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Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents
1. The joy and lifelong comfort in a parent's voice. Some thoughts.
2. '... before the darkness falls.' Thoughts on my father's last home, changing places and the pains
that make us human.
3. 'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.' The wonders of the Internet... the stubborn obstinacy of far
too many Senior Citizens. Generations colliding in cyber space. Some thoughts.

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The joy and lifelong comfort in a parent's voice. Some
thoughts.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. It happened when I was deep in a brown study on some suitably recondite
conundrum of cosmic significance. There, walking along the uneven sidewalk that lines the
Common, there right in front of me I saw two lucky people who only had eyes for each other. Their
presence was arresting; taking me immediately out of myself, focusing full attention on them, two
people learning just how exciting and fulfilling togetherness can be.
You're skipping ahead of me now I daresay. You're expecting one young thing entwined with
another, in love perhaps, or making good progress thereto. But if you think this, you'd be wrong,
quite utterly mistaken. For the two people I saw, and could not take my eyes off, were a young
father and his young daughter. He looked to be on the sunny side of thirty; she was three or four.
And a more enraptured couple I did not see that day... nor had I seen for long before. They only had
eyes for each other.
The young father was in the process of enchanting his daughter; he was very much in the middle of
not merely telling her a story... but acting it out. His animals were not just words from his mouth.
They lived! They moved! They entranced! He didn't merely talk of their movements... he moved as
they would in life, going where they meant to go.... and to show her deep and sincere appreciation
for his constant efforts and exertions... she laughed, completely, merrily, with a glee she had already
mastered... and which she spent liberally, recompense for her adored father.
No wonder I couldn't take my eyes off this scene of radiance and sunshine. I could only wish them
both one thing to make what they had perfect... and that was the gift of clear memory.
Unbidden tears.
After a minute or two my way diverged from theirs; they went on without thought or recognition or
acknowledgement that such a one as me even lived. And whether it was because of this thought or
one like it, I felt tears. It's the kind of thing that happens to too many silly old buffers if they've
dined unwisely but too well or dwelt too long on things that might have been... and why they
squandered so many opportunities, because they were certain they'd come again, but didn't.
6 or 7 or so, the softest hands, the most caressing voice.
Then my own memory yanked me as it so often does these days. And I was not pining about
might-have-beens and loves I tossed away without thought, doubt or pangs. Instead I heard a voice I
knew as well as my own, a voice that represented all I valued and had every reason to be grateful
for. Her voice. And this voice didn't just rise from memory. I heard it because she was there with me
again... and everything was there, just as it should be. And just as it all sounded sixty years ago and
more.
"My little love, do you feel a little better? I have something you'll like." And she always did. A
book. A tale carefully considered before being read to me; sometimes one she knew I loved;
sometimes one she was certain I would come to love, because she already did. Thus in her own
soothing hands she would bring me, between covers, pages sometimes not yet cut, the unimaginable
riches of the world, sometimes when I was ill; sometimes to sooth the way to dreamless slumber.
And no matter how much she gave me, there was always more summoned by her practised magic.
But the real magic did not come between covers with uncut pages; nor even with tales of
mesmerizing effect. The supremest spell was the one wrought by her voice and a few deft

http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 13

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movements which denoted care, craft, artistry and above all else, love.
"By the shores of Gitche Gumee."
Given a moment or two, a hint and a clue, I could probably name everything she read to me... not
just because of the lyric power of the authors' words but because of her voice. Its cadence. Its
resonance. Its sonority. Its shear beauty and allure. Each word counted and so she neglected no
word. Each line counted and so she delivered each line. Each paragraph counted... and so not a
single paragraph was overlooked or forgotten. Thus, she rendered one of our favorites; "The Song of
Hiawatha" by my near neighbor on Brattle Street, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published to
universal acclaim in 1855. I can hear her now... see her... she lives on as I hear her reading the
words she loved:
"By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis."
But her magic was by no means exhausted, hardly even begun. For now she told me to close my
eyes, to see the shores of Gitche Gumee, the shining Big-Sea-Water, the wigwam, and most of all
Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon Nokomis. And as she bade, so I did until these were no longer
mere words, but grand vistas, places of consequence and truth. Such was the magic of her voice.
"But there is no joy in Mudville."
One of her favorites, which became one of mine, was "Casey at the Bat", "A Ballad of the Republic
Sung in the Year 1888." It was written by Ernest Thayer and first published in "The San Francisco
Examiner" on June 3, 1888. No voice ever delivered it with greater gusto and the American idiom
than she, perhaps because she was a zealous supporter of her hapless Cubbies, the Chicago Cubs.
Thus, as she spoke she made every captivating gesture:
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and
somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But
there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out."
"And the highwayman came riding."
Over the years, in sickness and in health, her voice unlocked one treasure chest after another...
Thomas Gray, Tennyson, Frost, Sandburg, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Robert Browning, Dylan
Thomas... but this was always one of her favorites, for her dramatic sense worked well with Alfred
Noyes, the great poet of the empire on which the sun never set, ruled by the Great White Queen after
whom my grandmother was named. He published it in 1906, and it made him a world figure.
"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed
upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman
came riding -- Riding -- riding -- The highwayman came riding up to the old inn-door."
And, as was now usual, she closed my eyes and opened my mind's eye to see the ghostly galleon, the
ribbon of moonlight, and the highwayman, "a bunch of lace at his chin", the highwayman who kept
riding, riding, riding. With every word, with every image, she helped make me the man I am today.
Your children deserve as much from you, and as you love them, do so; for this is one certain way to
ensure not just their constant improvement but that you and your voice descend to them and keep
you a forever living presence in their lives.
Envoi.
For the musical accompaniment to this article, I've selected the brilliant suite composed by Nicholai
Rimsky-Korsakov in 1888. It is called "Scheherazade". It's the story of a shrewd woman whose


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ability to keep the Sultan amused by telling stories kept her alive. Based on "One Thousand and One
Nights," my mother loved it from its opening bass motif to every evocative note that follows. She
was always happy to acknowledge the talents of other wizards and soothsayers. You'll find it in any
search engine. Go now and play it. Its richness enriches this article... and your life.


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'... before the darkness falls.' Thoughts on my father's last
home, changing places and the pains that make us human.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. It is 3:07 a.m. here in the East. It is not so much that I cannot sleep. Rather,
it's that I don't want to. I am thinking about my father as I often do. He is undoubtedly asleep now,
has gotten safely through another day and will awake in due course to the promise of another. In
other words, he is being well taken care of, and I don't need to worry, the Number One Son in
Massachusetts; he in California. But I do worry...
"Jeffrey, let me ask you..."
He called me the other day, with that note of concern I've come to know and which bites me so.
"Jeffrey let me ask you..." and so it started. Another chip to the father-son relationship which
defined and guided us for so many years, now as ancient as the hills. Things between us, once well
defined and wary, are changing now; changing, changing... we neither of us like it, but the realities
of living always pulverize our mere wishes... and because we are living, we must still live, no matter
how painful that may be. And it often is...
He asks.
"Jeffrey, you've never had a house have you?" "No, Dad, I never did."
"You've always lived in an apartment, haven't you?" "Yes, Dad, I have."
"You like it, don't you?" "Yes, Dad, I do."
"Why's that?" "Well, for openers I don't have to take out the garbage... or plant the flowers... or paint
the fence... " And the list goes on.
"You used to hate doing those things, didn't you?" "Yes, Dad, every minute, every single one. I
wanted to read. You wanted me to wash the windows." There is more than a little bit of asperity,
accusation and unresolved irritation in my voice. I am 65, it all happened a half century ago and
more; it shouldn't matter, but it does. Memory makes the long ago the active and unresolved, still on
my agenda of things compelling attention. I might wish it doesn't matter, but it does.
"I do not plant or reap."
Now the benefits of apartment living pour forth. I discover I am defending my choices, as children
of any age feel compelled to do from time to time. To live the life I want takes teams of people
taking care of me. I am used to this and rely on them to do the necessary. This is how the privileged
classes of history have lived; it is how I always wanted to live; it is how I live; it is how I want him
to live; it is how he should live in this his too fast dwindling of days.
But he is of a different time and place, a time of self-reliance, where if you wanted warmth in
winter, you chopped fire wood and so warmed yourself twice. I hated this work... and I hated all
such things... things that obstructed the life I wanted; the life waiting for me, beckoning me,
insinuating itself into every thought. "I am what you want, what you must have," and I couldn't wait
to seize it. The myriad versions of chopping wood were important, but they were never imperative,
like the dream that enthralled me. And thus there were problems and a battle that waxed and waned,
but never stopped.
However he is not criticizing, judging, he is seeking something perhaps only I can give:
confirmation that he has done the right thing, for with assisted living, without responsibilities, comes


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an avalanche of doubts, uncertainties, and the kinds of anxieties which force one to sit bolt upright in
dead of night... and wonder...
"Jeffrey, I don't like not having a home anymore."
But he does have a home. It's in a wonderful facility that looks like a college campus or place on a
golf course. He and Miss Ellie, his wife, did not rush their choice. They looked at the full range of
possibilities, moved with due deliberation, not haste. Visited, revisited, discussed, revisited. There
was no rush about it, though it was apparent to both a decision must be made and made while they
were both entirely able to make it.
He recalls each house he has ever owned.
He is remembering now and my role is clear. I must hear what he says, completely... and I must
pledge (though he doesn't say so) to remember. And so a chant begins; of houses built or bought;
houses turned into homes and profits; a lifetime of patient acquisition and certain return. "I have
always made money on every house we ever lived in." And he recites them now, not to brag, but so
that he is sure I know and will remember. My memory is tenacious; he knows that, and so the litany
begins... from 4906 Woodward Avenue, which he built with his own hands (and partly mine)...
His eyes are closed now and as he recalls, he recites; my eyes are closed, too, and I am remembering
with him... and these, his memories of being a good father, chary of his resources, patiently awaiting
the results he foresaw and planned for, are clear, poignant, bittersweet. And triumphant.
For he wants me to know, and to sear into my mind that he made money enough for his family,
enough for himself and Miss Ellie so they would burden no one, and something for the next
generation, too. He was proud, as he had the right to be; not arrogant. He knew what he was due...
and knew that I would give it, full measure. We who had often engaged in combat and dispute fully
understood each word now, each recollection, each and every nuance, delivered with sureness and
finality... for on this subject there was nothing more to say... and we were both glad he had done so,
so well, every word apt, every description complete and accurate.
He was tired now. So was I.
It is often said that as parents and children age they reverse roles. But this is not entirely true.
Instead a situation infinitely more complex and difficult emerges; a situation where the parent may
remain the parent as well as the child and where the child may be in an instant not just one but both,
thereby dramatically increasing the possibilities for confusion; things clear to one, misunderstood by
the other. It would be easier, far easier, if a simple role reversal took place, clear to each, but this is
not the way it is for either party. And so, before the darkness falls, we need to learn, again who we
are, who they are, what they need and must have, what we have that we may give and give still
more. In short, we must at their end begin again, new roles to learn and urgent, too, for the darkness
is nigh and there is much to learn and do before the end.
Thus one of the most important, revealing and timely conversations of my life ended; we were
weary and needed rest. The meeting, by phone, ended as easily as a sigh. We had done what needed
to be done.
But I had one more thing to do, one more thing to listen to, to ponder. Bruce Springsteen's 1982
evocation "My Father's House." And I went to a search engine to play it. I urge you to find it now...
and ready yourself for a melody and lyrics which cut deep and place an unrelenting memory in you.
""Last night I dreamed that I was a child... I was trying to make it home... before the darkness falls I
ran with my heart pounding down that broken path... I broke through the trees and there in the night
My father's house stood shining hard and bright the branches and brambles tore my clothes and


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scratched my arms But I ran till I fell shaking in his arms."
Now I can do as much for him... and must.


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'Am I getting old?' 'Oh, no, not you.' The wonders of the
Internet... the stubborn obstinacy of far too many Senior
Citizens. Generations colliding in cyber space. Some
thoughts.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. Did you ever see "Gigi" the 1958 musical by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick
Loewe? You should. It burned through a fortune to recreate lush, opulent Third Republic Paris and
besides the music is lovely. One song in particular touches my heart -- "I Remember It Well".
It's a duet between Honore (Maurice Chevalier) and Mamita (Hermione Gingold), long ago lovers
who meet up in the twilight of their lives and reminisce about what happened way back when... and
what they remember; definitely not the same thing.
Honore gets his every reminiscence slightly wrong; Mamita is spot on with hers. Honore is
embarrassed, chagrined at his errors... but the lady doesn't mind. She retains an abiding affection for
him... and even in his errors she sees he retains an abiding affection for her. Yes, it's a lovely,
beautiful, bittersweet tune... go now to any search engine. Listen well. Tenacious memories are just
one touch away and waiting now for you to release them. Bring an extra handkerchief.
Another missed phone call... another missed opportunity. Another irritating moment for each.
It just happened again. The Missed Call Syndrome. This time he called me.... and missed
connecting. So I called him back... and missed connecting. So now both of us, my 88 year old father
and I (aged 65), remain disconnected, and irritated with each other. "Why can't the boy be there at
just the moment I want to talk to him?", he mutters. In return I say with pronounced pique, "Why
won't he use a webcam? It would make life so much easier for both of us."
Welcome to the clash of the titans, where one old goat continues to cause unnecessary
communications problems.... and his know-it-all IT son fails (yet again) to show Dad the error of his
ways. Thus the Mexican stand-off continues... with both parties irked, irritated, and more than a little
exasperated with each other. What's going on here? Just this. Two obstinate generations, each used to
getting its way, are battling to make their communications with the other easier... for we do, I think,
truly want to communicate with each other, so long as the other party is dictated to, not dictating.
"Get an email address that works."
Technology to be effective must be simple and easy to use and must not create more problems than
it solves. By this test the email program used by my technically clueless dad is useless, for it causes
nothing but problems, not least the fundamental problem that it actually blocks all my email to him.
As you may imagine this causes a ton of problems of the "Did you get my email the other day?"
variety.
Why does he keep this completely ineffectual program? Not because it's "easy", because it most
assuredly is not; not because it delivers his mail promptly without hassle because it fails that test too.
I'll tell you why he does it... because he feels (though he has never given me the satisfaction of
putting his unconvincing case in my unscrupulous hands) that he, having worked a long lifetime for
others, is entitled, the end approaching, to have those others (chief amongst them me) work for him...
never mind that a completely fast, thorough and easy email system is at hand.
Rigor Mortis before death.


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We all know that rigor mortis comes with death; is in fact an undeniable symptom of that death.
Sadly, for many, especially in regard to tech skills and proficiency, rigor mortis comes well before
the end. Common sense dictates that if you want the substantial and undeniable benefits of
technology, you must keep up-to-date. But obstinate seniors, like dear old dad, won't keep
up-to-date. They have done much for others; they have little time remaining. They don't want
continuing education and the "joys of learning". They insist upon being catered to, waited on,
kow-tow desired but not required.
Thus if they fail to listen, fail to learn the necessary steps to put technology to work for them and so
create a heap of unnecessary problems, this is unfortunate, but so what? And so they approach the
ultimate arrogance and deep-seated selfishness of the "Let them eat cake" lady herself, the late,
unlamented, backward looking Marie Antoinette, sovereign queen of unthinking, unrepentant,
adamant ossification. (If he ever discovers I've written this, Dad will kill me, especially as the
comparison is true and apt! One can, after all, forgive anything but the unanswerable truth.
Fortunately he doesn't know how to access my articles at jeffreylantarticles.com He's tried; no can
do; and that's that.)
"Get a webcam! Get a webcam at once!"
Writing emails, particularly if you are of the "bread-and-butter", copperplate hand generation like
dad, takes time and careful attention. Words matter; finding just the right word is a courtesy they
never neglect. And they all honor Mark Twain's trenchant line, "If I had more time, I'd write you a
shorter letter." As a result their emails are not just written but edited, corrected, refined, no text
messaging allowed; a real letter sent but never responded to in kind by anyone less than 70 or so.
And so another failure-to-communicate incident is born, to smolder and explode without warning.
How different things would be if he'd use a webcam -- a webcam I'm wiling to GIVE him!
Consider the following: I have a webcam; my brother has a webcam; my sister has a webcam; her
son and daughter each have webcams. Only my father does not have a webcam, considers the
vexatious unsettling matter settled and considers all attempts to get him hooked up and active a grave
imposition; unjust; an affront; the very idea lese majeste'.
He has for just such moments of offense and insolence and outrage his certain response: "I'm old, I'm
tired, I can't do it, I'm falling apart; it's hard; it's difficult; it's...", but you get the picture. How can
anyone transgress against such a paladin, now ancient, frail, venerable... and absolutely determined
not to change anything, not by a jot, much less a tittle?
And so the matter unsatisfactorily continues day after day. We are both of us getting older, which is
just another way of saying we are getting more and more obstinate by the minute. He frets because
his time is dwindling with anxious celerity and so each day the little he still wants becomes more
urgent. Why can't I see that?
... But I do see that. That is why I want him to be on a webcam, easily accessible to me and his other
wired progeny, not least the only two grandchildren he will never know as well as he ought because
he is ludicrously behind in what it takes to touch them, share, learn as they hobnob everywhere on
Earth and never care to think or understand what he wants, much less help him get it.
His failure to master even the rudiments of the communication techniques and services that exist
reinforces the very thing he fears most; disconnection from family and friends, alienation, a feeling
that worsens daily that he is not merely aged but irrelevant, obsolete, passed it, already not merely
moribund but actually dead by inches.
He sees a webcam as a threat, exposing all that he does not know. I see it as my only and best chance
to connect with him easily and always before that chance is gone forever and I am forced to lament


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what might have been... a state of affairs that chills me now and will haunt me until I, too, am dust
and an inadequate memory to those I have loved.
"This too shall pass."
This is one of my father's favorite expressions. He has used it with me over and over again as a
means of lessoning life's plethora of pains and even some moments of exuberance and euphoria, as
too much of a good thing. Now I shall render these words in quite a different way, as an admonition,
a warning, an already far too late wake- up call, a clarion to action before even the little I can do
now becomes far more than the days ahead will leave me.
And so, I shall again do what I have tried to do so often... I shall say, out of a love which must never
be forgotten, what needs to be said and which was never said better than this: "Do not go gentle into
that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light". Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) insisted on
this to his father. I cannot do less to mine and so I shall tell him this...
Aristides de Sousa Mendes
Do you know this man? You should. Born in 1885 in the Centro region of Portugal, he became a
diplomat in the days when Dictator Antonio Salazar ruled. He was stationed in Bordeaux in 1940
when the Nazis invaded France. Bordeaux was a prime exit port, a city engulfed in war and chaos; a
place to which refugees, many of them Jews, fled, looking for any way to escape. Mendes was
ordered by his government to provide no aid, no escape. That was a decree of death. But Mendes was
a man of life.
Thus, between June 17-July 8, 1940 he issued over 30,000 exit visas to refugees and displaced
persons, some 12,000 to Jews. One man, just a few days, thousands saved. Needless to say, his
government disowned him, stripping him of diplomatic status, his legal profession, of everything in
fact except the certain knowledge that he had done the right thing, the righteous thing, the life
affirming thing.
And you must do the life affirming thing, too. Thus understand that it is out of our love that we
insist upon your advancing, focused on whatever span is left; still opening windows, however
daunting, not closing them. If you will not do this for yourself; then do it for us, as yet another gift of
the father. For in such a way, you choose life and hope, something we will surely address and
celebrate when we have our first joyous meeting online by webcam. May it come soon.


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Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


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