hot off the press dr. jeffrey lant latest articles!!!!

7/31/2019 Hot Off the Press Dr. Jeffrey Lant Latest Articles!!!!

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HOT OFF THE Press latest articles by the #1 CEO on the Internet Dr. Jeffrey Lant !!!



Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents

1. '... before the darkness falls.' Thoughts on my father's last home, changing places and the painsthat make us human.2. At a lunch counter in Harvard Square. A place of friendly people and tasty meals; a dinosaur enroute to extinction. Some thoughts.3. 'Pardon the witches of Connecticut', say relatives. 'Cause there's no nicer witch than you.' Somethoughts.4. Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-have imperial image found by aconnoisseur, restored by a master, shared with you in its full majesty.5. 'God rest you merry, gentlemen'. At my home that means preparing everything for the visit of thePrince of Peace. It's a true labor of love.6. 'Simple things made him happy.' Dave MacNeill, dead at 80, August 28, 2012; a man whose blissful mission was music. An encomium for this man of notes.



'... before the darkness falls.' Thoughts on my father's lasthome, 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. Inother words, he is being well taken care of, and I don't need to worry, the Number One Son inMassachusetts; 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 whichdefined and guided us for so many years, now as ancient as the hills. Things between us, once welldefined and wary, are changing now; changing, changing... we neither of us like it, but the realitiesof 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 paintthe 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 andmore; it shouldn't matter, but it does. Memory makes the long ago the active and unresolved, still onmy 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 childrenof any age feel compelled to do from time to time. To live the life I want takes teams of peopletaking care of me. I am used to this and rely on them to do the necessary. This is how the privilegedclasses of history have lived; it is how I always wanted to live; it is how I live; it is how I want himto 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 inwinter, you chopped fire wood and so warmed yourself twice. I hated this work... and I hated allsuch 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 waitto 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 indead 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 agolf 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. Therewas no rush about it, though it was apparent to both a decision must be made and made while theywere 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 havealways made money on every house we ever lived in." And he recites them now, not to brag, but sothat 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 rememberingwith him... and these, his memories of being a good father, chary of his resources, patiently awaitingthe 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 nextgeneration, 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 fullyunderstood each word now, each recollection, each and every nuance, delivered with sureness andfinality... 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 mayremain 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 bythe other. It would be easier, far easier, if a simple role reversal took place, clear to each, but this isnot the way it is for either party. And so, before the darkness falls, we need to learn, again who weare, who they are, what they need and must have, what we have that we may give and give stillmore. In short, we must at their end begin again, new roles to learn and urgent, too, for the darknessis 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 wereweary and needed rest. The meeting, by phone, ended as easily as a sigh. We had done what neededto be done.

But I had one more thing to do, one more thing to listen to, to ponder. Bruce Springsteen's 1982evocation "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 Iran with my heart pounding down that broken path... I broke through the trees and there in the nightMy father's house stood shining hard and bright the branches and brambles tore my clothes and







scratched my arms But I ran till I fell shaking in his arms."

Now I can do as much for him... and must.







At a lunch counter in Harvard Square. A place of friendlypeople and tasty meals; a dinosaur en route to extinction.Some thoughts.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. We've been having a lot of rain lately here in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It's

the kind of rain that all locals greet with amiable forbearance, saying even to total strangers(especially if they are grumbling), "We need the rain." It makes us feel important when we say it; asif we were trained agronomists advising farmers on the matter of rain, when, where, how much. Of course it also needs to be said that when we hear other people say it, we regard them as conversationimpaired, offering up such banality with such seriousness.

Ordinarily, weather doesn't interest me very much. Rain or shine inside a penthouse where theshutters in my office are always closed, no exception; looks much the same, as do day and night.Others may not like such a situation, but it suits me and my pursuits perfectly. It's not only where Ido my writing but where my daily webcasts and running commentaries take place. The shutters andtwo fine verde mare marble columns once in a French palace constitute the elegant back drop to

subjects discussed which may be anything but.

Yesterday, however, the rain lifted and even I, the ultimate urban dweller clueless on the rhythmsand rhymes of nature, thought descending from my ideally appointed space capsule was in order. Igrabbed the Harvard cap one of my visitors had forgotten and left behind; took an umbrella thatanother of my visitors had forgotten and left behind. I was ready for an excursion, lunch in HarvardSquare was indicated...

"The Square", isn't.

Irregularly shaped and sprawling Harvard Square is one of the half dozen places on Earth every person of consequence, real or imagined, visits at least once in a lifetime. It is a place of human

flotsam and jetsam; of people who come to move up (including future presidents of the GreatRepublic) and those who are down on their luck, street dwellers who solicit those who feel generousfor giving a buck or two, which will probably end up amongst the blood-stained profits of oneMexican drug cartel or another. But Mexico and its hecatombs and legion of hapless victims are toofar away to worry about, especially as so many of its leaders were schooled at Harvard, which is justthe way it's supposed to be.

Down Massachusetts Avenue, the brick sidewalks muddy and wet, passersby smelling like a dog leftout in the rain.

I am walking to lunch on the sidewalk along Massachusetts Avenue; "Mass Ave" to the cognoscentiwho are past masters at making people like you seem unsophisticated, unhallowed, unready for the

world Cambridge folk are imagining and inventing this very minute. These multi-degreed paragonsare the planet's movers and shakers. They want to be sure you know this about them instantly, sothat they may then exhibit the modesty for which they will one day be so renowned despite so manymomentous achievements. But this is now... and so they regard modesty solely as a trait for thosewho have much to be modest about -- that would be you.

Labor Day Week-end, 1969.

I am in my stride now passing one Harvard-owned property after another. Here the lavish donationsof long dead alumni are put to current use, fully rented out generating still more money for TheWorld's Greatest (and already Richest) University. The kinds of shops tell you much about the place







and its inhabitants: bank, ice cream parlor, smoke, ice cream parlor, bank, Harvard insignia, icecream parlor, bank. Get the picture? The Square has more banks and ATMs within a few blocks thanmany cities as well as untold tons of ice cream.

Because Harvard students are the most privileged people on Earth, strident calls for worldrevolution and sweeping change rarely have much presence either in the Square, or in Harvard Yard,the heart of the place. People who like the status quo are hardly likely urge its destruction. Yet JohnReed '10 did so urge. "Red" Reed is buried in the Kremlin's walls. Even that dubious honor needs

must go to a Harvard man. We wouldn't want it any other way, even though he was Red; at leastthat's a shade of crimson.

Even the homeless like the situation as it is, idling life away, supported by those who can onlyimagine having so much free time since they do not, and never will. Thus instead of earnest young people, grim faced and determined (at least until winter arrives to chill their resolution), there are boys with pony tails selling designer ice cream to undergraduates who will one day (and not sodistant either) rule the world and reap its benefits. They already regard each day at Harvard as the best years of their lives; Harvard likes it that way. The more they think like that, the bigger their alumni contributions over the many years to come... and so memory and remembrance help Harvardwax richer.

I arrive. 1246 Mass. Ave.

About 10 minutes from the time I entered the elevator, I am at my destination, a place of importancefor two reasons: first, this is my first memory of Harvard; the moment I saw Harvard and the Squarefor the first time; Labor Day Week-end, 1969. And because I remember everything about thatepiphany, I clearly remember Mr. Bartley's. That's where I shall lunch this day... but not because Iam nostalgic about food, but because the food is good and, for once, I am really hungry.

A hole in the wall, a dive, a joint.

Bartley's opened its door (it has but one) in 1960, just 9 years before I arrived in Cambridge to startmy graduate work. I cannot tell you how many times I've gone, but dozens seems conservative.

What's more, more times than not I order what I always order because I like it: large raspberry limerickey (to be refilled); Burger Supreme medium well, onion rings, extra dill pickle. If I ate this samemeal every day, I might be thought to be in a rut, but going just two or three times in a year to order and devour this specialite' of the house makes me a connoisseur; I insist on the description.

Uncomfortable, packed like sardines, chairs too low.

Let me be plain with you; if you are not willing to overlook its inconvenient aspects, if you insist onevery amenity, then you will never be happy at Bartley's which in an astonishingly small space packs in an astonishing number of chairs, booths, human and machine food cookers, waitpersons,the raspberry lime rickeys that I crave and can nowadays get nowhere else -- and the lunch counter.

Bit by bit you see just how much is going on in this compact space. The walls are covered withclever sayings, double entendres, pictures of film stars, pictures of politicians, and accolades for itssignature "burguhs". You want to get up to see these better but chances are you'd be tripping over afew people to do so; unless you come right at opening there is no chance you'll get to do this. You'llhave to return. After over 40 years I still have not seen it all.

The first time a waiter screams "Burguh Supreme" at the cook, you'll be startled, but pretty soonyou're screaming your comments and conversation at the top of your voice, like you've been comingfor decades, and here the sheer proximity of other hungry humans, from Kansas, Greece, or Timbuktu works its singular magic.







Forced to be close to them, you make your choice, a choice with universal implications. Either youdecide to ignore your very near neighbor, or you talk to them, like our fathers and grandfathers usedto talk... up close, personal, direct, often humorous, even hilarious ... but talk... to the astonishmentand discontent of the young, who are at first often affronted and monosyllabic when an adult like meoffers a comment, an introduction, an opening to the wonder of people meeting each other andactually conversing, not just texting some inane, impersonal drivel. Bartley's works because the foodis good and, if you're lucky, you've made a new friend...

This is the way America used to be and now so little is, for along the way we have lost the ability totalk with our neighbors about everything, about anything, about nothing in particular. Now we wantwhat Greta Garbo wanted, "to be left alone." And then when we are, we text message wildly in avain attempt to conjure the kind of relationship text messaging can never supply.

So, now a newly minted old age pensioner of 65, I shall keep going to Bartley's, where I shallinform everyone (especially the staff not one of who was then born) how long I've been coming, likeold codgers do. I shall ask for help getting into and especially out of the blue plastic chairs whichalways make me feel older than the hills. I shall greet the only senior on the staff and will politelyturn down the offer of a menu. I know what I want. And I shall say something like this to the personsitting across from me, "You look like Ernest Borgnine." "Oh, yeah, didn't he just die?..." I am on

my way to acquaintance with all its myriad of possibilities.And while I wait for the best burguh on Earth, I will wonder how much longer Bartley's will last, its price for burguhs being the highest in the Square, each increase a nail in its coffin.

However for now I intend in my small way to help keep them alive, a place of good food and thechance to connect with another human or two. And so I have selected as the music for this article,the 1964 tune by the Newbeats "Bread and Butter". It's a peppy little number, completely foolish andinane, about his food and his woman. "She don't cook mashed potatoes/ She don't cook T-bonesteaks". No, she secretly gets them at Bartley's... where she also found her new boyfriend, a manwho really appreciates "her" cooking! Find the story in any search engine... and enjoy.







'Pardon the witches of Connecticut', say relatives. 'Causethere's no nicer witch than you.' Some thoughts.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. It all happened a long time ago, in 1663 in fact, but some of the good citizensof Connecticut just cannot let it go. And it's easy to understand why. After all, it was their ancestors

who were burnt, hanged and otherwise mistreated because their anxious neighbors deemed themwitches and were adamant that their property values would plummet if they didn't take ImmediateAction and get rid of these noisome influences immediately.

This is the story of how it happened, why it happened, and how it is that His Excellency ConnecticutGovernor Dannel Malloy is spending so many of his waking (and perhaps sleeping) momentsdealing with the matter, trying hard to find a formula that will accommodate everyone and end thismatter once and for all.

Such a subject, you'll agree, needs an appropriate tune to put you in the mood for what follows. SoI've selected Frank Sinatra's sultry 1957 song "Witchcraft". It was composed by Cy Coleman withlyrics by Carolyn Leigh. Go find it now in any search engine. Watch out! Its seductive sound and

smooth words are designed to entrance you, "Cause it's witchcraft, wicked witchcraft/ And although,I know, it's strictly taboo".

"It's such an ancient pitch."

Admit it, we're fascinated and repelled by the idea of witches, gals who like to spend their time boiling the body parts of particularly disgusting creatures; turning them into potions, philtres,unguents, incenses, elixirs, oils and other loathsome concoctions all easily found in their handygrimoire, the textbook of white and black magic. Such people, hair uncombed, stinking andunwashed (my particular aversion) gathered deep in forests, there to summon their Boss, knownhereabouts in New England as Old Scratch. They liked being able to summon him. It made for a

really festive evening. He was such a cut up and his tricks with fire were mesmerizing!However, I've got a hunch Scratch didn't much like hanging out with such a motley, reeking crew, but since a guy's got to take his followers where he can find them, he no doubt made the best of it, aswe all do. Besides I have it on excellent authority that Scratch particularly favored their preservesfeaturing hard-to-find eye of newt. He could always position himself to avoid their more gruesomefeatures. And as for the smells... he could always sit upwind and use his brimstone cologne.

"I've got no defense for it/The heat is too intense for it."

Of course the participants want their little soirees to be discrete, private, secret. Equally, people whowant to know will move heaven and earth (there's a potion for this) to find out. And in due course,

they do... and, man oh man, are they ever shocked, not least at the smell, for remember these arePuritans where cleanliness is next to Godliness.

In short order, the fat is in the fire and the Witch Problem commences. Witches are suspected,identified, charged, tried, found guilty and done away with as quickly, publicly and painfully as possible. Their remains are often left to be seen, to warn others that witches are real, are evil, moveamongst us... and that if you ever see anything odd to summon at once the authorities, the purest of the Puritans, who can take action and return the community and all its residents to God's strict,unalterable tenets. Hallelujah!

Sadly, to achieve the desired results, a few must be extinguished but since these are alwayslow-income, low status, completely powerless women, the Godly divines go forward, sure that the







sweeping removal of such undesirables is beneficial, their mere existence in the community beingoutrage enough to justify even the most heinous deed.

"My Grandmother Mary Was Hanged."

This time the problem was discovered by 82 year-old Bernice Mable Graham Telian. She wasresearching her family tree when she discovered that her seventh grandmother, Mary Barnes of Farmington, Connecticut, was condemned as a witch; then dispatched by the gallows at the site of the old State House in Hartford. This happened in 1663.

"You won't find Mary's grave. She and all these people who were hanged were dumped in a hole.Their graves aren't marked," said Telian,a retired university administrator who now lives in Delhi, New York.

This discovery so shocked Telian that she spent the last five years writing a book entitled "MyGrandmother Mary Was Hanged." She was immediately recruited by other outraged citizens withancestors charged with witchcraft and executed. For you see, Mary Barnes was only one of 11Connecticut residents so charged and executed between 1647 and 1663.

What would you have done? The most difficult question of all, information, empathy, duedeliberation required.

Since Connecticut and the other colonies of Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Virginia assignedthose believed to be witches to death, our view of God, evil, Satan, witches and punishment haschanged dramatically. Thus we, with our progressive view on the matter, imagine that had we been present we would surely have saved the ladies from the gallows. But I argue this view is naive,merely another opportunity to praise ourselves and assign virtues which are at best spurious. I amnot saying that these executions were right; they were not. However, are they understandable? Canyou see how otherwise reasonable people made such decisions under the stress of the moment?

They believed in sin, in the devil and that the devil's disciples, some called witches, actively movedamongst them. They did not just think this as some intellectual parlor game. It was an essential

element of what they believed and how therefore they arranged their lives in every aspect. And so,given their viewpoint they made decisions of the greatest gravity, ending lives because by so endingthey saved and preserved the community of the Godly they had established in the New World. Allthis is overlooked, forgotten and pooh-poohed by those who, in an instant, condemn the perpetratorswithout understanding, their judgements sweeping, emphatic, final... and wrong.

"Cause there's no nicer witch than you."

Of course you can't ask Bernice Telian to accept this. It's her ancestor who was charged, foundguilty and executed for witchcraft. That ancestor, Mary Barnes by name, deserves absolution, pardon, her name entirely cleared. The descendants of the other "witches" entirely concur, and theyare now inundating Governor Malloy with postcards reading "I am a Pagan/Witch and vote. Clear

the names of Connecticut's eleven accused and executed witches."

Malloy is in hot pursuit of a way to accommodate the aggrieved but he lacks the constitutionalability to pardon while the state Board of Pardons and Paroles doesn't grant posthumous pardons.

Still, I feel sure they'll find a way of resolving the matter to the satisfaction of all, "Cause there's nonicer witch than you."







Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-haveimperial image found by a connoisseur, restored by amaster, shared with you in its full majesty.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. You are about to be taken inside a world of finesse, exquisite manners, bon

ton, a world where la douceur de la vie was perfected in every particular and where every momentaway was quite simply unbearable. I am talking, of course, of eighteenth century Europe and more precisely of its monarchs and the aristocracy that provided the rapt audience for majesty's everymove. As Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord said, "Those who had not known the Ancien régimewould never be able to know how sweet life had been", and he was most assuredly in a position toknow.

So while we cannot reconstruct this moment of heaven on Earth, we can at least revive a moment of its essence, rather like the fine perfume that lingers on a packet of love letters and so evokes thewhole in an instant of rich remembrance. That is why I advise you to play Jean-Philippe Rameau(1683-1764) before continuing with this article. Yes, Rameau whose sophisticated notes wafted

from the salons of Versailles to all the chateaux of Europe, the music for love affaires without end.

Listen to La Orquesta de Luis XV Concierto de Jordi Savall. You will easily find it any searchengine, and you will soon savor it, especially if there is a drop of blue blood in your veins, as youhave always surmised... and hoped.

An emperor dies, a cornucopia of possibilities.

This chapter of our story begins with a death; but not just any death; the death of God's vicegerent onEarth, Charles VI, ruler of the conglomerate that was neither (according to Voltaire) Holy... nor Roman... nor an Empire. He was a man with a problem; a problem he died (1740) believing he hadsolved. He had sired only daughters (two) but according to the rules of succession, these daughters

could not rule; only sons might... and there were no imperial sons to be had. Charles kept trying toremedy the deficiency, but could not. He then decided that the rules could be changed, if he bribedhis fellow monarchs sufficiently.

He called his solution the Pragmatic Sanction... and it cost him a pretty penny. What's more, theminute he died, the princes of Europe (particularly Frederick II of Prussia) abjured their oaths... each believing they could get more through outright theft, an art perfected by sovereigns thereafter called"Great", like Frederick. And so war with all its delicious possibilities came again to Europe, this particular dust-up called "The War of the Austrian Succession" (1740-1748).

Of the many kings and princes involved (including Maria Theresa, the archducal beneficiary of thePragmatic Sanction), only one need detain us here, Charles Albert, Prince-elector of Bavaria from

1726. He was the candidate Louis XV of France selected to break the Habsburgs unbreakable holdon the imperial title and emoluments. It seemed like a fine idea when raised... and so enough electorswere bribed to make him "Charles VII, by the grace of God elected Holy Roman Emperor, forever August, King in Germany and of Bohemia, Duke in...etc., etc." How could mere mortal turn it alldown?

Thus was Europe divided into the Habsburg party and those who saw more spoils by adhering to theonly non-Habsburg emperor since the 15th century, Charles VII Albert of the giddy House of Wittelsbach, cock-a-hoop, but not for long.

"Uneasy lies the head..."







Soon enough Charles Albert had reason to regret. His imperial coronation on 12 February 1742 wasfollowed by his Austrian adversaries overrunning his home territories and Munich his capital. Hehad an imperial title but no substance whatsoever. Deriding wags mocked him, "et Caesar et nihil,"meaning "as well Emperor, as nothing." Just a year later,1743, this impecunious, hapless princelingdied, of gout, obese, despairing. And so he returned to Munich in a super sized coffin, a failure, anembarrassment, a man best forgotten, not painted.

Bildnis des Kurfursten Karl Albrecht von Bayern, Jan Kupetzky (Bosing/Pressburg 1667- 1740 Nurnberg), zugeschrieben, Ol auf Leinwand, 92 x 74,3 cm.

I am a close reader of "Alte Meister" ("Old Master") catalogs produced by the Austrian auctionhouse Dorotheum (founded in 1707). I open these catalogs with a mixture of dread and white-hotenthusiasm; afraid of what I'll find that will crush my every good intention to "budget" and "save"... painstaking in reviewing every page. The portrait of the Emperor Carl VII Albert, Lot 8, 11 June,2012 was tailer-made to catch my eye. It was love at first sight; I could only hope that my long-timeconservator Simon Gillespie would find the irremediable flaws that would save my money andnegate any thought of purchase. Otherwise I was well and truly doomed, since I am an assiduouscollector of Austrian imperial pictures and this one was rare indeed; no wonder, given the fact thatthe subject had other things to do than sit for his portrait during his brief reign so filled with woe and

catastrophe. I awaited Simon's report with impatience.

Dull to look at, layers of dirt and discolored varnishes, what the trained eye sees, what it means.

If you mean to collect good art, particularly good art down on its luck, dirty, damaged, desolate, youneed an eye that sees not only what is but what was and what can be. This is the masterful, deepseeing eye Simon Gillespie, wizard of Cleveland Street London, has developed over decades andwhich I, mere acolyte, have spent many years improving. The entire business is predicated on whatthe master's eye sees and what his deft hand must then effect to return the disconsolate image to theradiance its artist intended.

This is all easily said but needs the study and experience of a lifetime to render. I invariably retain

Simon Gillespie because he remains constant in his objective; to restore, not to invent; to go wherethe artist went but no further, and so return to life in its pristine form each work he touches with hisnimble fingers, the fingers it has taken a lifetime to train and execute their crucial work.

Simon's report.

Given the dull appearance of this picture, its layers of disfiguring dirt and degraded varnishes,writing it off might have made perfect sense, especially given a plethora of other problems,including a plain and ordinary wooden frame. There was absolutely nothing imperial about it. Buthere is where Gillespie's masterful eye came into play, for beneath every dismal aspect there wasquality, the quality imparted by its creator, Jan Kupetzky (1667-1740).

Kupetzky's talent manifested itself early and to the right people. Just 20 years old, after studying withthe Swiss painter Benedikt Klaus, Kupetzky went on an extended Italian study trip. In Rome, PrinceAleksander Benedykt Sobieski, the son of Polish King John III Sobieski, helped him becomefamous... and so for the rest of his long life he was. This fame got him the plum commissions; thestriking pictures that resulted got him more; Prince Eugene of Savoy, aristocrats needing a carefultouch with their eternal images, even Russian Tsar Peter I and his hapless heir, Tsarevich AlexeiPetrovich. Influenced by Caravaggio and Rembrandt he painted splendid pictures of himself, hisfamily, friends. He was a master and used his great gifts to great effect. In due course, with assiduityand brilliance he became the most significant German portrait painter of his day; just the manCharles VII Albert required to portray him as he wished to be, very definitely not as he was.







Gillespie looked deep and saw enough evidence of masterful Kupetzky to justify proceeding to thenext level. And on this basis I acquired the work at auction for the low estimate; I believe I was theonly bidder. That's how little appeal this picture then possessed and how nearly a very different fatehad been avoided.

Ah, but look at it now... its splendor enhanced by the best carver and gilder in London whoreplicated an original frame design and delivered the high tone of gilding as would have been at thetime. And so the saddest Holy Roman Emperor, the man who gambled all and lost all, sails forth

into perpetuity looking exactly like a king should look, signed by Kupetzky, conserved by Gillespie,hung here in Cambridge for me.







'God rest you merry, gentlemen'. At my home that meanspreparing everything for the visit of the Prince of Peace. It'sa true labor of love.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. Please note the date: Saturday October 13 for this is the opening of the

Christmas preparation season for 2012. Archeologists and cultural historians will be grateful to mein years hence when they get their government grants and write their learned tomes about the whysand wherefores of Christmas in this our particular era. Yes, I say they will be glad to have eachsalient fact, observation and deduction gathered by yours truly and herewith shared with the world.

For we are talking about the most joyous event of the Christian year, Christmas, and its preparations,staggering for some, meagre and tardy for others, but all acknowledging that this is and continues to be an event of significance to each of us.

How was October 13 selected as the commencement date for this event? Easy! It was the first daywhen your observant author was assailed by not one but a series of "the Christmas season has

commenced" portents, signs which might easily be dismissed were there but one or even two, butwhich in their concerted numbers make it clear that the great count-down to Christmas, with itstraditions, meanings, songs, poems, foods, displays, sentiments, travels, resolutions, friends,observances has now commenced in earnest and for the next 71days until the day itself your life will be affected, influenced, shaped and to a greater or lesser extent determined by what our fellowtravelers do or don't do, buy or don't buy, wear, stand in line, decorate... or don't wear, stand in line,or decorate.

In other words, because of the birth of a child you may or may not believe was the Son of God your life and all its prosaic concerns and tasks will be hi-jacked; weeks of your life will be less yours,significantly influenced and directed by others you don't know, will never meet, but who arenonetheless powers over you, determined you should listen to them... or else.

The first portents.

The thing about portents, that is a clue to future occurrences, is that they must for maximum impacttake you completely unaware. One moment you're doing such and such a task; considering such andsuch a thing; talking about such and such a topic. Then the portent arrives, preferably delivered byone or more appropriate gods of Olympus, all of whom seem to traffic in the dicey business of portents, omens, divinations, and auguries. The portent (often obscure and therefore more amusing toits deity deliverer) having arrived, pushes other quotidian topics to the bottom of your consciousness, pulling out the rug on what you were focused on a moment ago and substitutingquite a different agenda.

Yesterday, October 13 mind, these portents arrived thick and fast; itself a sign that a seismic momenthad arrived; actung! stop what you're doing and pay attention. And unless you're that hapless noodlethe bored and therefore capricious gods have determined to make even more hapless and miserable,you do pay attention. Thus does your life cease to be as much yours as it was just a moment before.The gods know this, but they have kept this insightful observation for their own delectation and benefit ere now. They wouldn't dream of imparting this intelligence to you; "free will" for humans being one of the most potent and popular of their shrewd devices for controlling the not so sapienshomo.

Let me make one thing clear, for sharing this with you I shall be persona non grata at Olympus







tonight, for if mankind knew just how little true freedom their gods have allowed us, there would besuch a revolution as has never been even imagined before, much less consummated. And the godswould surely have to make concessions, or they would never regain exalted position and control...and what would their excellencies do then to amuse themselves at our expense?

What is your portent saying?

Portents must be clear but capable of complete misunderstanding. In other words, when reviewingan event that could be a portent, two reasonably intelligent people must be capable of drawing twodramatically different conclusions, for a portent is not a directive... not a declaration... if it were thegods would be most unhappy... for if their signs could be so easily read by everyone the muddles beloved of these ancient deities would cease and the gods who already have to wrestle with thematter that is eternity...would fall into even deeper despair; for they already have too little to do andfar too much time in which to do it. Remember, their irritation, ennui and pique become the basis for our misery. No wonder they don't want us to know.

Christmas portents by the hour.

The gods realize humans are short sighted, careless, capable of massive confusions andmisunderstandings. Thus, the game becomes determining the precise formula that will give us clues

(but not too many) and insight (but not too much). Even the Olympian gods are not born knowingthese things; they must learn. And they do so at our expense, for what are we humans for if not to provide the wherewithal for their education and expertise? We are just so many lab rats to divinity. Nice work if you can get it.

Store sightings, catalogs, email.

The first shop in my neighborhood to deck the halls was the smoking shop in Harvard Square. Giventhe fact that teen-age smoking has dropped dramatically; thereby proving that even heedlessadolescents can get the message if we adults have the patience and deliberation to beat them aboutthe head with it.

As a result, the revenues at the smoking shop have most probably dropped... whilst their Harvard-charged rent has undoubtedly done the reverse. It is therefore obvious why they want toweigh in with a cheery seasonable greeting and display. "Give the gift of cancer."

Even the most knowledgeable of advertising executives might think twice before taking on thisdaunting account. Still, there they are, hoping that the dwindling number of young smokers will purchase their diminished life span from them, especially if they can do so in the name of Jesus, who promised the eternal life the smoking shop is doing so much to curtail. Cool.

Catalog temptation (and ease) by mail and the 'net.

Stores like the smoking shop need to lure you into their premises as early as possible before

Christmas; their continuing survival depends on it. But catalogs live to remind you how difficult andirksome store shopping is in the age of catalogs and 'net. Simply mentioning the invading hordes, theunending lines, the harassed staff, the parking difficulties is usually enough to tip the scales tocatalog shopping online and off. That persuaded me. As a result the last several years such shoppingconstitutes all my shopping.

The problem is the proliferation of mail-order Christmas catalogs, especially after you become a proven buyer. Then you may expect to hear from each catalog at least 3-4 times before their lastfrenzied promotion, hitting about December 15. All prophesy consumer distress if you fail to ACT NOW, visit their website and ORDER!







But here the retail stores re-emerge as they reap the considerable advantages deriving from procrastinators like you. At this point you will most assuredly wish you had heeded their October warning. You will pledge to do better next year. You won't, of course. And so you'll keep your nameon every list; a portent of things to come, especially purchases you're sure to make. They know that,even if you don't.

Polishing the silver.

In my house there is one certain activity that indicates the coming of Christmas. That is polishing thesilver. It is a very time-consuming task, taking a couple of days. Mercedes Joseph, so giving andwarm in all her aspects, will take these traits and leave the silver burnished into eye-poppingradiance. It's a significant part of our invitation to the Prince of Peace, an invitation that will see usclambering up step ladders to clean the chandeliers in all the rooms to ensure that all is brilliant andevery facet sparkles. So that there is not a single molecule of tracked in dirt or bunched carpet. Wework hard to make it perfect; we work early and late to make it perfect... and we do it all because of the advent of this harbinger of our salvation; because we will do it, not because anyone tells us whatto do or oversees our efforts, evaluating what we do.

We do it, because this is Christmas and the greatest gift we give is our voluntary adherence and a belief that starts in our hearts and has no ending whatsoever.

That is why October 13, I awoke to the strains of my favorite carol running through my head, "Godrest you merry, gentlemen/Let nothing you dismay", first released in 1760. In an instant I find BingCrosby's 1945 version; then in a search engine one other version after another, including a rendition by "Barenaked Ladies" (2004). Only the very young can find the sniggering humor in suchsophomoric nomenclature, but today I don't care.

For you see, every off key note I sing proves that I have become a portent myself of the great eventen route "For Jesus Christ our Savior/Was born upon this Day", and we rejoice in the Good News passed from me and mine, to you and yours, to a burdened world which needs "tidings of comfortand joy, comfort and joy", the true meaning of Christmas and why we gentlemen and gentlewomen

rest merry and shall remain so long past the day and season itself.







'Simple things made him happy.' Dave MacNeill, dead at 80,August 28, 2012; a man whose blissful mission was music.An encomium for this man of notes.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's Program Note. When I was growing up in suburban Chicago in the 1950s listening to the

musical compositions deemed "classical" was close to a signed admission that you were liberal, progressive, or worse, some kind of left-leaning, long-haired, sexually liberated and Communistsympathizing egg-head, and that's a fact. Classical music was for Eye-talians and other foreigners(always called by some abusive epithet) whose morals and hygiene were suspect and didn't know thewords to "God Bless America," no sirree.

And so, if one had a taste for the classics one indulged it with the shades pulled down and thevolume low, turning them on cautiously, hoping your best friend Bobby didn't drop in withoutknocking as he usually did, for you were sure he'd never understand why you were spending such aglorious evening listening to that stuff.

But you weren't just "listening" to it; you were engrossed in it, happily overwhelmed by the notes,the unending cascade of notes, just the right notes... notes that could lift you up in exultation; notesthat could cast you down into profound despair; notes that thrilled... notes that made you glad youwere alive... notes that touched the ear of God... and the notes that were not just of God... but wereGod. And so your love affair with the classics began, and you, like me, knew the beatitude that canonly come with music.

Dave MacNeill knew this supreme felicity and spent his long career making sure others knew it, too.He may have been a "simple man" as he claimed, but his life's work was anything but, for he aimedto uplift people everywhere who knew neither the joy of music nor the recognition that no life canever be complete if it transpires without music... and that the music which best repairs this omissionis the complex patterns of notes called "classical", for they are the ones which, demanding the most,

deliver the most and are, therefore, the most valuable of all.

Meet Dave MacNeill, good servant of the Muse Euterpe.

There is only one way to meet Dave MacNeill and that is with music... and so I have selected one piece he particularly liked. In fact, he actually narrated it live with the Boston Pops. It was CamilleSaint-Saens' 1886 masterpiece "The Carnival of the Animals". Because its composer felt the work might be construed as "frivolous" by "serious" musicians, he prohibited it from being played duringhis lifetime (but for the single movement of "The Swan").

Thus it was not performed until 26 February 1922; after his death. It has since gone on to becomeone of his favorite works, particularly with children. As such, this was a natural selection for

MacNeill, since he spent a lifetime (including a stint as a trustee of Young Audiences of Massachusetts) exposing children to the meanings of music, its exuberance, awe, and the magicwhich children love instinctively and so well. Go now to any search engine and let the genie of themusic ramble in your receptive mind... the way that he did in the summer of 1949.

Polio.

One of the greatest of human successes has been the mass immunization and ultimate eradication of polio. Unfortunately it came too late for Dave MacNeill, who thus found himself afflicted,wondering what would become of him. A local radio DJ named Bill Sherman inadvertently provided the answer. This DJ, you see, played records dedicated to patients in the hospital ward.







From Sherman MacNeill saw the possibilities of radio being most important as a device for reachingout, touching people, changing lives.

He knew its power, for it had touched him at the low point of his young life. And so, by the kind of "fluke" destiny loves so well, he persuaded WCRB-FM to let him host a new program called"Young America Speaks". It featured suburban high school students talking about sports and currentevents or performing music. Without knowing it, he had commenced his distinguished 57-year career in radio, nearly all of it (with the exception of a tour with KCBH-FM in California as

manager) with Bill Sherman's station, WCRB, the station that came to be personified by DaveMacNeill, one of the key supporters of music and the arts in the Boston area.

The blizzard that "parked" him in Waltham, Massachusetts.

Massachusetts is famous for its debilitating, paralyzing blizzards, but as all New Englanders know,the force of these blizzards is not always negative. I know. I met my best friend in one. He wasstranded and had no way to get home to Hartford; I offered him a place to stay. That was nearly 40years ago! Something similar happened with MacNeill.

He was born in Westchester, Pennsylvania and grew up in New Jersey and Canada. After living in Nova Scotia in his father's hometown, the family decided to do what so many residents of "New

Scotland" did... leave... the same as so many residents of "Old Scotland." They were in Waltham,Massachusetts, home of WCRB, when a nasty blizzard decreed they'd be staying there for a "fewdays". Instead they stayed for decades; MacNeill graduating from Waltham High School in 1949,expecting to study engineering at MIT. But he contracted polio the summer before his freshman year and never matriculated.

Thus was the world deprived of one engineer... thereby opening the road for MacNeill for somethingquite different and unique: Greater Boston's avatar for the arts, a role tailor made for this gentle manwith deep-flowing passion for all the arts, music above all. And so out of personal pain and tragedy,great benefits to millions flowed... lightening their loads, enlightening their minds... enriching themthrough the greatest sounds on Earth, opened to them by a good man with a withered left arm and an

agile mind that never stopped growing, especially in his encyclopedic knowledge of music.Boston Pops.

In the early 1960s he took on the assignment that made him the voice of the Boston Pops, an areainstitution known to the world through such distinguished conductors as Harry Ellis Dickson,Leonard Bernstein, Arthur Fiedler, Seiji Ozawa and Isaac Stern. By now as famous (at least inBoston) as most of the artists he interviewed, he never lost sight of his mission; to celebrate themusic and the people who made it, never himself.

Dave MacNeill and me.

I first met Dave MacNeill in the late 1970s in conjunction with a book I'd written entitled

"Development Today: A Fund Raising Guide for Nonprofit Organizations." MacNeill, like so many people who wondered at our nation's blindness in cutting arts budgets, looked for ways of assistingsuch organizations. This, my fourth book, couldn't have come out at a better time and became anunlikely best seller. He invited me on his pre-recorded Sunday public affairs program... and the twoof us hit it off at once.

He (in the best Scots-Irish tradition which I shared with him) liked people who were making a realdifference and talking sense. I passed the test... and I also knew the game. 25 minutes of straight,disinterested, problem-solving talk, followed by 5 minutes of unabashed promotion, an outrightcommercial, with phone number and all. On this basis, we got on like gang busters. As a result, Iwas invited frequently, always glad to accept.







First, I liked the feel of WCRB. Just by walking in the door, one was confronted by rows of recordings, a magnificent library of the best sounds ever produced. I always felt right at home in thisenvironment; after all, I was a trained scholar myself. The atmosphere was calm, serene, no hustleand bustle. I was greeted by name and in just a minute (for he was promptness itself), DaveMacNeill appeared. We were on a cordial first-name basis at once, genuinely glad to see each other.He knew I would deliver a quality program; I knew he would give me a terrific free commercial atits end; a commercial which never failed to be profitable to me.

Because I was assiduous in contacting all area radio and television stations, I came to know better than most the managers, on-air personalities, and directors of public affairs. Dave MacNeill wasalways amongst the very best, aiming to have the best community programming just as he played the best of the classical repertoire.

Now this self-effacing, even humble man (so he said of himself) is gone, truly an institutionremoved from our diminished city, which will find it hard to replace such a paragon. As for me, Ihave in a box of audio tapes at least some of the programs Dave MacNeill and I did so many yearsago. I mean to listen to them and walk down Memory Lane with a man who was expert in manythings, but most of all in promoting at all times and places the critical importance of the arts ingeneral and music, the best music, in particular.

With the arts and the resources they must have under attack at every level, we can ill afford to losesuch a paladin. We have lost enough in losing the man. Now we must strive to ensure we don't losehis lifetime's message, devotion, and tenacity as well.







Resource

About 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 online

Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.

Republished with author's permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com.


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