'In the old familiar places'...

'In The Old Familiar Places'...

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents

1. ' ... in all the old familiar places.' The insistence of memory... any time, any place, in an instant,there, never alone or unaffecting. 2. My most memorable Christmas, delivered by hand, changing my life. Now my time to do thesame.

' ... in all the old familiar places.' The insistence of memory...any time, any place, in an instant, there, never alone orunaffecting.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. I was ruminating about my next article this morning when it happened. I wasthinking of doing a piece on the bookstores we all grew up with... inviting places you could go to getout of the storm, and sit and read for a bit, even if you had no money that day to purchase. That wasmy intention but things got away from me, as they often do these days... and I was remembering.No, not merely remembering... but being there... on Clark Street, Chicago, where special stores forsecond-hand books catered to the bibliophiles of the Windy City... folks who discovered these storeslike an archeologist the layers of ancient Troy or Babylon, eureka!

But then, fleet-footed memory ran fast ahead... and it was not just the place I was recalling but why Iwas there and who I was with. Then, there she was. It was my mother; I was 13 or 14 or so and shewas young and beautiful. She was telling me, and I did not just remember the words; I heard them,just as she said them...

... an admonition she had told me every time we visited such a place of leather bound and folio'edaddiction that I could have as many books as I could carry, but not one more. I would nod sagely,signifying agreement... then run rampant through the shelves, brainstorming strategies to break thetreaty and emerge into the late afternoon light with more than I had agreed to. Sometimes, if a titlemoved her, she'd even concur... while making it clear this was no precedent.

And then there were tears in my eyes... and I missed her and that smile which was as vibrant thisearly morning as it was those long years ago... Songstress Vera Lynn knew this feeling and made itthe signature of an entire generation, the World War II generation. The minute "I'll be seeing you"(music by Sammy Fain, lyrics by Irving Kahal) was released (1938), it was clear this was not just oreven mostly a song about the people you would indeed see again... but, as war engulfed Europe, farmore poignantly about the people, literally here today, gone tomorrow -- that you would only seeagain in your mind's eye... with fond recollections, love, tears, all ingredients of memory whichworks its potent alchemy so sharply in "all the old familiar places."

Thus, go now to any search engine to find this well-loved number; there are many fine renditions,but Vera Lynn's is my own constant selection.

Around the corner, memory awaits...

I often think that remembrance is unrelenting, unremitting, unfair. It means us to remember andensures, through pangs that can grip you with unbearable force and urgency, that you willremember... whether you like it or not. And most of us don't like it... at least the fact that memoryhas the unrivalled power to stop us from what we are doing and demand instant obeisance. And thiscan happen anywhere, at any time.

Old familiar places of course make us aware of the sovereign powers of memory... old familiarobjects do, too; photographs, prized possessions, and especially clothes which retain scents. Oh, yes,scents. A whiff of Chanel no. 5 makes me reel, pulled from whatever I am doing... to right wherememory wants me to be. This was my mother's scent, and I see myself buying some for her at Mr.Mackey's general store one Christmas when I was a boy. I had no idea the sustaining power of thatfragrance or that gift...

Scents you once detested, memory changes to gifts of great value. A friend told me not so long ago

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that she hated the pipe smoke her husband insisted in generating, to the gags and disgust of his wifeand others. Those "others" may have felt relief when his passing removed the menace; she did not.She searched their well-appointed home, his drawers, his closet sniffing the air until she sniffed justwhat she wanted and was looking for: the pipe scent, pungent, masculine, unmistakable thatsignified in her grieving mind... him. She told me, too, hesitant at first, that she had found some ofhis special mixture tobacco, smoked it herself (to near nausea) until the bedroom resembled the backroom of a political convention... then lay down... closed her eyes.... and remembered. It was thenight she felt nearest to him. Before she said another word, I embraced her... before she said somuch, so intimate. That was for her alone.

Even rulers of great lands...

No one, however powerful and well placed, is immune from the powers of memory and itsconnivances. It means to have you... and it will. As Queen Victoria, ruler of half the planet, learnedand relearned every day of her long life. She was just 42 years old when her obsessively belovedconsort Prince Albert succumbed; he was just 42, too. Her world dissolved... and she spent alifetime and the patience of a great nation, doing whatever it took to assuage the memories andescape the madness of her ancestors.

His pajamas, his soap, even his toothpaste (with new paste applied daily) were all summoned toassist in the process of at once keeping the memories from overpowering while simultaneouslyholding them close. Queens are not alone in discovering that this formula is hard, perhapsimpossible, to render just so... just so you can continue.

And these memories become most potent at Christmas... for this holiday of the greatest joy becomesa minefield of the greatest pain... not something you look forward to, but something you dread andfear...

This is wrong.

What you should fear and dread is not the unrelenting grip of your memories, their proven power todiscommode you, their potency and unbridled force... for these are the good things, the necessarythings you should move heaven and earth to protect, conserve, and maintain. Instead, fear and dreadthe steady diminution of these memories, time that brings not precise, enhanced remembrance butoblivion, well-minded people telling you over and over again (out of kindness, mind, howevermisdirected) to get "closure" on the matter and so diminish what you should be greatly striving tokeep intact, close and forever.

"This too shall pass", the Bible says. But beware of what you wish for, for you may get it. And isoblivion and eternal loss truly what you aim for? Thus hold every memory close and give way whenmemory seizes you... for what you have is precious and irreplaceable.

Thus approach this holiday season with a fresh new attitude and embrace the memories, every one ofthem no matter how painful. Remember, you are the curator of your memories... the personresponsible for tending them, ensuring their vibrancy... charged with their complete and total extent.This is one of the duties of every adult; in fact, the proper realization of what memory is and itsintrinsic significance in our lives is one of the proofs that you have lived, have loved, that you are anadult, with an adult's insight.

None of this is easy, obvious or the work of an instant, not least because as you mature and growsensitive to their interpretation and significance your understanding shifts, improves, ripens. Andyou see why sustaining these memories, in their total completeness is so very important.

Now let's listen again, with a different ear, to Vera Lynn's song and, for the first time understand thatit is not Vera Lynn singing to us, bringing the balm of peace, serenity and comfort. It is immemorial




memory itself... resonating through your life through the ages.

"I'll be seeing you In all the old familiar places...

I'll find you in the morning sun And when the night is new. I'll be looking at the moon But I'll beseeing you."

This article is dedicated to my colleague Lance Sumner, in friendship, and in recognition of his goodheart, vigilant keeper of profound memories.

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My most memorable Christmas, delivered by hand, changingmy life. Now my time to do the same.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. One of the most marvelous things about the Internet is that wherever you arethe riches of the world are just a few keystrokes away, and this is never more true than at Christmas,when you can, wherever you are, remember, access what the most fertile, inventive, and creativeminds crafted to celebrate the birth of our Messiah. It is a feast, a banquet, an embarras de choix thatnever palls, even if you do have distinct touches of Scrooge about you.

One of my favorite Christmas carols never fails to exult, thrill, and cleanse. I always feel betterhearing it... and if you know it, I suspect you feel the same. It's called "Carol of the Bells," and ifyou don't know it, it's my pleasure to introduce it to you. You'll be glad to have it. Either way, go toany search engine to find it. There are many fine versions.

Play it now... turn it up and up again. This is no pallid anthem but a stirring declaration thatsomething of transcendent importance is about to occur... and the bells are ringing out to ensure youdon't miss it and are not late.

It is of Ukrainian origin; a 1904 choral miniature work by Mykola Leontovych, set to the words ofan ancient Ukrainian pagan chant. It tells the tale of a swallow flying into a household to proclaimthe plentiful and bountiful year that that fortunate family will have. Given the rocky road we've alltraveled this year, I am sure you hope that swallow visits you... as I do.

1974.

I was just 26 in 1974, the time in one's life when, having assiduously pursued education,self-improvement and development, one is ready to stride life's stage and announce to the world thatyou are ready to demonstrate your powers and do your bit, however small, to make things better onterra firma. You have your health, your teeth, an ample mane, and that crucial "never say die"attitude, so necessary, sure to be sorely tested in the days ahead. You can be certain of that. In short,you're as ready for life as you'll ever be. And that life bloomed for me in 1974.... when I set out, likethe protagonist of every great novel, not just to see the world, but to conquer it.

And so this year, I tasted life, and tasted deep I tell you, in the city where everyone finds theEngland -- and the life -- they desire... London.

London, beloved, rich, desired, accepting.

If one believes in Fate, as I didn't then but believe now, I encountered mine in what I regarded, notalone either, as the greatest city on earth... where every minute was like the best champagne andevery person delivered gifts one had waited a lifetime to receive and was ready to savor. In this year,in this city everything was possible... so long as one was bold enough to dream it, bold enough toseize it. And I was... and I did.

Robert Montgomery Scott.... His Excellency will be pleased...

I can see him clearly in my mind's eye... and will never forget. He was a gentleman to his fingertips...which meant cordial manners, polished speech, and, most of all, consideration; for a gentleman isnothing without that. When I entered his office in the Embassy of my United States, in GrosvenorSquare, he was direct, but most kind; I could see at once he meant to be my benefactor...

I had written Walter Annenberg, U.S. Ambassador that year, to see if he would assist me in gaining




access to the Royal pageants I was studying and wished to see at first hand. Ambassador Annenberg,a titan of American media, richer than Croessus, was the best kind of envoy being gifted with meansand the desire to disperse them liberally. He also understood the need that media have for never-ending content and the need to encourage the creators of such content, people like me. And so heasked the debonair Mr. Scott to receive the young Harvard man and see what could be done. He wasno doubt scrutinizing me, drawing his own conclusions; that was his job. But the scrutiny wasoblique, a chat, not an inquisition. And after this most amiable inspection he said, "For the nextyear, whenever the Ambassador is invited to any Royal ceremony, you shall go as a member of hisofficial party."

The skies had opened and the road below was clear. I was grateful then... and grateful now becausehe -- and the Ambassador -- had given me just what I needed, just when I needed it. And how oftendoes that happen in even the longest life? But it was happening to me, in 1974, in London, and I putthe bit between my teeth and relished the run.

That summer there was a shower of largesse... not least because of the Harvard Traveling Fellowshipbestowed on me, a Fellowship which made it all possible. I went to the annual ceremony of everyorder of chivalry... the Bath, the Order of the British Empire, the St.Michael and St. George, anddelved deep into the mysteries of Thistle, St. Patrick, and Garter. I loved every minute of it and, forcurrent use and later reflection and proof that I had lived, wrote it all down, fodder for many articlesto come. I had occasion to thank the Ambassador over and over again...

... especially on the day when I attended the ceremony marking the 25th wedding anniversary ofH.M. The Queen and her Consort of Edinburgh. My reserved place was right behind one of PrincePhilip's sisters, as if I were a sprig of the Family Royal myself.

But money at an end and the pressing need to harness reality brought me back to Cambridge, toHarvard, to graduate, to get a job I was perhaps destined to hate; how could the mundane details of"real" life compare?

But I had a scheme... to write my way to freedom... and so back to London where in due course Ireturned in December of 1977, there to hand-deliver a proposal for my first book, to HamishHamilton the famous publisher whose ranks I wished to join.

No knock. Just a letter.

It was Christmas Eve, 1977. My friends and I were going to Covent Garden, dressed to the nines,bright, mordant, as sophisticated as earnest money and deadly effect could make us.

Just before we left, a letter was slipped under the door... it was hand addressed to me. I opened itwith alacrity only to read, "I regret to inform you..." It was on Hamish Hamilton's stationery. I didn'tcomplete the letter and was marooned in such unhappiness no Sugar Plum fairy could lift my spirits.

Upon returning, I saw the letter, on the floor. Robert Dobson, so often in the right place at the righttime, picked it up and said, "Hadn't you better read this?"

And so I did... and in instant, a single instant, there was "Joy to the World" in my heart as my noweditor Roger Machell wrote, "I regret to inform you we cannot accept your proposal as written but ifyou make a few minor changes..." A contract and cheque were waiting for me after Christmas at hisoffice. And so "Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and Confusion at Queen Victoria's Court" wasborn... and another benefactor stepped forward, Christmas Eve mind, to advance my career andprovide succor.

Now it my turn, 64 this year as I am, to give to others in remembrance of the many, now too oftengone before, who have given to me. God having blessed me so, and especially that unforgettable




Christmas, makes that imperative, pressing, essential, a great joy and comfort.




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. Services include home businesstraining, 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 onlineHome 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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'In the old familiar places'...

Education

Transcript of 'In the old familiar places'...