by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. I woke up at 5 a.m. today more than a bit out of focus and disheveled . I looked in the mirror and was sure that with what I saw my perennial title as fairest of the fair was now surely in jeopardy, the most drastic of measures being required, and promptly too.
Then I recalled Agnes Gooch’s memorable line from the 1958 film version of “Auntie Mame”: “I’ve lived…. now what do I do?” I knew what she meant… and smiled. What had happened in just the last 24 hours? Simply this: I had left my snug eerie in Cambridge to see what I could see… across the Charles River… in Boston… a city as near as a whisper… a city I once knew like the back of my hand… a city I once loved but neglected… thereby causing me to wonder, with some anxiety, how she would receive me….but first…
The music.
When one goes on excursion, music, the right music, is de rigueur. Thus for this notable day I selected a song sure to irritate the maximum number of people, as sure as screeching chalk on a blackboard. It is “The Happy Wanderer”.
If you’re like most people you might assume it was a traditional German folk song. But you, like me, would be wrong, for it was written by Friedrich- Wilhelm Moller shortly after World War II, only later being translated into German.
School music teachers (sadly a dwindling breed, squeezed out by Philistines on short-sighted school boards) adored it. It was peppy, wholesome, upbeat; a tune for Boy Scouts and their fresh-air ilk everywhere. Predictably I hated it in school and felt just plain silly being jaunty when my preferred mode was the mordant and supercilious.
That is why I chose this tune to serenade my guests and driver, all of whom did me the favor to wince as I belted it out, the better to begin our journey, “I love to go a-wandering… And as I go I love to sing… Val-deri, Val-dera, Val-deri, Val-dera ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…. ” You will find it in any search engine. And remember: always sing it at the top of your voice… and always with the broadest of smiles. Enjoy! Dramatis personnae.
There are 4 characters in this drama besides myself. These include Lance Sumner, a former Army officer now working for the Defense Department, and his two children Roshelle (16) and Joshua (20). Lance is a dealer and Senior Monitor at the Internet hosting and traffic-generating company I co-founded nearly 20 years ago, worldprofit.com. They were all making their first visit to the city alternately called Beantown or the Hub of the Universe and were keyed up, excited by the high expectations of the day ahead. And why not?
Luxury, comfort, spoiled rotten, the only way to travel.
And so we set out on our adventure in the only way I travel nowadays… black limousine with its essential captain, Aime Joseph, the man who understands that superior service is what builds successful businesses. Thus his phone number is on my speed dial, for I am of the age when comfort is essential and deference absolutely required. On time, ensconced, in high good spirits, our bon voyage was thereby assured.
Misstatements, unsupported opinions, wild suppositions, facts as rare as hens’ teeth.
When I commenced my worldwide travels 50 years ago, I approached them with care, consideration, the reading of not only guidebooks, but learned tomes on the people, politics, customs and lore of the nations I was visiting, rushing through at a speed only exceeded by my determination to go faster still. I was mad for knowledge and called myself a “culture vulture”; only the brightest and most diligent of my friends earned such regard.
But things have changed. This time I left the house with only my ATM card, and nothing else. I figured that if any of us needed more than the accumulated (and not always strictly accurate) history information we had collectively gathered, we’d find a guidebook, a guide, or even an Internet connection with access to every monument and site we wished to see and know something more about.
We used this sensible method, of course, but not, I confess, always. Often we simply pulled “facts”, theories and conjectures the more adamant because completely speculative from the attic that was memory. And, so, often hilariously and with too little scrupulous regard for the “facts, ma’am, just the facts”, we cast aside the rigidity of fact for the comfortable alternative of unfettered guesswork. Inglorious it may have been… but who seeks for hard-earned glory on days of soaring temperatures and, for hoi polloi, rivulets of acrid perspiration? Not those for whom the absence of an air conditioned car would be reckoned as cruel and unusual punishment.
The disturbing “people’s monument”. Deep anger and concern about our easy national acceptance of something which was not so long ago unthinkable, unimaginable, never to be endured by denizens of the home of the brave, the land of the free.
When you leave the comfort and security of home, sweet home you declare yourself ready to learn, to grow, to admit that you don’t know everything and are prepared to learn more. Some of this “more” may be good… some may affront… some may make you thoughtful and even distressed. So it was on our first stop on this sweltering day, the “people’s monument” in Copley Square, where the Boston Marathon ended in blood and heartbreak..
There since the perpetrators’ homemade infernal devices were detonated, 2:45 p.m., April 15, 2013, raining mayhem, confusion, and death, the everyday people of Boston and hundreds of visitors to this wounded city have, by placing tokens of their choice, flowers, running shoes, sports memorabilia, each a loyal declaration, announced their solidarity with us and the civilized values we exemplify.
When one visits this display, now about to be removed so that a permanent memorial can be erected, one is severely affected, even overcome, by conflicting emotions… rage, anger, indignation, agitation for what occurred, concern that even worse might lay ahead.
What concerns me most of all is this: the ritual that now follows any outrage, whether organized by a single crazed adolescent gunman or the ideologue who murders with words of “higher” purpose on his lips, is now firmly in place.
Thus, this place of remembrance offends me because tossing a quickly wilted flower on a heap of such offerings, whilst reassuring the giver his heart is in the right place, does nothing to solve the problem… and in fact there is nothing at this site indicating there is a problem, much less that we are at work to solve it.
We must always remember that if this problem made by evil people is not solved by good people, the dead and maimed will have suffered in vain. And thus I leave this area angry at how easily we have, whist meaning well, trivialized the entire matter.
We can invent a soothing slogan — “Boston Strong” — but we seem unable to do what is truly necessary to achieve it… and thus the next tragedy is assured, inevitable, unavoidable, and so we complete the devil’s own work and ensure an unending succession of such tawdry sites and the people who will die to create them.
Ms. Liz.
When one travels by limousine, speed is never of the essence, but the proper presentation always is. This is why one glides from place to place, aloof, condescending, knowing every eye follows your every little move… which is, of course, precisely what’s desired.
Our next destination was Charles Street, a street I first learned about when so many years ago my grandmother gave me a set of Childcraft books and the line drawing of Beacon Hill which so captured my brain that I knew one day I would live there, and so I did on a street named “Joy” which exactly conveyed my mood, for here I wrote my first book and walked Charles Street dreaming the dreams only permitted to the very young, like Rochelle and Joshua.
When I go to Charles Street that young man is always there to greet and remind me. He would certainly have applauded the cool wheels. Thus we glided up Charles Street, until I advised Mr. Joseph, always his amiable self, where to disembark his passengers, every passer-by pausing to bestow an envious glance on us, as we emerged into their world of record-breaking heat, cool as cucumbers, to return upon summoning Mr. Joseph to retrieve us from wherever we should find ourselves.
One upping with a single letter.
I requested the stop because I saw an interesting sign in the window of Devonia Antiques, “Antiques for Dining”. I possess many such antiques, and like all assiduous collectors am always on the hunt for more. And so I climbed the dangerously steep steps to a memorable encounter.
I was taking a sharp look at a lovely cobalt blue pattern which years ago I had almost begun collecting, bold, masculine, rich, stunning. “I have always admired this Royal Crown DARBY pattern,” I said. And she responded, “It’s pronounced DERBY”. Thus was the battle joined.
The exasperated words, “My good woman…” hung apparent though unspoken in the air. “Please turn the plate over,” I insisted. “Pray tell me what it says.” “Made in England,” she discerned. “And how do they pronounce DERBY in England?”; victory now assured . Thus was my expertise confirmed and her knowledge improved. Now Ms. Liz Rockwell and I could be friends; the proper hierarchy acknowledged and maintained.
“Is this you?”
Ms. Liz then asked, “Are you a collector?” My response was insouciant, casual, and false. “A bit,” whereas in truth I am a dedicated and obsessive connoisseur. “Would you like to see some of my modest collection? Do you have a computer with Internet connection handy?” And in less time than it takes to tell you, Ms. Liz was ogling the glorious vision that is the Red Drawing Room. (You can see it at jeffreylantarticles.com )
“Is this you?”, she asked with the necessary awe in her voice, eyes big as saucers. My, my I thought to myself for the thousandth time, the ‘net is superb, crucial for making just the right impression. How did I ever live without it?
Lance, no Web ingenue, cast me a respectful glance that said, “Well done, smooth colleague” and bought me lunch, but not before the bright, charming Ms. Liz, my new friend, plied him with one great Boston venue after another, far too many for his current visit but superb inducements to return.
The locals are like that; generously sharing their grand metropolis with the world, still the gleaming city on a hill; a city, so Lance said over and over again of energy, vibrancy, and unfeigned welcome, even to me who had been away, uncaring, neglectful far too long, now gratefully forgiven and warmly embraced. And that’s why I shall continue to go a wandering until the day I die. Val-deri, val-dera. No knapsack on my back. Ha ha ha ha ha!
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of well over a dozen print books, several ebooks, and over one thousand online articles on a variety of topics. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com/associates . Check out Info Cash -> http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=tt5nIAcW
