time...?

The problem with relationships is that the good thing, having it there every day, is the bad thing. It'scomfortable like an old shoe or bunny slipper. You don't have to do much, maybe nothing, becauseit's right there, right now.... and so it goes until you are well and truly in a rut, devaluing and takingfor granted the most important thing you'll ever have.

If I'm describing things at your home, then this article is for you, and not a moment too soon!

Not a woman's issue, not a man's issue, a human issue.

We humans are social animals. We do not do well alone which is why solitary confinement in prisonis considered the ultimate punishment... to deprive us of the necessary company of our fellow beingsis completely unsettling. Thus, because togetherness is not merely a nice thing to have but anabsolute necessity, we spend our entire lives, men as well as women, working (and working hard) tofind that "perfect" mate... the one who gives us just the volatile mixture of peace and passion werequire. It is a tall order; many never find it, many have much of it, but throw good relationshipsaway trying to get the rest. In many ways the struggle to find and keep the "perfect" personconstitutes the most important of life's many struggles.

People need to have their desirability noted, confirmed, extolled, especially as the burdensome yearsadd up.

I am 64 now and acutely aware of time's winged chariot; I often feel it is running me over... or atleast that I am slower these days about getting out of its way. It is an irksome feeling, irritating,exasperating and shared by millions worldwide. "Why," we wonder "couldn't we have had just a bitmore of the magic of being twenty, thirty, thirty nine... even an extension on yesterday?" We'resmart... we know why... but we never stop wishing for more of what we had.

But such wishes, as we know only too well, won't add even a single moment to the brilliant events ofour lives. Thus, we must focus on what we have, for that, too, will be gone too soon and deeplymissed. Under such circumstances we must learn to enjoy... to appreciate... to celebrate... to exult.And that must start today.

First, understand that it is the universal human condition to experience dismay, despair, evendesperation as we age. We see aging as a process of diminution and diminishment. As a society, we

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are fixated on the bodies, the looks, the capabilities and agilities of the young, often the very young.We are a youth-centered society and as a result end up depressing those whose youth is often adistant memory. This is wrong. And Stephen Sondheim knew it was wrong, a situation screamingfor a different emphasis. And so he wrote "Follies". It's the story of 5 women, all stunners, whohave aged through the engrossing, demanding high times and low of their lives...

Sondheim wants them to live again in all their beauty and jaw-dropping perfection. And so "Follies"was born. It was a great success, an enchantment that made an audience leap to its feet as one aginggloriosa after another came down the circular staircase into the limelight and applause she claimedby right. We all wanted her to have it... and we were all grateful to Sondheim for resurrecting the joythese women gave us, beautiful girls forever... whatever their chronological ages.

Now for you...

When was the last time you took a moment to consider the situation and desirability of the mostimportant person in your life, the person who needs the balm of your reassurance. "Am I stillbeautiful to you?"

This question is a gamble, only asked in extremis, out of anxiety, fear that their entire world willcrash if they get the wrong answer. And so, first, recognize the courage of the questioner. They riskeverything by your answer.

In such a moment, seize your beloved as if this were your last day on earth and say, "Yes, yes, morebeautiful than ever!", a sentiment confirmed by the most passionate kiss ever.

This does not end the matter... it just starts it... for from such a moment a greater love is born... thelove that is greater and more important than any physical perfection.

When you look at your beloved, man or woman, you are looking at the most significant person inyour life. When was the last time you made that clear... clear that you understand his sacrifices, herunceasing focus on you and everything about you? Each wrinkle, each furrow on a furrowed brow isthere for you... is evidence that you were wanted, desired, lived for and loved... You have been andare a lucky person indeed.

Don't wait for a special occasion, the fact that you both are here now is special occasion enough.Taking action today, on an "ordinary" day gives whatever you do its poignant significance andpower. You are saying, and saying loud and clear, that your so special being is not merely special onthe days society has appointed for such matters... but each and every day... a day which touched byyour inventiveness transforms an ordinary day into one of the days of your life.

Now use the magic of Sondheim's music and profound understanding of the human condition toassist. in making a point which cannot be made too often.. Sondheim's lyrics are about all beautifulgirls; change them now to be solely for your special one:

Hats off, Here she comes, that Beautiful girl. That's what I've been waiting for. Nature neverfashioned A flower so fair. No rose can compare- Nothing respectable Half so delectable. Cheer herIn her glory, Diamonds and pearls, Dazzling jewels By the score. This is what beauty can be. Beautycelestial, The best, you'll Agree: All for me, my beautiful girl!

I don't have to tell you what to do now... the stage is now set for a day you will never forget... andwhich is there to remind you that what you once had you have again... ... thanks to that beautifulgirl, or guy, in your life, in whose grateful eyes you see the resounding.


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'Nobody wants you when you're old and gray.' On the matterof turning 65... and other outrages. by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. In 1921, that sultry chanteuse with a silken voice seasoned with a touch ofhonky-tonk and life's deflating experience -- Ethel Waters (1896- 1977) -- got up before themicrophone one fine day and belted into history a little ditty by Billy Higgins and W. BentonOverstreet. It was a swinging song with attitude... and, it turned out, with "legs", too; a song sopotent in its magic that over 50 major recording artists couldn't wait to get their vocal chords aroundit.

It was "There'll be some changes made", and it included the resonating line that made us all queasy..."Nobody wants you when you're old and gray"... the line that justified an ocean or two of wildbehavior, the wild oats you'd better indulge in when young and limber... before the Grim Reaperstamped your forehead with the iconic number 65 and measured you for eternity.

Go now to any search engine, review your recorded choices; then "choose your poison" as GrandpaWalt used to say... but, whoever you select, take time to pay homage to Miss Waters, for she was agame old bird and after all was the first to urge us to approach olde age with dignity, composed,resigned, withered hands folded gently in your lap, glass for your false teeth at the ready -- not!

Oh, no, Miss Waters celebrated not just the "you" you were... but the "you" you could be with a fewdeft changes, tweaks and tucks... all necessary so that your "golden" years are even less demure (bya long shot) than your early days; that you don't just read your Browning -- "the best is yet to be" --but live him, with plenitude and a "hey, look me over" edge, your original and unique cocktail ofdefiance, insight, and allure.

Step-dad Jack and the chocolate box.

He was shrunken, smaller than he had been in life... in form that is, never in spirit. And he asked me--before "forever" took him -- for chocolates. He craved them. I didn't have to think twice about whatto do. I was on the phone at once and ordered him an exuberant chocolate feast of Godiva's best, thekind of assortment that a boy bent on the delights of love gives to the girl he wants to wash his shirtsand cheat on for life. Yes, it was that big. And when I called to make sure he had the package... Iwas informed this man I hardly knew... had the box open, a few already nibbled, sampled, so hecould make the best selection. And he was smiling...

But that's only a part of this tale...

The instant she heard ol' Jack talking to me, my mother, that force of nature and approved behavior,grabbed the phone and Let Me Have It. Jack was ill, she said; Jack was dying, she said; Jack coulddie at any moment, she said, and face his Maker, as quick as you could say "Jack Robinson." Whatdid I mean by giving him, and on his death bed, too, the rich seduction that was chocolate, a foodthat could not be found amidst his recommended dietary choices, unappetizing all. Why, didn't Iknow that could kill him....? Moreover, there was no mention in Emily Post sanctioning death-bedchocolates... and thus they could not be approved, unfitting objects as they were for such an eventand its high mysteries and profound enigmas.

"But POM (Poor Old Mother)", I said. His cancer is terminal, he could indeed die at any moment;every doctor said so, and at such a time if there's a dance in the old galoot yet he ought to dance it...he ought to have what he wanted, the savor of life, not another moment of the semblance of life,measured out by tea spoons of this medicine, tablets of that. In short he wanted, with an insistence


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that comes when time is almost gone, one of life's pleasures, not another indication and token oflife's finality.

... Jack died just hours later...

... POM became the Ice Queen to me for too long...

But I was the gainer here... for Jack had reaffirmed a profound truth we cannot hear and contemplateoften enough... that life is for the living, that life must be lived, exulted, extolled, celebrated andsavored... and that at the end, if you want chocolates, the very best chocolates (or their equivalent)no one -- not even the well-meaning wife and scold -- should be allowed even a moment ofjeremiad, pontification, finger-pointing and condescension... "Proper behavior" be damned....

Easy to say, difficult to do.

Now, one can damn, and so easily, too, the bug-a-boo of "proper behavior", but the truth of thematter, an independent course is difficult to pull off. Witness my darlin' mama's frosty reaction onthe matter of chocolates an instant prior to demise. We geriatric life-savors need to face up to theshibboleths and prejudices of our rigid adversaries... and become as shrewd as we are aged.

Thus, start from the proposition that for the bulk of the world... but never for ones as wicked cooland winsome as we are, Age 65 is regarded as the gate through which one passes, inexorably,inevitably, slowly on account of rheumatism, arthritis and assembled other maladies attendant uponbigger and bigger birthdays; the gate through which we enter aging... through which we departdead... truly an inviting scenario... if you're into the macabre pictures of Hieronymus Bosch(1450-1516) and other mediaeval horrors. . But Hieronymus and his scarry ilk have never been mycup of tea, perhaps because of their unremitting focus on the darker side of life, its miseries, regrets,loneliness and angst about the eternity into which each of us must enter, like it or not. I am a creatureof life and light... and aim to live my credo to the very last moment... for all that I may be able to donothing more at that unique moment of finality than nibble a chocolate. Even that is enough toreaffirm my adamant belief in life, not life's restrictions.

Yet these restrictions are everywhere, built into the very heart of our youth-centered culture. Folksover 65 are lesser beings, unable to do this, incapable of doing that; past it in ways as diverse aseating corn on the cob or satisfying even the least demanding of lovers. Even more than a baby(which after all does not know better) we are held thrall to the do-nots, the should-nots, thecould-nots, instead of enjoying the thrills and growth of the why-nots.

But we are not, we crew of 65 plus, babies to be protected and instructed. We are people who havelived life -- and often riotously too -- with gusto and a zest that only begins when you realize that thelife force within you is not unlimited or inexhaustible. It is its very limitation that makes itprecious... and which drives us to use it... all of it ... never letting a drop of it... any of it... drip awayunused and unregarded.

We know the pleasures of life... and intend to explore each and every one of them until the enginethat drives our magnificent being can do absolutely nothing more.

That's why I tell you this: Miss Waters sings her song not for you and me who seize and savor life.For we do not need to make changes...

Rather, these changes must be made by the folks -- "age-ists" every one of them -- who want us tostop living before our time, pushing us out of life, anxious to get what we have had. These folks arein the business of denial, living to block us, restrict us and chide us for ideas, thoughts and actionsthey deem unsuitable to our age and station... They are the ones who would remove us from life, nothelp us engage it.


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It is for these folks and their disapproval and disdain that Miss Waters sings her song, for theycannot be reminded often and enough...

"You're here today and then tomorrow you're gone" ...

Thus I shall live my life while there is a crumb yet to enjoy. And if that bothers you or anyone, getover it... and make the changes which must be made today... for you have far greater need for themthan I do...

Envoy

Dr. Lant turns 65 February 16, 2012.

*** We invite your comments to this article.


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'Don't change a hair for me. Not if you care for me'. YourExtreme Valentine, 2012.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. Men, it's time for your annual Valentine's Day update and reminder. For, asyou will recall, Valentine's Day (along with her dog Pookie's birthday) is the most important eventof her year. If you get it right (or as right as any man can get this minefield) you're in like Flynn foranother year; your right to nookie safe and secure for another 365 glorious days.

But...

if you muff this, like you did last year and the year before that, you are in for another prolongedrough patch... and you know very well how rough that will be. To avoid this fate worse than death,extreme measures are required, and these extreme measures must be taken NOW! Men, have I gotyour full attention? Your Love Doctor is here for you... and OMG, you know you need it.

The Facts.

As we have discussed in prior years (and many of you have attended this critical training year afteryear, with, sad to say, spotty results) Valentine's Day is a world-wide conspiracy. It first began asthe brainchild of a highly paid consultant who was charged with the task of selling a particularlynoxious chocolate with a vile, disgusting taste... That didn't bother the consultant at all; it was thekind of challenge he lived for.

Even the fact that the chocolatier couldn't pay him even a token amount up front didn't bother ourfearless consultant one iota. He still inked a contract that said he'd receive 25% of the gross on allnew business stimulated by his best ideas. In other words, he would (in the best macho consultanttradition) forgo certain (albeit lower) payment in return for a whopping share of the gross... and solong as he could move the obnoxious chocolate that everybody loathed.... he'd be a big winner.

Frankly, the folks at the chocolate company (who pretty much loathed their product, too, and bannedit from the company candy machine) thought they'd made the perfect deal. After all, they got theconsultant to work for them for free... and gave away revenues that didn't exist, would probablynever exist. But before claiming a huge write-off and throwing the offending chocs in the garbage,they needed -- so their accountant said -- to gve it the Good Ol' College Try.

His name was Valentine...

Now our audacious consultant sat down to business, and because he was a very clever fellow, theideas flowed fast and furious. Thus after just a few days, the consultant was ready to see the CEOand present the all-important concept. As it turned out not only was this meeting important for thechocolate company; it was a crucial turning point in the relations of all men with their women... itthereby launched a movement creating millions of jobs and huge corporate profits worldwide.

The consultant's name was Valentinos Kariotes... known as Val... and he is the man who set the highstandards for Valentine's Day...

Yes, it is because of this single man and his insight that the conjugal rights and ecstasies of millionsof hapless guys are put at risk every single friggin' year, to be reaffirmed by shelling out forchocolate, making ever richer the corporate smarty pants who dreamed up this baby.

Down to business.

Val, a straight talking, no nonsense, "let's stick to business" kind of guy got right to the point. To sell


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the chocs everyone acknowledged as disgusting, they'd have to have a bigger idea, something huge,clever, larger than life.... here Val paused.... because he knew that his next words would not only sellchocolates nobody could abide, but get men by the millions to line up in front of the company'spacked stores to plunk down big bucks for a product they despised.

Before stating what would become his abiding claim to fame, Val paused, looked around the room,the better to get their attention and keep the memory of this supreme moment forever green in hismind. Then he said

"To sell chocolates you must get women to tell men that the purchase of these chocolates and thesize of the box will be construed by every gal on earth as an indication of how ardently they aredesired, loved, and wanted. In short, the target for their advertising campaign would not be the menwho would actually buy the chocolates... but the women who would 'motivate' them to do so, inEVERY way at their command. Yes, in EVERY way."

Val then unveiled his first ad, a classic soon destined for the Advertising Hall of Fame. It went likethis:

"The size of the box", it read, "indicates how much he loves you."

The image showed two boxes of chocolate. The five-pound box had a big black X through it. The20-pound box was circled in a bright, bright red heart with exclamation point.

Just awesome!

Val's incredible idea at last gave women what they have always wanted, for thousands of years: away to know, to measure, even weigh just how much their menfolk REALLY love them; the proofto be as easy to acquire as the simple purchase of chocolates.

"Brilliant" was the least of it.

In the lives of each of us, there come but a handful of moments of transcendence, moments ofdestiny, moments you are surpassingly glad to be alive. Our man Val knew such a moment thisday... and as the astonished executives surged around him with their most ardent congratulations,they knew it, too. And immediately increased the box size and weight of their obnoxious product...for they knew at once that Val, their boy, was a genius. And so unanimously voted to create a daynamed for him -- St. Valentine's Day -- a day worth billions to love capitalists worldwide. It was theleast they could do

And so Val got filthy rich.

Every time a woman got a two-pound box of chocs from her beloved, she knew that the donor wasdead meat, a cheap, two-timin' low-life... who had then to go out and at once to get the 20 poundbox... thereby passing the loved test... and making Val richer and richer still. Eureka!

Of course, other companies watched this phenomenon, this cornucopia of riches with the closestconceivable attention; Val ensured they did, for in due course, he made sweet deals with florists,pastry companies, every diamond purveyor in the land... always with the same awesome results.

Which is why you'll live today like a cat on a hot tin roof, spending good money you don't have toappease the little woman who controls your life. Be sure, too, to sing "My Funny Valentine" theright way, the feminist way, with the words about you, not her, for women have always hated thistune and its cock-eyed sentiment.

Thus, "my looks are laughable, unphotographable...." because that's what she wants you to say, justafter she's looked at the size of the box.


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(You'll find the inimitable "My Funny Valentine", released 1940, in any search engine; music byRichard Rodgers, lyrics by Lorenz Hart. I prefer the original version -- and the original words -- byFrank Sinatra.)


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'Don't laugh at my jokes too much'. Thoughts on seniornookie, assisted living, love after eighty, and unexpectedbliss at the end of life.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note: Suddenly, I burst into a song that made us both laugh. In my croaky voicecelebrated worldwide for its almost incredible ability to hit every single note wrong, there I waspositively warbling one of the most beautiful tunes ever written,

"Don't throw bouquets at me/ Don't please my folks too much/ Don't laugh at my jokes too much/People will say we're in love!"

And then, as unexpected as I had been when I lurched into song, he responded in kind:

"Don't sigh and gaze at me/ Your sighs are so like mine/ Your eyes mustn't glow like mine/ Peoplewill say we're in love!"

It was my father. It was a recent Saturday during one of our regular "tour d'horizon" briefings on thestate of the known world and the current disposition of all its inhabitants. He was relating the latestinstallment of "love among the ruins," the latest red-hot gossip from what he will call "theinstitution", the assisted living facility where he and my step-mother Miss Ellie now reside. And, asusual, nothing, absolutely nothing, was lost in the telling of this sizzling soap opera, an opus withmore twists, turns and unexpected strands than "Desperate Housewives."

Today's "Extra! Extra! Hear all about it!" installment was the latest in the continuing saga of twopillars of the senior establishment, Mrs. Winterbotham, a slip of a lass at 88, and her "sweet boy"Ronnie, lithe and plausible at 90. Before continuing, I feel duty bound to tell you what follows issensual to a degree, a matter of grand passion, skullduggery, labyrinthine conspiracies, and frequentnaps and bathroom breaks by all concerned as well as gossip, at once malicious, envying, poignant,unrelenting, and always worth the telling.

But before that happens, you must re-hear "People Will Say We're In Love" (for I suspect youalready know and cherish it as I do). You'll find this loveliest of love songs in any search engine. Itwas written in 1943 by Oscar Hammerstein II and composed by Richard Rodgers for the firstmodern musical that ever was, "Oklahoma!" Go listen now. It'll make you feel very young andhopeful all over again... and that is the point of this story... and the song.

What my father told me.

My regular phone conversation had to be postponed a bit because, as he told me, he and Miss Elliehad a very special and delicate mission to undertake; he was sure I'd understand the necessity toreschedule. I murmured concurrence, and they went out to gather the latest amatory intelligencefrom their dear friend Amanda Winterbotham, there to dispense unstinting empathy, understanding,and the wisdom that we are all supposed to get when aging, but mostly never do.

We muddle. We age. We muddle some more. We die. Most annoying. That is why as we age weneed good friends more than ever... because we didn't learn quite as much along the way as we needor as we over confidently thought we had. This is why all known languages feature such pungentexpressions as these: "There's no fool like an old fool." "A man growing old is a child again."(Sophocles). "Age is a high price to pay for maturity." (Tom Stoppard). And... but you get the drift...

These are the facts.


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Amanda Winterbotham is a woman of education, sense, solid principles, her own teeth and a nicelittle nest egg in rock-solid securities which proved their true worth by not collapsing in the recenteconomic melt-down. She also bakes often and lavishly and has the ability to tempt compliments outof even the most jaded and pernickety of world-weary epicureans. She is also a woman and thereinlies the rub... for such a woman, for all that she's barely on the sunny side of 90, still likes a kiss anda cuddle, though she feels embarrassed at her age to own up to it. Why should she?

After all, her well-heeled, utterly respectable parents, Top Drawer, (for she is a Winterbotham of theOyster Bay Winterbothams) christened her "Amanda". This as every student of the Latin languageknows means "She who must be loved". The tense, I remind you, is the hortatory imperative. Makea note of it. I put it to you: what chance did she have with dapper Ronnie near at hand and desirable,a hunk at 140 pounds dripping wet, with a penchant for the grape and an eye for the ladies. So longas she is the lady in question and her "sweet boy" means every sweet thing he has said to herAmanda is satisfied. Basta.

On this basis, Ronnie and his walker are regularly seen en route to Amanda's nicely appointedapartment, ensconced in that apartment (with the once ever open door now often closed), or exitingfrom that apartment at all hours, a crumb of blueberry scone on his lips -- and a smile.

There this tale should have ended, two people hitherto facing each new dawn as listlessly as the last-- now enraptured with each other, engrossed, glad to be alive. Yes, it should have ended there... butit most assuredly did not.

"People will say we're in love."

People talk. That's what we do. We talk when we're happy. We talk when we're sad. We talk whenwe're lonely. We talk when we're not. We spend most every waking moment thinking about whatwe have just been told... talking... or contemplating the very next thing we intend to say and theundeniably fortunate individual to whom we intend to say it. Talking is our metier... and each andevery day we pursue it... especially when we have a piece of glorious intelligence we just cannotbear to keep to ourselves.

No, it must be told... and told at once. Nowhere is this more true than in the senior residences we call"assisted living" where there is ample time, hawk-like vision, and a desire to know all... and tell all.Gossip is omnipresent, unending, told with aplomb, laced with wit, shrewdness, exquisite malice anddiabolical humor. This was the price for Ronnie and the pleasure of his company. Was Amanda, dearAmanda, prepared to pay it?

Dear Amanda was bewitched, bothered and bewildered by... her children (who gave long looks ofdespair while bleating endless variations of "Mama, at your age!"). By... old friends who knew herlate husband. They reminded her that Queen Victoria always remained true to Prince Albert... whycouldn't she do as much? The serving staff (composed of young people distinguished by tattoos andear rings) weighed in and said "Go for it!") But the minister who came with a message ofbrotherhood, redemption and the necessity to tithe gave her stern looks and sterner admonitions tostay chaste for Jehovah. What had begun as an affaire of the heart was now a burgeoning scandal.And so she asked my father and Miss Ellie to come for some of her delectable short bread (thesecret was a drop of fine sherry in the dough) and advice.

Clarity amidst cacophony. My father at his best.

My father for close to 90 years has been known as a sympathetic friend, a ready ear, discrete, a manof strong views but greater empathy; above all fair, someone who would tell you the truth as heunderstood it without lording over you, making you feel inadequate, weak, a fool. As such AmandaWinterbotham wanted his opinion... and Miss Ellie wanted him to give it. Why?


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First for the sake of helping dear Amanda, who was by now severely stressed and embarrassed by avery private matter now anything but. But perhaps more for my father's sake. How's that?

Because since moving into assisted living just a few months ago, my father has felt disoriented,depressed, despondent, regarding this residence not as a home but a holding tank for the GrimReaper... He was in dismay, unhappy, burdened by thoughts of an eternity too fast coming, way toofast... a man who had spent his life helping others was now too focused on himself.

Did Miss Ellie, perhaps, whisper a timely word in Miss Amanda's ear? If so, I shouldn't be surprisedfor women throughout the ages have known just what to do in such situations. This is why I can seeso clearly in my mind's eye my father and Miss Ellie, proceeding slowly down the hall, stately, eachwith a cane and consummate dignity. Amanda's door was open... Ellie entered first. Was there at thatmoment a special look that passed between the ladies? I cannot say... but my father later told me itfelt good to be helpful again... and how did Mrs. Winterbotham know chocolate chip cookies withextra chocolate chips were his favorite? How indeed... But I could imagine Miss Ellie singing...

"Don't take my arm too much/Don't keep your hand in mind/ Your hand feels so grand in mine/People will say we're in love./

And so they are and do not care who knows...


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Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool reopens. Thoughts on theman, his enduring greatness, and why over 24 million peoplevisit annually and come away refreshed in mind and spirit. by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note: I am amongst the most vociferous critics of excessive government spendingand waste, but today I am proud of the overdue restoration of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool,a key part of what makes the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. such a serene and pleasingplace, an absolutely essential destination for all citizens; a place which like Mecca, one must visit atleast once in one's life, thoughtful, respectful, yearning to be touched and uplifted by its loftypresence, never disappointed or let down.

The $34 million spent to restore the reflecting pool, the largest in the capital, is chump-change byWashington standards... but even if the cost was far more than it is, it would be money wellspent...for the role of Abraham Lincoln, 16th president, is fundamental to understanding our GreatRepublic and reminding us just who we are and what we stand for.

Start by seeing and feeling what you see.

One of the several excellent vantage points for this revered tableau is from the WashingtonMonument. From this grand obelisk forever pointing up, the only suitable direction for our greatendeavors, you see the long, rectangular pool which punctuates the National Mall. No trueAmerican, indeed no lover of freedom anywhere, can see this sight without a pang, for to walk theMall and regard its monuments is to be touched by the greatest people of the nation, their exalteddeeds and, always, their searing words which moved multitudes, inspiring the people, opening theirminds and shaping our mission for bettering not just our lives but the lives of people worldwide, forthat is a crucial and essential aspect of our national work.

How it all began.

There is a deep irony about the Lincoln Memorial and its jewel, the reflecting pool. If he had livedto complete his second term, it is unlikely Lincoln would have had such a monument. Instead, itmight have been something like the nearby Jefferson Memorial, respectful to be sure but without theimpact of what exists today. But a Southern sympathizer named John Wilkes Booth assassinated thepresident, and a nation riven by anger, rage, revenge, and a determination that this man and hismission be remembered forever, impelled the creation of an unparalleled civic temple which couldnot fail to impress and awe every visitor.

Its objective was to glorify Lincoln and the federal union he preserved. The resulting monumentmust, all agreed, make this abundantly clear, unmistakable, resounding through the years to come.Thus must Lincoln and his great deeds be remembered and raised high. The living Lincoln may nothave wanted so much, probably would not... but for the martyred president the grieving, adamantnation would have it so and so it was.

Squabbles.

But, of course, nothing in Washington then or now can be accomplished without disagreement,argument, posturing and rancor. Lincoln, for all that he was the savior of the Great Republic, was thefirst Republican president and as such anathema to the gentlemen of the defunct Confederacy and theNorthern Democrats who relied on their votes and block support. Monument to Lincoln there mightultimately be, but the road to that end would be as acrimonious and obstructed as the defeatedConfederates could make it and as unimpressive as their potent congressional power could


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influence.

Thus, starting in 1867, Congress passed the first of many bills designed to advance matters, this timeby creating a commission to erect a Lincoln monument. But it and a plethora of similar legislationwere stalled, not just for years but for decades, most notably by House Speaker (and Democrat) JoeCannon who between 1901 and 1908 made sure every such bill was defeated. Great Lincoln haddefeated these rebels and their pernicious notions in life. They would do what they could to defeathim in death. But even here they failed, and at long last in 1910 the necessary legislation was passed,funds voted, design and location approved. Now the great work could be started in earnest...

And so a classic Greek temple featuring Yule marble from Colorado arose. It had 36 fluted Doriccolumns, one for each of the 36 states in the Union at the time of Lincoln's death. Above thecolonnade, inscribed on the frieze, are the names of the 36 states in the Union when Lincoln died.Every aspect of this graceful monument of simplicity even severity, elegance and restrainedgrandeur reinforced just one concept: the integrity of our federal union, united, indissoluble, eternal.And there, in solemn majesty, the one man who more than any other made these words a reality.

There, as rendered by sculptor Daniel Chester French, Abraham Lincoln, 19 feet tall from head tofoot, resides for the numberless ages, a man of power, determination, resolution, contemplation...and most important a man of mercy, empathy, and love as evidenced by the words selected to adornthe walls and make it clear to posterity who he was and what he believed.

Of course, the Gettysburg Address, once known by every school child (but not today), was inscribed.And so were the immortal words from Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address (1865): "With malicetowards none; with charity for all... to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lastingpeace, among ourselves, and with all nations."

Now it was time for the Reflecting Pool.

Along the way, it was decided that this temple as much to the Great Republic as to Lincoln, could bemade glorious with a reflecting pool that would dramatically show the treasures of the National Mallwhile magnifying in its waters the Mall's trees and an expansive sky seemingly without limit. Andso the Reflecting Pool of 2,029 feet (over a third of a mile) was added, modeled on the grand canalsof Versailles and Fontainebleau, to be dedicated along with the Memorial itself in 1922.

The last surviving Lincoln was present that notable day, eldest son Robert Todd, more a Todd than aLincoln. He never said what he thought about the apotheosis unto civic saint of the rough, ungainly,uncouth father who had so often embarrassed him. Whatever it was went with him to the grave.

Glorious again.

Over the years, this grand conception went steadily downhill, fetid, fouled with dirt, duck droppings,and trash. It was a monument to nothing more than poor management and oversight and because ofits decaying fabric the loss of 500,000 gallons of city water a week, 30 million gallons a year. Now,thanks to public outrage and good old American technology and expertise, these problems aresolved, not least the pool's water supply which has been updated to eliminate stagnant water (andthose noxious smells) by circulating water from the Tidal Basin. This place of a nation's venerationis now magnificent again, ready for its unending stream of visitors, all needing Lincoln's message ofhumanity and harmony, more necessary now than ever.

Author's program note. For the music to accompany this article, I have selected "Dixie" written byDan Emmett in 1859. Why this song, the finest reel ever written? Because of Lincoln himself. In1865, he said "I have always thought that 'Dixie' was one of the best tunes I ever heard." And so itis... You can find it in any search engine.


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'M' is for the million things she gave me. Of my mother, mysister, and 'Shut The Door', once pretty in pink.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. If you were alive on any Saturday night in 1915 and were of good family,soon after the dinner dishes were removed, soon after the gentlemen's secret potation was pouredand savored, you gathered in the drawing room with its spotless antimacassars and the haplesscanaries trapped in eternal flight under the great glass dome that Cousin Billy, aged 8 and dangerouson roller skates, had managed to crack so noticeably one day a long time ago.

You, and that meant all of you from Great Aunt Freida whose dentures came from the MontgomeryWard catalog and were obviously askew, to Miss Elizabeth Ann who, aged 12, had received specialpermission to stay up late "just this once" so she could enjoy and learn from the "improving" ballads,for she was a sweet child given special treats because she had the consumption (and the tragedy thatmight so easily bring); all these, each a recognized and important part of the living family tree,which would always and forever have a place for you. It was the one place in the world where, nomatter how negligent and selfish you had been, you were home -- welcomed, accepted.

Cousin Fannie, honored in the family for her feminine achievements at the near-by Ladies College,had asked whether she might sing this night. The lady of the house knew why and approved. Mr.Benjamin Lowery, aged 28 and an up-and-coming businessman, was accounted the reason and sothis evening graced the board, trapped and well and truly polished off by the succulent weapon thatwas Fannie's rhubarb pie.

Thus, at an appropriate moment, Miss Fannie was asked if she would favor the company; wasallowed to demur and nominate others for notice, thereby demonstrating her gentility and finemanners, only then to be persuaded. Her skirts beat a graceful rhythm against the highly polishedoak floor and its worn Turkey carpets. She positioned herself for best advantage, where Mr. Lowerycould see her just so, imaging the delights of "tea for two" to come.

Then she turned, nodding to her accompanist Sister Jane from the Reformed Methodist Church onThird Street; such a pity her squint was quite so apparent. A social rite was about to commence, hereand around the Great Republic and a grand new song by Howard Johnson and Theodore Morris sungwith such deep and abiding feeling by Eddy Arnold (among so very many) started on its certainwork of touching every heart.

It was called "M-O-T-H-E-R (A Word That Means The World To Me" ), and you should find it nowin any search engine. It was this song I learned at my Illinois elementary school, Puffer School, halfa century later. It brought tears to my eyes the day Mrs. Hazel Knight, erstwhile music teacher oftenacious optimism and purpose, resplendent in the opulent orchid she always wore on recital days,sat down at the piano to provide the accompaniment to the tune which never failed to find its raptaudience. It is the tune that with another half century brings the bittersweet memories and theinsistent tears I cannot help and shed without embarrassment.

My mother, the gift of springtime.

My mother, Shirley Mae Lauing, was named after the spring into which she was born. It wassingularly appropriate for the duration of her life she, like the very season itself, brought renewal,optimism, hope; a festival of joy and revival. Yes, she was very like that which you, too, would seeat once if you would bend over my shoulder and help me sort the raft of unmarked photographs, aproject I say I will do someday, but without conviction.


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There she stands, her smile marked by brilliance and an unmistakable touch of insight andwisecrack, never demur, always forthright, smart, a smart aleck; the '40's girl fun on a date in bobbysocks; the young suburban matron in Eisenhowerland circa 1955 scrubbed young sons in tow;alluring, provocative a la Elizabeth Taylor in 1960, sun drenched in the '70's in a California whichshe came to love fiercely and where,

despite life's obstacles and hindrances, many of her many aspects came together, as they sometimesdo, producing happiness, bliss, satisfaction, a woman whose radiant smile summarized who she wasand what she could do.

It was in this time that Je t'adore was born...

Pink, plush, poodle, a present...

My mother gave gifts as easily as she breathed... although there were moments when we wished shehadn't; like my primo collection of cat's eye marbles she gave away when I was in college "becauseyou won't be needing them any more, love" and my extraordinary and much loved Lionel trainswhich were used, amongst so many ways, to transport my Roman gladiators to the battles at whichthey made all the difference. She gave those to a "poor boy who had so little. I knew you wouldn'tmind, darling."

I can imagine how Je t'adore joined us, seen in a store window, arresting her attention, saying,siren-like, "Shelby would like me". And so an American toy, still in those far-away days made inthe USA, was liberated for an American girl... Shelby Allison... aged about 4... at whose birth I toldmy teacher we intended to swap her for a goat. It says volumes that this same teacher, a friend of thefamily, called POM (Poor Old Mother) to see. Now this sunny child (the goat deal having fallenthrough) was given a gift that was also a clarion declaration: Je t'adore, "I adore you." Of that therewas never any doubt. And so Je t'adore joined the family where Shelby gave her unstinting love anda lasting name, "Shut the door". It stuck.

All-consuming passion.

From the first moment, Shelby's passion for Shut the Door was obvious, total, a thing of joy andrapture. Of course this obsessively loved friend went everywhere Shelby went; no possible excursioncould occur without this object of her affection. Thus, favored friends learned to inquire about Shutthe Door and her well being while wags like me, quips and cracks always at the ready, inimical tofamily serenity, were warned off as a menace. Thus did Shelby and Shut the Door, tied to each otherby more than the string on Shelby's arm, become an item and a veritable smile machine.

Filthy.

But in time, pure love was sullied... Dragged hither and yon, Shut the Door became an object notwelcomed but banned; noisome, unhealthy, a cautionary tale even I ,saddened, disdained to deride.And so Shut the Door's fateful encounter with the washing machine began. Just 30 minutes in thewash cycle were about to change everything.... As soon as she opened the hatch, it was immediatelyapparent that she would be spinning this story.

Shut the Door lay before her, clean to be sure, never cleaner, but limp, shapeless, lifeless, inanimate,defunct, her eyes not as amiable and loving as before. Immediately POM, who had literarypropensities, thought of Princess Lise in "War and Peace." "I have loved you all. Why have youdone this to me?"

POM was frantic and applied applications grave and frivolous to solve the problem, but of course


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POM was frantic and applied applications grave and frivolous to solve the problem, but of coursenothing could be done; the saddest words in any language. "Why have you done this to me?"

In due course, with Shelby expected home far too soon, POM resolved on the subterfuge of deceitand so dashed to the store where once Shut the Door had resided. The problem was solved... Shut theDoor had a twin... cost was no object with so much at stake.

Thus, when Shelby returned and at once asked for Shut the Door POM (role perfect) opened thedrier, where lay Shut the Door, plump, prosperous -- a plausible fraud. Shelby's screams, neverstinted at any time, now alarmed the neighborhood. This was not Shut the Door, the beloved. Nofacsimile could possibly deceive any true lover; certainly not this one. And so Shelby, her shrieksmasterful and piercing, learned what I already knew, with love...

"R" means right, and right she'll always be, Put them all together, they spell 'MOTHER' a word thatmeans the world to me...

especially at Christmas, when I miss her so.

The author's dedication... to Veronique Van Der Linden --"Nicky", the good mother who loved thisstory so because it makes her laugh and remember the good times. At Christmas, 2012.


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'With a song in my heart for you'. On the lasting joy and blissof business... why it's absolutely necessary for yourcomplete and total success.


The Faces of Love


'Girls, you know what they want.' Tales of Ma Pfeiffer, thequiddities and contortions of courtship, a world on the edgeof destruction. Cornell College, 1965.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. In 1946 Frank Capra (with whom I spent an afternoon while a graduatestudent at Harvard), produced and directed a film classic that never ages, never palls, never loses itsimpact or ability to touch our often jaundiced hearts.

Its title is "It's a Wonderful Life," and at its conclusion, after you've wiped the happy tears away(you, softie, you), you agree that ,yes, it is a wonderful life indeed and you wouldn't have missed itfor the world, or even more.

Especially if there was a Special Someone in the mix, for that person made all the difference.

That is why I have selected a lovely tune to accompany this article; a lovely tune with a cloudedhistory. It's called "It's a Wonderful Life" and was written by master film score composer DimitriTiompkin. Unfortunately Producer Capra for whatever reason decided not to use it, and so thisjoy-making number stayed on the cutting-room floor for over 60 years when, at last, it wasdiscovered.

Played by the City of Prague Philharmonic its uplifting lilt is now free to make a burdened world alittle happier. Go discover it for yourself in any search engine. Play it twice; an extra dose of sweetsentimentality is just the thing for any malady. Down the hatch and "see heaven from my luckystar."

The Look that asked for and promised Forever. "See me walking around on air/ Because you care."

The urge to merge goes back to the Garden of Eden and its thoughtless residents; folks who, likemany of us, threw away a good thing, in order to get a better thing; that proved in short order to befar worse than what they once had... and is now gone forever.While the urge has stayed constant, itsmanifestations have been anything but.

They change with each generation, each couple, each rendezvous, each nation, its culture, taboos,inhibitions, modesties, scandals and indiscretions. Thus this subject, of acute importance to ourspecies, never fails to entice each of us. We want to merge; we want to see how others merge, andare at all times and places curious to a degree, and obsessed, and not so very rarely either.

"Mister Cupid just winked his eye."

Here you will discover, thanks to yours truly who, splendidly agile and expectant, was very muchpresent and accounted for, a slice of amorous intentions as made manifest at the end of the firstphase of Post World War II America, when the prosperous nation reigned supreme, its politicalunion strong, united and confident in its unlimited future... and when young women, still in hats andgloves, demur and patient, matriculated to find the man of their dreams who, they were confident,would find in them and their dazzling Pepsodent smiles exactly what they were looking for; for theprom; for home-coming week; for forever and a day.

Such serious objectives demanded thoughtful care and prolonged deliberation. After all, nothing lesswas at stake in such concupiscence than the future of the Great Republic, even terra firma itself. Thiswas why The Look was so important to men, women, the future of America and of the land that welove. A prime example is the image that accompanies this article. It is worth far more than athousand words. See for yourself...


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In it, an enraptured Donna Reed stares deeply into the grateful eyes of Jimmie Stewart, sundrychildren hanging on them like so many Christmas tree ornaments. Reed's look is a soothing mixtureof gratitude, content, bliss, support, joy for life and lot, an incontrovertible declaration that she isjust where she wants to be, in just the right condition she has always wanted. Everythings'wonderful, s'marvelous... man and woman in perfect sync, unrifled perfection at their finger tips..And, if by chance any rough patch intrudes they can always return to this image, to scrutinize andreadjust so they are all perfect again.

To shape such women, young women (and young men for that matter) must know precisely what todo and when to do it. The post war collegiate scene was tailor-made for such instruction andpreparation. Here is where the Donna Reed "awe" look was carefully contrived and perfected; wherethe fortunate men who had it beamed at them day and night, every day and night unsurprisinglyaccepted it as their right, only to discover its confinements and limitations later. Nothing so good,after all, comes cost free.

Everything so good must be protected round the clock and thoroughly, too. The goal was important,the investment substantial, the pay-off astronomical.... It goes without saying that such a systemneeded sentinels of the most severe and punctilious kind; it needed Ma Pfeiffers, and so everycollege had them; incorruptible, no standards higher, no task too large or small if it were for the goodof the girls, the surveillance and control of the elusive, hormone-driven boys, every one a practisedpredator ready to drink deep of life's fleeting pleasures.

"Girls, you know what they want!:

Every Cornell dormitory whether for men or women had a house mother called "Ma" and then hersurname. Their purpose was generally similar, but varied greatly in the particular. House mothers formen had to ensure that their high flying charges did not climb on the snow-covered roof in bathrobes and bare feet in winter; (I plead guilty), or put snakes in their room-mate's bed (not guilty) orblow them up with cherry bomb fireworks, thereby recoloring the house mother's gut-spatteredprivate quarters; (I knew the perpetrators but cannot, even now, snitch.) House mother life wasdifferent in the women's dormitories where one woman, a single Amazon, did battle in defence ofpurity, virtue and enforced innocence. Her name was...

Ma Pfeiffer, and she was a model for her time and position. As such I see her clearly in my mind'seye.

Bowman Hall, her tightly held battlement on the frontier of the unending war between the sexes,seems to me to have been on a slight hill, the better to survey the open territory of her charge, theterritory where lurked degradation and baby bibs for the unwary. Here did Ma go, like Achilles tothe Plains of Troy, go nightly in righteous defence of every vulnerable maiden. There, punctual to afault, was she to be found, the great door of Bowman opened wide, bathed in the strongest of lights.

Ma stood in the middle of the door way, habited in house dress, comfortably worn bunny slippers,and Woolworth's best and largest curlers. There she stood arms akimbo, scanning the horizon foroutrages and girls about to fall victim to the smooth charms of plausible young men probablywearing too much hair oil.

"9 minutes. Girls, you know what they want."

The game was now well and truly a foot.

The perimeter now became alive with writhing bodies, lurid thoughts, and fervent hopes Ma Pfeifferand her sisters meant to derail. It was serious business all round. Picture this scene. The upper storiesof Bowman were packed with protected maidens in deshabilles looking down and freely


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commenting on the action. Each contortion, every uncomfortable position, each kiss, whetherexpertly delivered or not, the subject for public scrutiny without mercy. Yes, he was handsome butcouldn't kiss; that one could dance, but what a dweeb; but that one, yes over there, ou la la!

"6 minutes. Girls..."

And so it went, everyone, man and woman, joining the count-down as the action changed everyminute, careful strategies for maximum impact now forgotten in the frantic urge to merge that madethis bit of Iowa alive with possibilities.

Reputations were wagered; made; lost; made again. All under the Argus-eyed Ma who was nevermore adamant, more insistent, more admirable and heroic than now as the inexorable clock movedall towards closure for this night. Ah, this was living.

And then it was over, as the great clock of Cornell struck the hour, every inamorata now safelyensconced. Suddenly purposeless boys now bereft of occupation... just one stylish thespian quoting(and credibly, too) the balcony scene from "Romeo and Juliet" to his beloved now unattainable, nonurse to intervene. Of course there were gibes, but these faltered before Shakespeare's immortalstanzas. In the moonlight, we all stopped and listened as the great lyric words came alive, perhapsfor the very first time. It was sublime.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow."

And then, as if by wizard's wand, gone, all gone, not just for this occasion, but forever. For thistableaux, so perfect of its kind and way, played out before me on divers occasions was alreadydestined for destruction, killed along with too many of the love lorn boys who braved ridicule andpublic embarrassment for a kiss, and little more. They, in all their radiant youth, were soon to findanother end in a far-away place called Vietnam. Life was never quite as wonderful again...


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'And run, if you will, to the top of the hill/Open your arms...'Thoughts on turning 66. 'All the leaves have gone green'.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. It is 6:31 a.m. The dawn is still struggling to arrive pushing away the chilldetritus of a yesterday now gone forever; the only part of that yesterday now extant the clearadmonition from God Himself when He turned out (half) the lights at the 2013 Superbowl Game as awarning; viz that we should be more careful, less profligate and capricious about His patrimony, themost verdant of spheres, which He created for us and where we have been so consistently wastefuland remiss; that if we cannot act as required, He will, removing it from us and certain destruction.

Front page today, the subject of massive raillery and embarrassment, no doubt yesterday's clearwarning will go the way of all the many such which preceded it. Why worry as the planet, saggingunder the weight of our hubris, swoons and dies? Why indeed? After all we have 163 varieties ofchili readily at hand; more than ample for even the most finicky of eaters.

But I do worry. It is a sure sign one has reached the age for Social Security, as now with a flourish Ihave, my first check slated to arrive the 20th of next month, the date some bureaucrat in the capitalhas decided I will officially exist, the bureaucrats keeping that extra money for themselves, in theway of light-fingered flunkeys throughout the ages.

"Jean" words and music by Rod McKuen, sung by Oliver, from the film "The Prime of Miss JeanBrodie" (1969).

The tune running through the attic of my memory is one I first heard in the fall of '69, thatmomentous autumn I first arrived at Harvard for my graduate education. No decrepitude, noenfeebling arthritis, no "senior moment" of obliteration and wobbly uncertainty can ever dim theluster I first experienced just short blocks from where I am writing you now.

I arrived with just $100; knew no one; had no place to live; had never been to Massachusetts and hadan incipient case of mononucleosis... and was supremely happy.

It is important to remember such grand moments, not just because in a lifetime they are few andfleeting, but because when one passes through the portal of advancing age too many fixate on whatwasn't, isn't, and will never be; a sure formula for the carping and grinding bitterness that defines formost "the last of life for which the first was made"; the celebrated phrase of Robert Browning(1812-1889) my mother so cherished.

So far I, at least, have kept this unhappy reality at bay... and I am grateful... and wary. For you see,this state can only be retained by unending vigilance and unflinching honesty... and there are dayswhen there is not a scintilla of either to be had. You will have such days, too, if you have not hadthem already. "Old age," the wags rightly say, "is not for sissies."

Before we continue, it is time to add some music... a tune for which words like "wistful" and"bittersweet" come quickly to mind and rightly so for this song and its poetic lyrics will move youand remind you, too, that once upon a time you loved not wisely but too well.

It was nominated for an Academy Award as "Best Song" in 1969, when a virtually unknown singercalled Oliver rode it to the top, his one time only. Find it now in any search engine and listencarefully. Don't rush the process either as some careless readers on the sunny side of fifty willundoubtedly do. The song is too beautiful, the lyrics too poetic, the sentiments too important forthat.


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Comfy? Then it's time for "Jean"... and thoughts of love given, received, refused, repulsed, denied,dishonored, abjured, offended, glorified, celebrated, indulged, forgiven, remembered... grateful nowfor it in every moment and manifestation.

"Dr. Lant, please call at once..."

I was at home in Cambridge when the nurse called, the matter urgent, pressing. I was scheduled tomake a trip to Illinois, to give a speech, and, of course, would stop by the nursing home to see mybeloved Grammie, Victoria Lauing. Then I got the call... no, not that she was dead, for she was toowell bred to leave us so precipitately. She kept her engagements. No, she was not dead... but shewould be, the nurse said if I didn't Do Something.

Anxious, I quizzed the nurse. What was the problem? How much a crisis? What must I do?

It seems my grandmother, so desirous to see me, had created, as we humans can do anywhere and atany age, a lurid fear all her own; in this case that I would come... but that she would be asleep, notin her small room smelling of medicine and listless days ... that we would thus pass like ships in thenight; never seeing each other, never seeing each other again. And against this threatening prospect,she was prepared to fight... her weapons frail, her determination absolute.

Thus, my grandmother was adamant the nurse told me with a dollop of anguish in her voice, forGrammie's never exhausted store of charm had touched her like all the rest; that she would stay up,fully dressed, eyes fixed upon the door I must enter, ready to greet me properly whenever I shouldcome.

As a result, my darling Grammie, whose succulent meals brought to fruition with care and culinarymagic tasty and profound, was dying by inches, starving amidst all the bounty of America'sheartland. Could I please talk to her... at once? The matter was urgent.

Thus driven by fear that I would be too late... and fear that I might say the wrong thing and so insome inscrutable way make a difficult situation even worse, I called.... and somehow love found thewords for me for the word smith never without the mot juste needed such help that day.

I told her I loved her, the most compelling phrase in our bounteous language. Then spoke the wordsof utmost necessity; that she must eat a little something, yes, while I was there, on the phone.... thatshe must do it for me.

Too, that she must then close her eyes and sleep, sleep; that I would be there soon and we wouldtalk and laugh together. And then I knew she was smiling and that smile was rich, radiant,comforting, containing the promise of still more smiles to come.

Then it was time to end; we had comforted each other as those who know love may do. But she hadone more thing to say... and it was this, "Remember. Remember that while my body may be old, mybrain is a teen-ager's. Someday you will know what I mean..."

Thus did the conversation that had begun in fear end in relief for both of us. Then she said, her voicesteady and clear, "Good-bye now, Laddie", and I knew she was thinking of me; of those moments somany years ago, so often taken for granted, when she would right every wrong by the simpleexpedient of stroking my hair, turning my very name into a felicitous incantation, always potent,always available, a healing spell to be summoned at will.

Now I know what she meant.

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, not a cursory glance but a precise reconnaissance, anecessary event requiring courage and resignation. I was if not old then on its threshold, but not thebrain, for it is sharp and ready for any adventure, any mischief and, always, for love and were I to


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loose all but that I should still be a man supremely happy, like I was that long ago day I arrived herefor the first time.

And so I tell you this, and resolutely, too, "This is the prime of Dr. Jeffrey Lant" who will tocelebrate go out into the silvery gray of this February day when "the clouds are so low/ You cantouch them". For like Miss Jean Brodie, I am "young and alive", running swiftly to the land where"All the leaves have gone green". Come with me. "Open your arms, bonnie Jean. Come out of yourhalf-dreamed dream", and dream the rest with me, for time is short and there is much to do.


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ResourceAbout the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a widerange of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-sellingbusiness books.

Republished with author's permission by Barbara Buegeler http://FutureProsperityZone.com.


The Faces of Love

http://FutureProsperityZone.com


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