'Just One Of Those Things.' Thoughts on America, our massacres, and randomdeath. Do we really care and are we willing to do the necessary?

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. In 1935 two of America's greatest talents, Frank Sinatra and Cole Porter, created a catchy little number called "Just One Of Those Things." It instantly rose, fueled by the sophistication and class that oozed from both these men of the world. In it, they took us on "A trip to the moon on gossamer wings." Hearing it (and you should go to any search engine now so you can), one felt one could be anyone, achieve anything.

To say it was heady is a decided understatement... it was what America was all about... and we thought exceedingly well of ourselves for the Great Republic we had wrought, the cynosure and envy of the world.

That was then...

... this is now. Now, with time's  mordant wit and cruel irony apparent, what was once so lucid, now seems murky at best. Things we once thought important, affirming as they did our "can-do" orientation and proven ability to improve most everything we touched, now affront by reminding us of what we were... and what we have become. "Can-do" has morphed into "no-can-do" while we were engaged in congratulating ourselves on just how good, clever, and deserving we were of every plaudit and paean. America became something from the "good old days", something we had unaccountably lost... to our puzzlement, pain, and perplexity. Where had we gone so terribly, perhaps irrevocably wrong?

"The Dark Knight Rises" in Aurora, part of the greater Colorado Springs area.

One is hardly surprised to learn (December, 2011) that "Forbes" magazine named Colorado Springs, Colorado and environs one of the best and most livable communities in the land. This view is reinforced by its picture perfect post card views, its warm and amiable residents, and municipal services which actually work and no bankruptcy pending. It all seems too good to be true... and, of course it is, for the currents that disturb the nation are all present and accounted for in Colorado Springs, as became evident to all July 20, 2012 when a real-life "dark knight" in full body armor named James Eagen Holmes,  24, blasted his way out of obscurity making 12 victims pay the ultimate price to cover his cost of egress, with 59 others wounded and seared for life .

To secure his notorious place in history, he carried with him into a packed cinema two cannisters of debilitating gas, two pistols, an assault rifle, a shot gun and an ample supply of the thousands of rounds of ammunition it had been so easy and perfectly legal to secure on the 'net from the ease, comfort, and privacy of his booby-trapped home.

Never had mass murder been so effortless, so efficient, and so easy, a very model for incipient mass murderers of every ilk and  persuasion, everywhere on Earth. We need not waste another word on Holmes, beyond our supposition that he did what he wanted to do to secure the pernicious result he desired. If so, his is the only satisfaction emanating from the killing fields of Colorado, for he achieved his destructive mission... while the rest of us have not even begun to accomplish ours. And that is a measure of our tragedy as a nation which once prided itself on its ability to solve even the most intractable of problems. Now instead of rolling up our sleeves in an earnest attempt to solve, we instead see events like this as "inevitable", "certain", "unavoidable". And that's that, "just one of those things."

The growth and consequences of "event fatigue".

The entire nation, all citizens of the Great Republic know well and have often participated in the lugubrious ritual which follows each massacre. First come the news announcements "We interrupt this program...." Then come the wire service reports (carried at once on the Internet)... and the first bloody photos of carnage at the scene, the innocent corpses who never knew what hit them... the dazed survivors sobbing, their certainties of just moments before now gone forever, unendurable grief and dismay now their portion.

At the White House, the president is alerted... and plans to leave at once, his remarks an amalgamation of what every president before him has said of such increasingly frequent incidents. Folks visit the site, tear up, hug, drop bouquets of store- bought flowers, festooned with bright colored helium balloons and often children's stuffed animals, festive cards now featuring the names of victims. "Something must be done", but only this little, this inadequate is ever done... until the next "inevitable" massacre when this paltry, petty, pitiful response is trotted out again, less satisfying, less persuasive, less acceptable than it was before.

What then is needed since the response to each new massacre becomes less acceptable and less acceptable still, these responses victims of "event fatigue" which turn even the most exemplary and conscientious of citizens into ostriches, adamant in their desire neither to see nor hear the palpable evil, thus by such means "dealing with it" by doing absolutely nothing at all?

This is what such a result means: that each innocent body laid out in its own blood on school room floor, on campus green or cinema parking lot, each life cut short, each family riven with anger, sadness, and an infinity of regrets and thoughts of what might have been but which now can never be... these things, once the most profound of horrors, are now regarded as a mere tax we pay for the "free" society we have fashioned. And this is acceptable.. so long as it is not their bloody body laid out... the lives of their near and dear cut short, or their plans and dreams destroyed in an instant of hell. This is ignoble... but we are beginning to live with it...  and that is the most unacceptable thing of all.

Back to the future.

To move beyond the current unsatisfactory situation, where each new outrage and massacre produces less response and more acceptance, we must remember that every great society became so when it attacked such problems with will and resolution, understanding that such is always the price of growth, development, and greatness. So far, we have set no goals, canvassed no solutions, engaged in no general discussions, debates, or dialogs. Instead, we have tried to bury the problem as we bury its victims, one after another, all too soon taken. And so a great nation, our Great Republic, betrays through its inertia its tolerance for evil and its moving away from good on which we built a city that could indeed be a shining city on a hill.

Thus, know this: every needless death that has occurred, every life cut short, has occurred not because such events are "inevitable" but because we have accepted them as such, rather than human problems with human solutions. In short we have done what no great people can ever do and retain their self-esteem and any claim to preeminence: we have declared defeat before we have done anything to achieve victory. And this marks the full measure of our continuing decline from our special, Godly mission.

"So good-bye, and amen/ Here's hoping we meet now and then/ It was great fun/ But it was just one of those things."

Could this be our epitaph, the best we are capable of?  Until we change our thinking from "just one of those things" to "just one of those things we can solve" it may well be. The answer resides in each of us and is urgently required...

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 Ruthsella Corasol  http://WorkingAtHome101.com 

On Figs.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's Program Note. Tommy at the Montrose Spa up the street was in a pother when I walked in the other day. "Where have you been?", he blurted out. Clearly, I had done something or, more accurately, failed to do something, but what? Tommy's index finger pointed at my dereliction. It was a box of Mission Figs. "I got three boxes of them a couple days ago," he said. "And I thought sure you would have come in and snatched them up."

He positively pouted, his point irrefutable... I was, after all, his absolute best fig customer. I got the last box (for the day) and made my point, too. "You could have called me..." Oh, yes, he should have... but in the event, the figs in question went precisely where they were destined to go, "Down the hatch."

Fig Newtons

My first encounter with the fig I devour with avidity and the greatest possible satisfaction was not felicitous. Quite the reverse. For you see, I have always hated Fig Newtons and nothing you say to me will change my adamant mind. So don't even try. Still, as this is an article about figs mention must be made of Nabisco, which buys as many figs as anyone, only to waste them by baking a trademarked version of the ancient fig roll pastry filled with fig paste.

It might as well be wallpaper paste as otherwise; they taste about the same. Still, since invented by Philadelphia baker and self-proclaimed fig lover Charles Roser in 1891, its characteristic chewiness has been a staple of school lunch boxes as has its unusual shape. And yes, in the interests of civic boosterism I feel bound to tell you that the Cambridgeport, Massachusetts-based Kennedy Biscuit Company purchased the Roser recipe. As I am writing to you near Cambridgeport, I feel compelled to tell you. What's more because I can never give too many encomia to my city, state, and neighborhood you are now being told these unappetizing "Newtons" were named after Newton, Mass, just down the road a piece. Thus, I have done my duty. But never, ever ask me to eat a Fig Newton or change my lifelong opinion that the cookie is an abomination and a colossal waste of otherwise delectable figs.

"I don't care a fig about that."

Have your heard this age-old expression? It means that your level of interest is so low in the the matter under discussion it hardly signifies at all. But I am sure that doesn't apply to the fig itself. I am certain you do care a fig about the fig and desire to know absolutely everything about it, and so I am about to dramatically increase your knowledge of Ficus, a genus of about 850 species of woody trees. The common fig (and the adjective nettles this most popular of Ficus tree) is called Ficus carica. Make a note of it. These things count in life.

Ficus carica is native to the Middle East. People developing an instant affinity for figs took them on their travels. Soon they were everywhere from Portugal to Afghanistan. People of acutely different cultural and political views found themselves united in their love of figs. Amity must start somewhere. From the 15th century onwards it was grown in areas including Northern Europe and the New World. This had two important results.

First, Europeans, especially the English, turned mere figs into culinary perfection. Each Christmas their figgy puddings became sinfully delicious architectural monuments, the grander you ordered, the higher your social standing (and likelihood for gout and other conditions of the well-to-do.) Figs were Introduced into England by Cardinal Reginald Pole. Burnt at the stake in 1558, he may have been the first notable to grill figs, a delicacy. Yes, figs were moving in the highest society including a featured position in a particularly rambunctious Christmas carol, "We wish you a Merry Christmas". The important and lyric line as far as figs are concerned is this: "Now bring us some figgy pudding/And bring it right here", and people did as they were bade. Delicious.

The second result occurred when figs landed in California. It was a match made in heaven, facilitated by Fra Junipero Serra (d. 1784), the man who more than anyone was responsible for the quaint little missions. Thus we may call him the officiating agent in the marriage between the sweet taste of luscious figs and the unmatched agricultural land and climate of the Golden State. The padres savored the figs and no doubt ate more than was good for them; (figs are like that.) And so Mission Figs were born... thereby provoking the great debate between the figs that grew in Cyprus ("the original") and those caressed by the goddess Cali. Which was truly superior? Now lest you say you don't care a fig about this, I tell you this: figs no less than the rest of us bicker about their position in life... and there isn't a fig grown who will tell you ca sera sera. The competition is real and each side aims to win.

Me, judge.

I am one of the few people you will ever meet who has indulged himself, copiously, ravenously, not wisely but too well, with both claimants. Because I lived in California from1962; (in Nuestra Senora la Reina de Los Angeles, one of Serra's most dubious achievements) I disdained the local figs (for all their glorious aspects). People are like that, overlooking perfection merely because it is readily available. And thus I began my love affaire with figs in Cyprus, the place my long-ago Crusader ancestors found refuge at the de Lusignan Court after being summarily ejected from the Holy Land they conquered and misunderstood.

It did not take much of a leap to imagine that my devout but unlucky kinsmen made themselves as comfortable as possible in the harbor at Limassol and buying a heaping basket of figs for a pittance proceeded to spend a glorious afternoon devouring its contents, spitting stems into the cerulean beauty of the Mediterranean. It was not a bad way to spend centuries of exile. Perhaps the figs, exclusively local produce, helped make it all bearable, la dolce far niente being some small consolation for the now lost Via Dolorosa tread by Our Saviour and promising believers eternal life and redemption. Figs offer their own sweet balm... and we must take it as we can.

Celebrity fig eaters.

The argument for preferment of Cyprus figs over their succulent California rivals goes like this. Not only are we the original deal, but we have been chosen and then eaten by an almost unbelievable cadre of VERY Important People. Here learned figs wax encyclopedic as they recall their celebrated eaters through the ages and the daunting array of figgy references, viz. The Holy Bible, in the Garden of Eden (where figs are rightly put out by the fact that their goodness is overshadowed for eternity by the egregious apple).This opinion is shared by every fig, outraged by injustice. Modest by nature, figs consider it only fitting and proper that their foliage, in the form of a leaf, should be used to perplex and shield youngsters of tender age, whose first baffling question to parents is: what did you do with your leaf, Mama?  It is an almost unanswerable query.

The figs of Cyprus are renowned throughout the mythological, classical and historic records. How they were used in the Jewish Passover celebration...  how the legendary founders of the Eternal City and its empire, Romulus and Remus, were suckled by a she-wolf under a fig tree. (She-wolf milk being difficult to gather, the wolves seeing no reason to share, this notable figgy cocktail did not catch on.) How Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, sat under a fig tree (apparently a popular past time for historic figures) and changed the world. It is not recorded whether he ate of this fruit. We can only hope he did, for millions depend on his own well-being and a mental clarity enhanced by figs .

Cleopatra, some figs, and an asp.

Learned figs, the most numerous kind, all know that Egypt's iconic Queen Cleopatra deprived young Octavian Caesar of her body and renown by the simple expedient of placing an asp in a basket of ripened figs, pinching the serpent which retaliated by biting her majesty and ruining the figs. (Shakespeare is graphic on this revolting fact.) Perhaps for this reason concoctions involving asps and figs have been rare.

"The fig is a secretive fruit."

Figs are not a prudish fruit. They pride themselves on their liberality of outlook, truly fruit of the world. But even advanced figs still dance gingerly around the matter of D.H. Lawrence's 1920 success de scandale, "Figs".

"The fig is a secretive fruit. As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic; And it seems male. But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is feminine."

You need a fig leaf for the remainder and a place no one can find you whilst reading.

Beside this wealth of imagery, literary references and the known dietary preferences of gods and princes, Cali offers only one argument for its Mission Figs: unrivalled taste. And this, as Tommy knew, will always be paramount... which was the reason he should have called me forthwith, figs not yet on the counter. I would have bargained for the lot and thanked Lawrence for telling me how to eat them.

"Just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Envoi.

Before going to Tommy's today to see if there are Mission Figs available, if so pouncing to get all that he has, I recommend as the music for this article "Liaisons" from Stephen Sondheim's splendid 1973 show "A Little Night Music." Find it in any search engine. Hermione Ginggold is perfectly ancient, world-weary and sardonic as Madame Armfeldt. Her disgust at the descending standards of contemporary life is palpable. "What once was a sumptuous feast is figs. No -- not even figs -- raisins!" And that simply won't do.

 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 Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Ruthsella Corasol just posted a new blog titled A Surefire Internet Marketing Solution.

Ruthsella Corasol just posted a new blog titled A Surefire Internet Marketing Solution.

A man. His rose. And the drought.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. Winter nights in Iowa make it easy to believe that hell is not a fiery place with unrelenting flames that burn for eternity but rather an untold immensity of ice and snow; a place where every word you know for such boundless cold is inadequate. And when to the cold you add the disorienting reality of unmitigated darkness with its agile ability to distort everything, you have the crucial ingredients for fear, for hopelessness, for a loneliness that is cruel and wanton. You need human contact but there is none to be had. Just the piercing winds of the prairies which play with your brain, scald your breath, and make you ready to confess, even to crimes you did not commit.

This is winter in Iowa... and mere fortitude is not enough. You need, you must have and will pledge anything to get, any token that God has not abandoned you. For such moments, constantly recurring there are garden catalogs, catalogs filled with riotous color, with an Eden of plants, each more attractive than the one before, and, above all, there is hope that this dismaying season will pass, leaving you to breath easy again and embrace the promise of spring to come. With such catalogs in hand, hope and the future stand against the winds that would otherwise distress and dishearten you.

Yes, the flimsy pages are enough, a life preserver thrown to you at the moment you most require it. And so, with every light on, with the fire lit, with all the comfortable accoutrements you can find, you take catalog in hand and.... dream. For that is what such catalogs are.... dreams and the promise of a future where these dreams will live in all their glory. Now let the cruel winds howl as they might, you have that which will bring you through the night.

The man who turned the pages.

Have you ever wondered who reads these garden catalogs in dead of gelid night? I'll tell you of one such reader, for if I did not you would go through your entire life without knowing him, and that would be sad, unacceptable ... for he is a man you will be glad to know. I intend to tell you about him here and now, for you will never understand this tale without understanding this human, being one of the three protagonists. His name is Robert and he is easy to overlook. His looks are in no way distinctive; he lives in a house that is not remarkable. He is a good neighbor by which people mean he keeps his lawn reasonably cut and clipped, has only bad habits which are quiet and do not disturb, and never acts as though he was better than you are, for he is not. You would call him an average man... but you would be wrong. For this is a man of fierce memories and fiercer loyalties, a man of profound affections, a man of passions, burning deep, known only to himself; a man for whom a thing of beauty is a joy forever and who is willing to do what is necessary to bring this thing into the light. Such a man is not average... for no one who brings beauty to a roiling world is that.

"Der Rosenkavalier".

In 1911, the city of Dresden, one of the most cultured places on Earth, thrilled to a new opera composed by Richard Strauss to an original German libretto by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. It was called  "Der Rosenkavalier" (the Knight of the Rose), and it was an unqualified triumph in every way. It is a story of pathos, aging, love, generosity and loss...  all conveyed by some of the most lush and evocative music ever written. If you have even a molecule of sentimentality, this opus will move you and you will never forget it. Go now to any search engine and let this balm of music overwhelm you... for my story about a real life Knight of the Rose continues...

The knight selects his rose.

Before there can be a Rosenkavalier there must be a rose. And this rose must be rich, glorious, capable of giving all, attracting all, enhancing the life of all who see it... and the fortunate one who receives it. Such an important matter takes time and cannot be accomplished in an instant. No one knows this better than Robert, for his habits are tenacious and his work thorough. And he is intimately acquainted with the soil and circumstances in which the rose must grow, the soil of Eldon, Iowa.

Most likely you have never heard of Eldon or Wapello County and will never visit. The population was just 927 at the 2010 census; it was 729 in 1880 and has lost population in each census since 1930. It is celebrated as the location for the small Carpenter Gothic style house that has come to be known as the American Gothic House because Grant Wood used it as the background for his famous 1930 painting "American Gothic." The farmer and his wife featured in the picture look grim, gaunt, self-righteous... and desperately in need of a Rosenkavalier and the liberal beauty of his sweet-smelling rose.

In this they stand for every citizen of Eldon, of Iowa and of all other places. For we all need more beauty in our daunting lives... and a Rosenkavalier eager to present it to us, arriving just in time before our challenged spirits sink.

The John F. Kennedy.

In 1965 Eugene S. Boerner's hybrid tea rose was released to the world by Jackson & Perkins Co. It is a grand thing with 48 petals and a string of beneficial features, including strong fragrance, disease resistance and the ability to withstand the pervasive heat of a punishing Iowa summer. Moreover, it had three unrivalled benefits... its petals were perfectly sculpted creating the effect of timeless grace, elegance and sophistication; its white color was cool and detached from every aspect of squalid life and daily struggle, and it was named for a president who died too soon and left a nation wondering about all that was lost, all that might have been. Such a man deserved such a radiant thing. And so Robert, along with many others, selected it to enhance his life, beautify his environment and make it clear to all that making the world a better place, rose by stunning rose, was his credo. And thus he planted... committing himself to improvement, perfectibility, and joy.

Unrelenting heat, searing temperatures, no relief in sight.

The farmers of Iowa, of all the rich heartland of the Great Republic, are cast from sterner stuff than most. They are equipped for challenge and delight in their collective ability to surmount it, gallantry always a part of their kit. It is no wonder that a great nation and much of the world depends upon their apt husbandry of the land and its potential. Nowhere is this more true than in Iowa, the greatest corn producing area on Earth, where the "tall corn grows."

Now, thanks to drought of near Biblical proportions, the great arable fields of Iowa, so organized to feed millions, are dying unable to help themselves, soon so parched they will be unable to help anyone.

The essence of Iowa at this moment is heat, more heat, heat oppressive, heat destructive... and no rain at all. And so men and women of deep resilience and can-do attitude awake with a prayer on their lips, "O, God, succor Thy children and give us the water of life!"

But God, perhaps Himself overburdened by human needs, has given no sign of hearing... and so long weary days of heat and sweat, become longer and more weary still.

One man, one rose, one day at a time.

The heat that burns Iowa and its fields alive, no end in sight, burns Eldon, too, and a creamy white rose named after a dead president. Robert works and waters, but the rose is sick unto death. He opines that mere well water lacks something of the potent properties of the soft rain that falls from Heaven. Still, each night when the heat subsides just a little, he is out amongst his slow-dying plants offering the best he has.... heart and grit and the kind of certain belief that, in time, moves mountains.

He is the Knight of the Rose...and he does what is necessary to save his charge, difficult though that can be. But he does what must be done, tending the land and what should grow in it. This is what the true knight does, and he is a true knight, sans peur et sans reproche, a very Galahad for the acute need at hand. And thus, without any guarantee of success, he draws from his good heart, accomplishing God's work, kneeling as if to Heaven as he labors, showing us all what one good man can do... and is doing now for us all.

Dedication

This article the author dedicates to Robert Rehling. Know that I am by no means the only one who clearly sees all you do in quiet dedication. Friend, accept my thanks and the thanks of all of us at worldprofit.com, insufficient though they may be, they are yet profoundly sincere. Never stop growing your roses, for they brighten a world in need of what you do so well. 

 
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 Ruthsella Corasol  http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Baby Einstein French-Teach Your Little One French

A Baby Einstein French language track is included with every single Discovery Kit you purchase along with an English and Spanish track.

This company was established back in 1996 by a woman named Julie Clark. She and her husband made the very first video in their basement and she drew the logo at her kitchen table.

Little did she know that she was about to launch a business that would take a meteoric rise to the top.

In the first year, after launching that first video in January of 1997, 36 stores agreed to stock it. That same year, their 5 page website secured their online presence and success was just a matter of time then.

Within the first five years it caught the attention of, and was acquired by, Disney. Disney took it further and if your children watch the Little Einsteins(TM) on the Disney Channel you see how popular it really is.

Oprah invited Julie to be on her show in 2002 and with Oprah's endorsement, Julie's wonderful product is hailed as the most sought after baby shower gift of that year and beyond.

As of 2005, if you buy one of the Discovery Kits, you will find "multi-language viewing options" in Baby Einstein French, Spanish, and English.

So, what makes these products so special? Well, Julie Clark intended to teach her child the wonders of the world, in different stages, from infancy to toddlerhood and she decided to share her idea with the world.

Julie put herself in a unique position with her ability to look at the world as if she were the child and feeling the sense of wonderment and excitement that every child feels with each new discovery.

This is why they are called Discovery Kits and each one comes with a music CD, a DVD and a book or set of Discovery Cards  There are three different levels you can buy these kits in for every stage your child goes through.

Experience (Level 1), Level 1 kits let you and your infant child experience classical music by Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart that has been altered so it is easier for those little ears to enjoy along with puppets and other images appropriate for your baby.

Explore (Level 2), Level 2 kits invite you and your baby to explore the animals they find either in the home or outdoors in nature and in the ocean.

Expression (Level 3), Level 3 kits feature puppet hosts including Coco the dancing cockatoo, Vincent Van Goat and Bard the Dragon. with friends like these leading the way, your toddler will learn to move and express herself through music, colors and words.

There is even a set specifically devoted to teaching beginning sign language. Your child may be able to learn sign language well before he or she will learn to talk. simple signs are taught so your baby can communicate simple needs or wants effectively.

With over 25 different Discovery Kits now available, including Baby Einstein French, Spanish, and English, you and your baby can explore his or her big, new world from their own perspective.

Ruthsella Corasol is the Owner of http://WorkingAtHome101.com. Check us out anytime for marketing tips and a free subscription to our cutting edge newsletter.

Anxiety In Children-Whats Normal And Whats Not

Children will often experience things that make them anxious. However, there is a difference between normal, occasional bouts of anxiety and long-term, ever-present anxiety. The former can be dealt with as it happens, while the latter requires treatment of some kind.

Many parents are surprised to learn that children can suffer from anxiety disorders. Just knowing this can help you to spot potential problems in your own child, and that is the first step to treating the condition. That doesn't mean that every little thing should be taken as proof of a disorder, but rather that you may wish to consider an anxiety disorder as a possibility when you see a series of symptoms.

Children can be afraid of many different things, and that makes recognizing their problem as a disorder more difficult. For example, they may be afraid of going out of the house, they may have separation issues, or they could be afraid of animals. All of these can be normal, but if they interfere with the child's quality of life, then it's time to consult a professional.

There is more than one kind of anxiety disorder, but they all come down to how the sufferer thinks. That's not to say that they can control their thinking, but rather that they look at the world differently than other people.

Just what is anxiety? Early in our collective history, things that we now label as stress, fear, and anxiety were useful survival mechanisms. If you heard a growling predator, then your body needed to react quickly. It would instantly release chemicals and get ready for fight-or-flight mode. Those threats have largely vanished from daily life, but the reaction can be the same. To put it another way, children with anxiety perceive threats that really aren't that threatening.

Fortunately, once it has been properly diagnosed, anxiety in children is highly treatable. Some parents are afraid to take their children to a psychologist, or to give them prescription medication, but it's a good idea to get the anxiety under control as soon as you can. Children need to be able to fit in with their peers, and this stage in their development should not be hindered by anxiety. Besides, taking care of the problem now means that they won't have to suffer the effects of anxiety when they become adults.

Apart from being afraid or apprehensive, anxiety in children has other symptoms. These symptoms can be difficult to recognize because they are so often symptoms of other common health problems. Here is a partial list:

Dizziness
Heart palpitations
Rapid breathing
Headaches
Nausea
Diarrhea
Constipation
Sweating

It's possible that these are symptoms of other health issues, so they should be taken seriously. Consult your child's pediatrician to see if there are physical health problems, or if it may be anxiety. You should not make this diagnosis on your own.

Anxiety in children is a bigger problem than most people realize. However, there are many treatment options that you can use to make your child better.

 Ruthsella Corasol is the Owner of http://WorkingAtHome101.com. Check us out anytime for marketing tips and a free subscription to our cutting edge newsletter.

Why the 2012 presidential campaign is boring me witless... and why that's bad for the Great Republic. A sound off.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. I have been a political animal my whole life, my entire life since birth, February 16, 1947. I mean, I was chairman of the Puffer School Republican Party in 1960. When Illinois Governor William G. Stratton came down on the school playground for some platitudes, I was the guy who was taken up in his excellency's helicopter. The local paper blazoned "Local Ladd flies high," being a play on my middle name ("Ladd").

The fact that Governor Stratton was wiped out in his bid for a third term (thereby helping hand John F. Kennedy Illinois and the White House) and later made the obligatory stay in the Big House the way most Illinois governors do, in no way diminished my personal thrill. For I was the most political of animals... beguiled by America's real national pastime and blood sport -- politics -- never happier than when sticking pins in the huge maps that turned my adolescent bedroom into Campaign Central, its very walls covered in ephemera -- buttons, posters, autographed photos and brochures featuring the greatest slogans every written -- and ignored. Everything -- absolutely everything -- about politics thrilled me. That was then...

... this is now.   But before I survey the lugubrious aspect of political affairs, before I hold up system and candidates to justifiable obloquy and disgust... before I offer a panoply of needed reforms and recommendations, I shall give you today's music, for if this rollicking set-piece of Americana cannot improve the atmosphere and help revive and reinvigorate, then we are well and truly doomed. And so, with the greatest possible hope, I give you... "Take Me Out To The Ball Game," even more American than the apple pie nobody's grandmother makes home made anymore.

"Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

This 1908 Tin Pan Alley song was written by Jack  Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer. The first notable thing you need to know is neither of its creators had ever attended even a single game prior to writing it, thus providing justifiable license for politicians (and that would be every politician) who talk vehemently and so well about matters they have never seen and know nothing about. (By the way Von Tilzer didn't see his first baseball game until 20 years after his iconic achievement; it took Norworth even longer, 32 years. They helped immortalize a game that clearly neither saw much point of even attending.) Go now to any search engine and find it. Personally I prefer the original 1908 Edison recording by Edward Meeker. He sings it with just the rousing gusto and tongue-in-cheek enthusiasm required.

The boys of Cambridge.

It is now time to tell you something about the presidential candidates you have probably never known or considered before, namely that these men are both card-carrying members of the best and the brightest, that is they are both Harvard boys, Harvard grads. But they were instructed by and matured in two quite different faculties, Law and Business. Once you understand this you begin to understand their manifest strengths -- and weaknesses... and our national predicament.

Barrack Obama was a star at Harvard Law School, right across the street from where I'm writing you. As such he became adept at what clever lawyers do: he learned not to make pies but to divide pies. In other words, he was trained to be expert at dividing what is not his; what he had done nothing to create. Instead, lawyers prosper by taking a sum of anything and making a deal with it, a deal that will give his client as much of what's being cut up as possible; thereby increasing his commission... and wealth. 

Lawyers, especially Harvard trained lawyers, know nothing about the grubby, demanding, even squalid work of building wealth. But when partners fall out, marriages fail, squabbling children fight each other for more than their share, no one is more equipped to fight for you using the tools which, in the right manicured hands, can and will be devastating to opponents. Here the pen (and precedent) are truly mightier than the sword. Barrack Obama is the master of masters here.

On the other side of the River Charles lies the citadel of capitalism and unimaginable wealth, Harvard Business School. Here Mitt Romney, plutocrat, learned the essential secrets that turned him into one of history's richest people. The game went something like this: find a business, review its operations carefully, then surgically remove what is not profitable (including excess labor) to create profit. Then sell the reorganized, vastly more efficient enterprise for maximum -- and fastest -- return on investment.  It was all about what capitalism is always all about -- money. Creating  jobs, employing people and improving their lives had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Now these supremely gifted men are charged with the pressing task of persuading "we the people" that they have what it takes to lead a fractured, factious nation at a perilous time. And so far we are underwhelmed.... and increasingly impatient. As sardonic Miss Peggy Lee sang so well, lyric acid in her voice, "Is that all there is?" Because if that's all there is, then let's keep dancing.

Going through the motions, enthusiasm tepid at best.

In 1948 an execrated little man from Independence, Missouri, a man who by an accident of history was President of the United States wrote his sister a letter which said volumes. He told her he was going to go out across this great nation and present himself to the majesty of the people, show them who he was... and learn more and more still about who they were and what they wanted from him. He choose to do this on America's railroads, the greatest on Earth. Thus, fully committed, with astonishing energy and high good humor and desire to connect, Harry Truman boarded the Ferdinand Magellan and, at even the tiniest whistle stop, gave them hell...

The nation responded by giving him a smile, a hand shake, and the presidency. 

Sadly the candidates have drawn the absolutely wrong conclusion from this event. Harry Truman won not because he whistle-stopped but because he had personal convictions, because he did everything possible to connect with Citizens of the Great Republic, and because he came across as a man of integrity, credibility, and a man who did not just expatiate and make promises, but who actually said what he meant and meant what he said, pledging, not merely promising.

Is there anyone out of rompers who believes that about our candidates as they too "whistle stop"; this time ordinarily in supremely appointed air-conditioned buses, usually in the key state of Ohio?  If so, I don't know this person. And neither do you.

As a result, I have come to the infinitely sad conclusion that neither candidate believes in anything, anything at all, except what is directly related to seizing the White House, the most bully pulpit in the world, and neither one knows how to use it to grasp minds, create visions, and achieve the great successes we expect of our hailed to chief.

That why I am disheartened, dismayed, and increasingly despondent about these men and their vapid campaigns. And I remind them of this: that the truly great create precedents and do not merely follow them. They seize the future and then use the unparalleled resources of both their person and office to achieve success and make this Great Republic greater still. Until this happens, fewer will care, fewer will vote, and more, like me, will become disenchanted by a process that continues to produce so much less than we need and which our Citizens deserve.

In the meantime...

"Take me out to the ball game, Take me out with the crowd: Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back"

... especially if there's not a better prize in this box.

 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 Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

The making of a connoisseur. Of heart, of mind, of eye.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. This is a story about high standards in an age that regularly outrages them. It is the story of painstaking care in the era of fast and slovenly. It is the story of masters and their punctilious craftsmanship... and of our age which has raised mediocrity to the apogee. It is the story of man at his best... and at his worst and the eye that tells us which is which... and how to perceive what one sees.

This is the story of excellence... of discernment... of discrimination... and of one man's epic journey to know what is truth and beauty... and then find them in a world too harried and beset by troubles even to wonder, always making do with less, always pretending otherwise.

For this journey, made by so few amongst the unknowing many, I have chosen  Elgar, Sir Edward Elgar (1857-1934), a man whose genius gave thrilling sound to the empire on which the sun never set. He dreamt the dreams that turned ideas in his mind into the cadences that define imperial glory to this day.

Thus, for this article I have selected his "Imperial March" (1897). Go now to any search engine. Find it... listen to it without any interruption permitted... and whilst you are listening ask what you have done lately to sharpen your standards... to know what shows the hand of a master (and what doesn't). In short, what have you done to join the elite ranks of the crucial people, the people who have created civilization and sustain it, the people known as connoisseurs, the people who never accept anything but excellence for that is what the life worth living, worth striving for must be about.

Visit to the Huntington Library, monument to exacting standards, a pledge to oneself.

When one is born a boy of the prairies one is right to wonder where the urge to become a connoisseur, one who appreciates the very best, comes from. Why did I have this urge while every aunt and uncle, every cousin, did not? The answer, upon reflection, is this. Two women of perception and clear objective set me on my path. They were my mother, Shirley Mae Lauing, Baroness de Kesoun y de Barlais in her own right, and my grandmother, Victoria Burgess Lauing. Their insistence that my life should be dedicated to understanding the best of all times and cultures started me on my road to never ending improvement and a character which demanded and could tolerate nothing else.

When did these adamant ladies start? I cannot say for certain, for though like Sir Winston Churchill I was present at the event I have no recollection thereof.  My mother took me regularly to the Art Institute of Chicago where the noisome smells and disgust of the stock yards, the unending granaries of the Midwest, and the great railroads that made Chicago their hub had been turned by newly minted connoisseurs into a place proudly presenting what its patrons managed to prise from a Europe too burdened with greatness and current bills to realize what they were in fact selling and could never be replaced.

There in the Edwardian lushness of the Palm Court she helped fashion my life, punctuated by china tea and petit fours. For these life enhancing meetings everything counted, the pictures one saw that day, what one said about them, how one said it; the validity of one's point of view, how mildly one could correct someone's who erred; above all the grace and gentility which distinguished a gentleman, even of 10 or 12. Yes, even what one had for tea counted... whether one took sugar (frowned upon) or lemon (vastly preferred). These were, no doubt, matters of the well-lived life but they did not per se make one a connoisseur, even an aspiring one.

That was because the Art Institute was not a home, not a place where connoisseurs displayed their collections and told a collector's deeds of daring do, the deeds which demonstrated their taste, their shrewdness and the necessary deep pockets to indulge them. No, the Art Institute was an institution to which well-heeled patrons bequeathed before they expired.

Nor did the matter of becoming a connoisseur take root and grow by visiting the notable collections laboriously, assiduously, obsessively assembled by the wealthy citizens of Downers Grove, Illinois and stolidly middle class DuPage County. For in DuPage, for all that it was the home to every bourgeois value, there were no such collections for a boy to see, admire and learn from. Connoisseurs were rare as hen's teeth; unseen, unvisited, unknown even if they existed at all.

That is why my visit to the Huntington Library in San Marino, California was so important. It made the hitherto unimaginable stunningly real... something one could see, wish for, strive for... and have. Not just something beautiful... but something actual, splendid, dreams no longer just dreamt but achieved. In short it demonstrated a desirable destination for the boy who saw thereby the road which for him might otherwise have gone untaken.

Riding the rails to riches.

The Huntingtons were not merely rich. They verily had the Midas touch making them some of the wealthiest people on earth. Collis P. Huntington, one of the Big Four railroad tycoons of 19th century California, started it off with his major stock position in the Central Pacific Railroad. Ironically I studied something about him when I was in high school in Los Angeles. I entered an essay and speaking contest sponsored by the Native Sons of the Golden West. My topic was the development of the great railroads of the Golden State. I took home a disappointing second prize. CP's nephew and heir Henry E. Huntington (1850-1927) would have been dismayed. He knew nothing of second places, except that they were for others than himself. For such a man nothing but a palace would do... with everything in it fit for an exacting connoisseur.

Awe in the gallery.

One never knows when destiny will manifest itself. Surely when my mother and I walked towards the entrance of the Huntington Library I had no idea that a few daubs of paint in a gilded frame were about to change my life and make it clear where I must go. But then I had never been to the Huntington Library before... It was originally the home of Henry Edwards Huntington, the man who shocked the grande dames of San Francisco when as a highly eligible bachelor he married his uncle's widow Arabella and gave her a palace in which they could love each other.

But palaces require objects of beauty to adorn them... and so at age 60 Huntington began his education as a connoisseur. And make no mistake about it. This takes work, dedication, commitment, for there is no quick and easy way to rise to this eminence, even if one is supremely wealthy as Huntington was. He had to learn just like you and me. And so, properly advised by the world's notable experts, he began... focusing on the stupendous work of Britain's 18th century masters. Adding just one or two pictures a year, he slowly built over time the greatest group of such pictures... and now they were there for... me... aged just 16 or so.

The life-sized portrait of Sarah Barrett Moulton (called "Pinkie") by Lawrence.

The portrait of Sarah Siddons as the Tragic Muse by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Painted in 1784, it's a picture so enchanting that the painter told Mrs. Siddons, the greatest tragedienne of the age, he had signed it on the hem of her gown. Why? So that ages hence would know of his abject and total admiration for such genius.

And then, of course, the stunning event (for I can not just call this a picture) that is the portrait of Master Jonathan Buttall, "The Blue Boy" by Thomas Gainsborough. Purchased by Huntington from His Grace the Duke of Westminster, Britain's richest peer, money was no object. And so three quarters of a million dollars was sent to the duke, making it the most expensive picture ever painted, a symbol of Britain's decline and America's growing ascendancy.

Now I could not take my eyes off it... and only did so to make a vow, then and there. It was bold, audacious, brash in the way of  headstrong adolescence. I looked my mother in the eye and told her that "some day" I would have such pictures and be such a connoisseur. She smiled the "humor him" smile... but she could not have mistaken the steely determination in my eyes... and so...

... one of the first works I acquired for my collection is a magnificent picture of the 6th Earl of Shaftesbury by Sir Thomas Lawrence, President of the Royal Academy (1769- 1830).  It is hanging in the Red Drawing Room right now...  something Henry Edwards Huntington would have admired... coveted...  I had kept my vow and, as one connoisseur to another, he would have known and respected it.

 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 Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Ansar Dine Islamists destroy famed mosque in Timbuktu, promising morewanton destruction.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. In March, 2001 the civilized world awoke to the incomprehensible spectacle of Taliban zealots waging war against "un-Islamic graven images" in Afghanistan. "Idolatrous" Buddhist images of humans and animals were the enemy, as supreme Taliban leader Mullah Mohammmed Omar ordered explosives, tanks and anti-aircraft weapons to blow up two colossal images of the Buddha, revered monuments about 120 miles from Kabul, soon reduced to shards of history; for centuries important things now destroyed at the fiat of one man determined to eradicate every belief he did not share, every monument he did not approve.

Now the action has moved to Mali, a far-away West African nation you never heard of before but which may well be Ground Zero for the next bout of global terrorism and enforced ideological purity. Pay attention... the perpetrators of these outrages are deadly serious, armed and dangerous... and they are at their sanctified work right now...

About Mali.

There are certain things you must know about Mali and the Malians. They were once, before the Europeans came, a great people, an imperial people, a people of stability, riches, culture and leisure. The recollections of these glorious days (ending in 1591 with the fall of the Songhai) haunt them; they were once great, they muse. Why can't they be great again? But to this common question, different people offer different visions. Some offer the alternative of Western multi-party democracy, with (because they are a former French colony) Paris always their example and hope. Here there is tolerance, enlightenment, the full panoply of rights won in the iconic Revolutions of the United States and France.

Others offer a religious solution, a place where there is only one way of thinking, the religious way and specifically the way of Sharia; the way that enforces the strict moral code and religious law of Islam. Sharia deals with many of the same topics as addressed by secular law, including crime, politics, and economics, as well as personal matters such as sexual relations, hygiene, diet, prayer and fasting. Although interpretations vary between cultures, in its strictest form it is considered the infallible law of God -- as opposed to the human interpretation of the laws...

... and this is the problem. For in Mali, these people, who fight under the fierce certainties of Ansar Dine ("Defenders of the Faith") are now in control of a vast territory. Here they impose their inflexible dogmas.... and from here (it is now conjectured) they plan to take their righteous vision to other places, places now graced by tolerance, diversity, acceptance, and empathy, the very things abhorrent to Ansar Dine, the things they are determined to root out, destroy, and so purge the people and their lives of Sin. In their dreams, the Wahabi dreams, you and I, friend, are the servants of the very incarnation of evil and our very existence the abomination they mean to eradicate.

Wanton outrage in the ancient city of Timbuktu.

Have you heard of Timbuktu? Of course you have. It is one of the most evocative places on Earth; a place as famous as Atlantis or Troy.  It is a  place you want to visit, for in the very word itself there is a magic which cannot be denied. It's a magic that was admirably caught in the song "The Night of My Nights" from the Broadway musical "Kismet" (1953). Go to any search engine and find this song. Close your eyes and see the great city of Timbuktu as it once was in all its grandeur...

... "Play on the cymbal, the timbal, the lyre; Play with appropriate passion. Fashion songs of delight and delicious desire for the night of my nights."

This is how the people of Timbuktu see their city... and how they want you to see it, too... stately... magnificent... the very essence of splendor and sensuality.  It is a vision to which they stubbornly adhere, the more so given their penurious present. It is a vision Ansar Dine means to obliterate, thus purifying the people... whilst leaving them even poorer and more vulnerable than they are now. And since they are amongst the very poorest people on earth, that would be poor and vulnerable indeed.

"Allah Akbar", God is the Greatest.

Remember, the city of Timbuktu was once great in the good things of life. It was a place of architectural adornments and intellectual achievements, part of the Islamic Golden Age, where the great cities of the Moslem world gave of their riches to the as yet undeveloped peoples of Europe, peoples who were uplifted by the condescension of the princes of Africa, Arabia and the East and beholden to them.

When the great empire fell, many of its artifacts remained including thousands of documents, among them writings about astronomy, the health effects of tobacco, and 3,000 year old medical advice.  In fact, over 300,000 historical Islamic texts, some dating back to the 13th century, still remain in the shrines of Timbuktu... dazzling things of the utmost importance... now amongst the designated targets for Ansar Dine, a handful of men profaning God by claiming to destroy in His Holy Name.

Starting just a few days ago, anything not approved by Ansar Dine became not an object to be venerated, admired, and preserved but a thing of opprobrium, marked for immediate extinction. "The destruction is a divine order," said an unidentified Ansar Dine spokesman. "It's our prophet who said that each time that someone builds something on top of a grave, it needs to be pulled back to the ground. We need to do this so that future generations don't get confused, and start venerating the saints as if they are God." Thus, on this basis one sacred tomb after another, including that of Sidi Mahmoudou who died in 955, was destroyed by men wielding pick axes and shouting God's praise. At least five others were similarly desecrated.

Having wrecked havoc among the venerated relics of Islamic saints, these men then attacked the famous15th century Sidi Yahya mosque. According to legend, its gate leading to the attached cemetery would open only on the final day at the end of time. The self-proclaimed children of God made its destruction a priority for their outrage.

Now the vast intellectual riches of Timbuktu, all at risk, face their fate... with complete and total destruction possible, even probable. If so, it will rank as one of the signal outrages of history, all done in the name of God.

Some help at hand, but is it too little, too late?

Fortunately this time, unlike what happened to the great Buddha of Afghanistan, some authorities are already at work to limit the damage and protect the vulnerable riches which remain. The International Criminal Court has described the destruction of the city's patrimony as a possible war crime. UNESCO's Committee on World Heritage condemned the perpetrators and asked for world action again them. Will these actions be enough to warn off the culprits... or will we see more videos online with evidences of the sickening destruction we expect and which may well touch our lives adversely if Ansar Dine, with so much territory already under its control, escalates its work from dead saints to living humans with abhorrent views?

Who can stop it? Africa can. And thus it is time for Africa to join the civilized nations and show its vehement and unrelenting outrage... and bring them to bear against the marauders who have done so much evil already and are admirably positioned to do still more.

Thus, I give you a rousing tune by Malian master Toumani Diabate. It's called "Africa Challenge," and well it might be... for this is a moment for Africa to rise to the occasion and save what still remains of its heritage... including storied Timbuktu, naked and awaiting your verdict. You'll find its sensual rhythms as part of his Symmetric Orchestra. Find it now in any search engine... Africa never needed to hear it more or act faster.

 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 Ruthsella Corasol  http://WorkingAtHome101.com.

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 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 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. 

 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 Ruthsella Corasol  http://WorkingAtHome101.com

'The Secret Service makes me nervous.' On the high jinks and pratfalls ofAmerica's best and brightest. Some thoughts.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. The evening of October 20, 1962 was supposed to be a night of nights in the starry history of Broadway. Irving Berlin, the prodigious, stylish, tuneful, glorious Irving Berlin whose music helped create the distinctive American sound in hit after hit was returning to the Great White Way. He had a new musical -- "Mr. President" -- and the world waited impatiently to hear it. Until they heard it...  then wrote 72 year old Mr. Berlin's professional obituary. It was that bad. The king was well and truly dead... oh, my!

The show ran a respectable 265 performances, but they were in the nature of courtesy visits to the funeral home where you came to pay your respects to a once powerful corpse. The magic was gone. And, thus under a cloud, accompanied by the disappointment of multitudes Irving Berlin made way for other, fresher voices.

But before he left, he wrote a tune called "The Secret Service makes me nervous," in which the president's fictional daughter laments how often and in what precise ways the Secret Service interferes in her romances and makes nookie hard to get for the inhabitants of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Thus,

"The Secret Service makes me nervous those White House 'dicks' get all their kicks when they observe us! Just as I wind up, make my mind up, not to say 'I won't' the Secret Service makes me nervous and I don't."

However, as it turns out, this was only a tiny part of the story as a riveting report just pried from the "we protect our own" government under the US Freedom of Information Act makes clear. No, the folks at the Secret Service have not only been getting their kicks by watching.... they have also been zestful participants in an endless saturnalia which seems to have had no limit... though just what limits, if any, there may have been were deleted from this heavily censored report.

But first go to any search engine and sing along.... "The Secret Service makes me nervous." And for very good reason... Here are just a few of the myriad of accurate adjectives which come to mind... salacious, meretricious, outlandish, shocking, appalling, disappointing, dismaying, egregious... you get the picture. One cannot put the report down (for all that we know much has been taken out by meddling, "protect the perpetrators" bureaucrats who never met an abashing fact they didn't wish to suppress)... yet dreads what one will find upon reading it. Thus, here is just a fraction of the alleged high hormone activities in which these erring agents of the Great Republic have engaged in the last year or two alone...

Item: In October 2011 an employee was accused of sending harassing messages to a woman.

Item: In March 2011  a complaint was filed involving embezzlement or theft of public monies. Since virtually all of this entry is censored, it must have been a doozy. "We the people" will have to wait and see.

Item: In October 2010 an employee was implicated in a national security leak. Again the details are heavily censored.

Item: In May 2012 an employee was accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. More censored details.

Item: In May 2012 an officer was videotaped, twice, wandering nude around an apartment  complex. Video (gratefully) withheld.

And so the report continues through the highways and byways of the sordid, vile, base and squalid... the daily calendar of crimes petty, cheap, disgusting and mercenary... officers delighting in their freedom to do whatever... blatantly hiding behind the agency's cover of secrecy and a code of honor, publicly pronounced, quietly disparaged and abused.

Tawdry outrage at Cartagena.

The latest installment in this debasing melodrama occurred among Secret Service agents traveling to Cartagena, Columbia in advance of President Obama's April 13 visit. This should have been no sinecure, no time for partying. After all, there are many in Columbia who would welcome the opportunity to snuff a sitting president. No matter. Hard-working boys will be boys, with an unquenchable need to party hardy. And so, president or not, they did. Bring on the booze and las chicitas. Everything went, nothing disallowed... except exposure, the only thing feared by these fearless paladins.

But exposure, glaring, humiliating, demeaning, was what they got. All because of one agent who wanted his fun on the cheap, stiffing a prostitute of her due. Sadly, this agent had forgotten his William Congreve, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." (1697). A canary singing out like a Broadway diva, what a to-do she made. Rarely in human history have so few Yankee dollars produced such a prodigious result, as a dozen Secret Service agents, officers, and supervisors were implicated of whom eight were forced out.

Director Sullivan, Senator Lieberman, please!

The hubbub went straight to the highest reaches of government and produced the usual soporifics: only a few were involved, the incidents isolated, perhaps even "unfounded or frivolous." (Senator Susan Collins, R-Maine). Director (since 2006) Mark J. Sullivan worked overtime to soothe the Congress, always inclined to give the greatest benefit to every doubt about our errant "boys". Senator Joseph Lieberman (I-Connecticut) was the most unctuous urging rightly concerned citizens to "withhold judgement", to wait some more.

But it's not more time we need. We need a recognition that our storied Secret Service too often abuses its panoply of powers for this to be coincidence. "Power corrupts," in Lord Acton's acute aphorism."Absolute power corrupts absolutely." And so by turning agents into demi-gods, if only in their own minds, we have then fostered the climate of entitlement, unfettered privilege, and license which inevitably produces injurious usage and blithe malignity. No cure is possible without this recognition.

This is why the Secret Service makes me nervous, and why a comprehensive review of its policies, personnel and procedures is past due and must take place at  once. For until we do we shall continue to see the steady drip of corruption and be dismayed and affronted. For remember this: in this age of instantaneous mass communications nothing can ever be secret for long. Thus, agents must not only seem to be above suspicion; they must, like Caesar's wife, actually be so. Sadly, this is most assuredly not the case today.

 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 Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

'Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.' Independence Day Fifty Years Ago.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. July 4th, Independence Day commenced when 13 fractious colonies decided to sunder the greatest empire on earth... challenging every verity of governance in order to raise up a pristine nation where "all men are created equal."

From this signal phrase, Godlike in its ringing clarity and unanswerable in its adamantine proposition, everything else has flowed... making Columbia truly the gem of the ocean and Independence Day an event calling for the full attention and participation of all.

For on July 4, 1776 a handful of righteous people, fortified by the mightiest ideas on Earth, changed everything... as every monarch and potentate everywhere soon came to know, to their eternal detriment... and as millions worldwide thrilled to discover and bless America as much as any Citizen of the Great Republic. Oh, yes, Columbia was the "shrine of each patriot's devotion" from the very moment of each new patriot's birth, when they became Citizens and as such those who had the responsibility for fostering their great creation, even unto death itself.

For such a grand event a grand sound is needed. And so I give you one of the greatest of our national anthems, "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean." Lyrics and melody were written by Thomas a Becket, a fact his colleague David T. Shaw disputed, claiming the work as his own. Becket proved his authorship by means of his original handwritten composition. Shaw's skullduggery did, however, prove one thing: that its tune, its lyrics, and the effect it had on people everywhere (starting with covetous Shaw) proved that it was one of America's treasures, eminently suitable for "The home of the brave and the free."

Go now to any search engine and find this stirring melody and its sharply etched words, a paean not merely to a geographical entity, but, far more important, to what these bountiful acres stand for in the affairs of men and their human destiny. Listen to the lyrics for they cut deep, incised in each Citizen, never to be forgotten, always to be cherished from sea to shining sea. I like the version orchestrated and sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. It makes me proud to be an American. Go find it now and let the stupendous rhythms flow over you as heaven's balm. For they are surely that.

Independence Day, July 4, 1962, Illinois.

Right from its first celebration Independence Day was meant to be the most important civic event of the year, the day when business stopped and the great events of the Great Republic were regarded, remembered, revered, recalled in every detail because each detail was a significant and honored part of the monumental event. Each counted. Every person associated with them counted. Even the smallest act deserved recognition and on July 4th such recognition was freely given. No more so than in Downers Grove, Illinois.

A village  in Downers Grove and Lisle Townships,  a model of post war homogeneity and life.

Picture for a moment a metropolis of some 12,000 souls (since grown to nearly 50,000) where the objective was unity, not divisiveness. Where there would be no titans of industry and plutuocrats of unimaginable wealth; neither would there be poverty whether blatant or hidden. Instead its residents would strive for similarity of income and of lifestyle, all men truly equal, the Declaration of Independence wrought in ranch homes and acres of grass for young Citizens like me to cut on a hot summer day.

Downers Grove (the lack of the expected apostrophe a quirk the town fathers were certain gave panache to their enterprise and refused to alter) was founded in 1832 by Pierce Downer. He was a religious evangelist from New York. Other early settlers included the Blodgett, Curtiss, and Carpenter families, names given to the main streets, for townspeople liked their history, even though (or perhaps because) there was not so very much of it to learn and that quickly and proudly told.

How abolitionists had found zealous adherents in its free soil.

How there were houses still extant that served as stops on the Underground Railroad moving runaway slaves in dead of night to a new life, a free life.

How 119 soldiers served in the Union Army during the American Civil War.

How the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad was extended from Aurora to Chicago through Downers Grove in 1862, boosting its population as newcomers came to claim their portions of the leafy lanes, the quiet prosperity, neighbors who were neighborly and where local boys and girls grew up together, married each other and did not just pursue happiness, but found it.

It was these people who were now busily at work on what was to be not only my last Illinois Independence Day but the last such day we were all united, Citizens and world, offering "homage to thee", Columbia, and our confident mission of freedom, liberty, progress, and brotherhood.  It is achingly clear in my mind's eye....

... the civic worthies (including my grandfather) gathered on the reviewing stand on Main Street, swapping stories and flasks of aged favorites. They were not merely the solons of our village but each a veteran who had helped America when America needed help. Behind them in the shade in hats and gloves sat their ladies, the women, however frail they may have looked, who had demonstrated grit and fortitude while their men were away on the nation's far-flung battlefields. In those worrisome days they knew secret despair, but their genius kept it from the children who were their unceasing focus.

Then the bandmaster, resplendent in Ruritanian uniform, raised his baton to signify America and the great State of Illinois were on fete... and the band marched smartly ahead, down flag festooned Main Street and into the recesses of my mind. That day I watched them in high glee, happy... today I know that this was the last unclouded tableau before the President was killed... before the war sundered the nation and made acrimony, not amity, our daily portion. I know this, but all the patriotic residents of Dowers Grove, so many of whom celebrated the day by marching in the town's parade, did not. They were marching, as we all march, into a future they must live to know, a future that challenged, threatened, and changed everything they believed in and to which they renewed their allegiance this day of remembrance, rededication, and high resolve.

One era ends, another begins, this is the way of people and the nations which reflect them.

Just days after Independence Day, my father removed his family from Downers Grove to accept a better job in Los Angeles. There, just a few months later on the school's basketball court, I learned of the President's assassination. This was the beginning of a train of epochal events. One of its many casualties was the scene so reminiscent of Currier & Ives I saw in all its beauty my last prairie Independence Day. Now gone forever. Columbia, the gem of the ocean, "The boast of the red, white and blue" sailed on to triumphs and tragedies but its great unities, unities that forged glorious destiny, were no longer present but merely aspects of history.

We need them so today. And cannot be truly great again, a cynosure for a world  that needs it, until we are united again.    
 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 Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Profanity! Don't use it in Middleborough, Massachusetts -- or else!

Author's program note. It's easy to sympathize with the good citizens of Middleborough, Massachusetts. Like all of us, they are assaulted -- and I'm talking about every single day -- with one expletive most assuredly not deleted after another.

Men, women, and (to our residual dismay) even children let loose these days with a string of oaths which would once have made a sailor blush. In fact, the very first word of a toddler today is likely to be a word starting with "f" that isn't "father." 

Mrs. Smythe, age 80, stubs her toe at the mall. One sharp unladylike expletive ensues.

Bobby Jones, union member, drops a hammer on his left foot. A string of expletives, too many to count but the air stays blue for hours after.

Richie Westover watches "his" girl kissing his arch rival and nemesis. He opens his mouth to react... and it isn't Shakespeare that comes out...

But you get the picture.

A substantial, and growing, number of the words we hear (and worse use) every single day are words which would once have sent grannie for the lye soap and grandpa to his wide belt for 10 of the best. "Assume the position, buster."

Citizens said, "We're mad as (deleted) and we're not going to take it any more"... especially from.... teen-agers, the worst offenders.

Centre Street, Middleborough ground zero.

Did you ever see the acclaimed Broadway musical "The Most Happy Fella" (1956) with its popular song, "Standing on the Corner (Watching All the Girls Go By")? Or listen to Mungo Jerry sing about the summertime, when you've "got women, you've got women on your mind" (1970)... or watch the iconic footage of "American Graffiti (1973) which elevated cruising main street to an art form?

If so, I don't have to tell you what the hormone-poppin' adolescents were doing on Centre Street...we've all been there, done that. It's as American as blueberry pie and as old as the hills. The behavior by the enfants terribles of Middleborough is raucous, obstreperous, rude, crude, vulgar to a degree... each outrageous antic accompanied by language which was once (and not so very long ago either) unprintable... something good boys and girls might know, but could only be used upon the greatest provocation.

Action, not just talk.

Police chief (since 2009) Bruce D. Gates had a bright idea, part of a set of tools to cope with the problem, namely to decriminalize an existing unenforced by-law against profane language in public. Decriminalization effectively revived the by-law, giving police power to hand out $20 tickets to offenders without worrying about bringing a criminal case to court.

Middleborough's exasperated town meeting overwhelmingly endorsed this idea, 183-50. The citizens applauded their action; Chief Gates was lauded, the recipient of plaudits, perhaps even a raise. All was well. Everything was in place for an assault on the miscreants whose egregious words constituted a constant assault on civility and suitable speech. Only one thing had been forgotten: The First Amendment of the Constitution of the Great Republic. Thus,

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the people peaceably to assemble, or to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

About the First Amendment, what Middleborough forgot, or, worse, never knew.

Passage of the Constitution, the first ever written on this Earth, was impeded because it conspicuously failed to enumerate the rights of citizens. Many reasonable people were unwilling to proceed until they knew. There followed arguably the most important and urgent work of the Founding Fathers... making clear what citizenship meant, its rights and responsibilities.

Thus, immediately after freedom of religion, these audacious visionaries put freedom of speech, its adamant importance made clear by its positioning in the very first amendment.

Now, here's the great irony of this matter. Middleborough was founded in 1661, well before the inauguration of the Great Republic itself. Its citizens were amongst the chary who insisted upon the clear enumeration of  their rights. It is because of such citizens that 13 disconnected royal colonies became 13 united states, the ultimate power for progressive change on Earth.

To protect these sacred rights the righteous citizens of Middleborough left home and hearth, bled and died on battle fields domestic and universal... and willingly gave, gave, and gave still more of their treasure. They believed in what they had wrought and went to all lengths to defend and strengthen it.

But all this was forgotten this early June evening when citizens abridged not just the rights of foul-mouthed, anti-social adolescents... but their own rights, too. At the request of the police authorities (hardly pace setters in the defence of rights) they gave away a portion of what their very ancestors worked so hard and diligently to gain and keep. And there was hardly a peep of opposition, much less comprehension.

Of course, since this story broke the police have bent over backwards to limit how and when their new powers will be used. Will they be used against that sweet lady and good neighbor Mrs. Smythe? The police say no, but the law is unclear. Perhaps the police could use it, but Chief Gates says they won't. Quite frankly that isn't good enough. I prefer the tested wisdom of the Founding Fathers to the self-serving policies of any police authority. Where were the citizens of Middleborough when the need was pressing to say this?

And what of all the other oaths, the ones by people like Bobby Jones and Richie Westover? Who will determine what oaths deserve the $20 ticket... and which ones, in which situations do not? Who will decide... and who will monitor the monitors? Here, again, I prefer the position of the Founding Fathers. They did not say this speech will be free... and this speech (especially if made by teen-agers) will not. They said, unequivocally, that "Congress shall make NO law...  abridging the freedom of speech."  And that includes  Middleborough....

I do not expect Chief Gates to understand this. After all, it's his baby. He wants to clear the streets of profanity, because no one wants to listen (in his infelicitous phrase) to that  "baloney". It's a line that demonstrates how little he understands the issue at hand. None of us, including me, likes that baloney, the license to mangle our language, be vulgar, uncouth, bothersome, disturbing, distressing. I am as one with the Chief on this.

However, the First Amendment trumps our momentary unease at language which is generally unacceptable. Its preservation intact is, therefore, the objective; for this vigilance is eternally necessary, whatever the Chief says.

As for the foul-mouthed teen-agers in question, let's put Michael Jackson's 1987 triumph "Bad" to work helping. They are, and we all know and see it every single day, arrogant, thoughtless, obstinate, spoilers of so many hours. This is all true, but telling them that a million times only make things worse. Rather, we need to find better outlets for that stupendous energy.

What about dance..... where their prowess is unmistakable, a joy to watch, impossible to emulate? We could help them be good by allowing them to dance "Bad", insinuating our objective through these lyrics.

"I'm telling you Just watch your mouth I know your game What you're about."

It's certainly worth a try... and compromises no one's Constitutional rights. Chief Gates take note.

(Now go find "Bad" in any search engine. It's impossible to pontificate while listening. You'll be too busy gyrating and being just plain awesome).    

 About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Incc., 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 Ruthsella Corasol  http://WorkingAtHome101.com