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Archive for December 2011 – Page 2

About Spc. David Hickman, the last of the U.S. troops killed in Iraq. He was just 23.

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Wednesday, December 28th, 2011

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. What you would have noticed first of all was that the pews were filled with young faces… the kinds of faces you don’t usually see amongst the congregation at funeral services in Greensboro, North Carolina. And you knew right away that this was a service for someone who died young, died whilst knowing hardly a thing about life… except that he knew and embodied the most important realization in life… that to give to others is the essence of our humanity… whilst to die for others is sublime.

As David Emanuel Hickman had done…

“Zeus”.

What you would also have noticed about David Hickman was that he was as near physical perfection as a human can be, so much so that he called himself “Zeus” after the king of the Olympic gods. He didn’t just look good… he looked awesome… toned, sculpted, working as the physical fitness fanatic he was to perfect perfection. He was avid in pursuit of the body to die for, organized, dedicated, committed.

Such people, of course, with eye-popping muscles and the kind of beefcake you see on the covers of magazines in the check-out lane at grocery stores, can easily irk and irritate the rest of the population, too lazy to exercise and yet proud… but David Hickman knew the secret to making even the most jealous like him, for he was the class cut-up… a man whose smile was more killing than his six pack. David loved to laugh… and he loved to make everyone around him laugh, too. We could forgive this kid anything… because he made us laugh at everything… it was his real claim to fame, even when he was masterminding the complicated plays that brought sweet victory to Northeast Guilford High School. For he was, in time-honored American fashion, a grid iron hero…

Complicated plans.

David relished his time playing football… not least because it gave him the opportunity to create… the most complicated plays, plays which he would sit at home inventing, doodling, making notes on a page that would in due course become the moves that would bring the excited crowd to its feet shouting for David, anxious for more of the same, sure it would come… for David loved the game and relished the fact that it gave him the opportunity to dazzle… even though his ultra complicated game plans had to be put aside after he graduated… mere teen-agers were unable to understand, much less execute them. How David must have smiled when he learned that, “Don’t that just beat all… Don’t that just beat all?”

What now?

But as all grid iron heroes learn, football and its perquisites stop.. but life goes on. Thus each such hero must answer one insistent question: what now? For David Hickman this meant the service of America, this meant the army… and so he enlisted. And remember this: he did this of his own choice, his own volition. He was not compelled to do so, neither forced nor drafted. He selected the service of his nation because he believed in this nation, its great mission, and its essential goodness and purpose . David Hickman, American boy, volunteered and volunteered in time of war. This single decision, this action was the determining factor in the remaining time of his short life.

Boy into man.

In the army Hickman learned what every service man learns… the crucial importance of the unit, the team, his buddies. Being a team player for football gave him a head start; he already knew how to turn a commitment to his team mates into victory. These crucial skills, on which more lives depended than just his, were honed in the army, in his unit, the 2nd Battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry. Hickman, more man than boy with every passing day, grew up in his regiment, as so many before him had grown up. It was all about the men and women he served with, men and women who selected the army, the service of the Great Republic… and their fate as warriors in the current of America’s lengthy and growing chain of wars. For be clear on this: in the year Hickman enlisted, in 2009, the great fact of America was America’s current wars, in Iraq, in Afghanistan. And David Hickman knew that service to America would very likely, quite probably mean active duty in one or more of these turbulent, always dangerous war zones.

Whether he enlisted because of this great fact, or in spite of it is not known… but this fact is: he signed his name on the required paperwork… and so declared himself ready for whatever should come. Thus, in due course, David Hickman took his godlike physique, his mega-watt smile, his rollicking humor, and his complete commitment to his country to Iraq and to kismet.

Getting into war — easy. Getting out — hard.

Every nation or political entity always learns one certain, irrevocable fact: that it is easy, ridiculously easy, to get a war, any war, started. The paraphernalia of war is readily at hand, the stirring rhetoric, the certainty that war, always war, must be the solution to any problem, the seemingly irrefutable argument that this war is just, honest, timely, necessary…

Oh, yes, each war, all the wars, have been easily convoked… and so Johnny goes marching from home, all the necessary assurances and certainties in his kit. And the rest of us wish him well and say that this war, like all the previous wars, is necessary and proper; that our cause is always just, and our wars are all needed, each and every one.

Then we discover that war isn’t always the best solution… that war is always muddled, confusing, inept… and expensive. And so painful to see and experience, that the very people we have gone to save are not grateful… are in fact outraged by our presence and wish us to the devil… or at the least to go home soonest. All this invariably surprises, baffles and confuses the likes of David Hickman and all the buddies… for their certainties melt when confronted by the forge of politics, self-seeking, and its multiplicity of shades of gray, instead of the black and white they expected and which had been so clear the day they departed.

And so the team, their buddies and colleagues grows in importance… as does the vital necessity to stay alive, to go home. And a kind of game develops… once the feeling is general that this once certain and necessary war will be over soon, politicians prating of the victory they didn’t get… once this happens, the emphasis is on getting out alive; nothing, absolutely nothing is more important than that.

And so the war that no one now believes in must be kept going, while every thought and every effort is on staying alive… going home.

Killed at 23, November 14, 2011.

David Hickman, so expert at so many games, knew the drill… and took his chances. And died in the process.

He was killed by an improvised bomb, a device characteristic of the Iraq war, a cheap, nasty, made-up weapon that mangled and killed the military professionals of our nation. And on an ordinary day in mid-November cut down David Hickman, too… the beauty of his youth, every possibility of a life graced with goodness, empathy, and a willingness to work to make things better… all this gone because of a random destructive device detonated on a day when all David Hickman wanted was to stay alive and go home.

And he did go home, as nearly 4,500 of our countrymen and women came home… to flags flying, guns firing, salutes smartly given… in a box; the last casualty in a war hardly anyone understood… a war that brought us the obloquy of the world… and a church full of his buddies and comrades, every one young, every one without a line, without a single wrinkle… all thinking of God, of David, of themselves, and most of all about America, our Great Republic… and why Taps is played for so many, so often, so much expected, so little achieved.

Go now to any search engine and play it for David Hickman, and for all the rest; for they all died, each and every one of them, for us.

*** What do you think? Let us know by posting your comments below.

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. Details at worldprofit.com

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Categories : Blog
Tags : bravery, David Hickman, fallen soldiers, gratitude to service families, Iraq, soldiers, US military, US Troops

‘Darling, I am growing old, silver threads among the gold.’ Telltale signs you’re an old coot.

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Monday, December 26th, 2011

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note! Do you know the great Irish tenor John McCormack? If not, your grandmother surely did. “I tell you Mary Louise, he has the voice of an angel, an angel…” One of the multitude of songs he popularized and made his own was the famous tune “Silver threads among the gold”. You couldn’t listen without a tear or two dropping gently on your lap… no matter who you were or what your situation. There was that in the singer and his song that made even the most stoic lachrymose.

And so I have selected for the occasional music to this article, “Silver threads among the gold”, perhaps the most popular ballad of the period starting with its copyright in 1873 right into the 1920s. The all affecting lyrics are by Eben E. Rexford, music by Hart Pease Danks. You’ll find it in any search engine. Go now; find it; listen more than once and sniffle… because this music, these lyrics, this article are all about….. you….. the you getting older and stranger by the day…. you old coot, you.

Pity the poor coot.

I want you to know — and coot lovers worldwide demand that I tell you — the coot is an honorable, hard working, entirely meritorious fowl. It is a medium-sized water bird in good standing, well known and up-to-date in its membership in the rail family Rallidae. They constitute, and proudly too, the genus Fulica with eye-catching predominantly black plumage. They are common in South America, Europe, and North America, too.

Now hear this: they vigorously oppose the appropriation of their good name to describe eccentric or crotchety persons and are herewith filing a declaration and grievance with the United Nations. They aver and make clear: there is nothing wrong with coots in general, and old coots must be venerated, never, never derided and made the object of ridicule and derision. However some more insightful coots realize the only bad publicity is no publicity… and so these progressive birds use the expression themselves with glee and impunity.

Are you an old coot?

Consider the case of my honorable father and his telephone answering machine. Over time, this once pristine and useful device has deteriorated. First the machine lost about one in ten calls; then about one quarter of the calls went unrecorded… until now the number of lost calls and messages is hovering at a perfect 100%. It is just about impossible to leave a message for him.

When told of this situation, as he now constantly is, he says “I know. Other people tell me that.” And each and every one of these folks wishing for immediate connection with my venerable sire says the same thing: “You need a new answering machine.” But my father has a firm response based on his current age (86), likely check-out date, and a gnawing belief he will not get his full and complete money’s worth out of any new answering machine… and so the matter rests from day to day… his standing as an old coot now entirely secure and certain. What’s more, if he was to get as a gift, for Christmas say or his next birthday, a telephone answering machine, he probably could not be induced even to take it out of the box, for, after all, he didn’t really need it; his current machine, despite its foibles and idiosyncrasies is still working, never mind that it only performs its necessary function at the most intermittent of occasions.

Out of range.

The same is true with Dad’s O*Keefe and Merritt range. It’s, 25, maybe 30, years old, or even more. And whilst it is no doubt a fine company producing a fine product, this particular product has seen better days; to the extent that it cooks the food he likes hot and just so only about half way. And this, as one may well imagine, irritates the old fellow. But because he is not just an old fellow but an old coot, he is not about to let that range go; after all it still cooks about half his food reasonably well.

And so, instead of calling the Sears appliance center or other venue offering stoves at fetching prices, he called….. O*Keefe and Merritt to see if they had the part that was defective on his unit. The representative he ultimately connected with laughed aloud when he gave her the part number, “Honey, we haven’t produced that part for over 25 years.” And that should have been that… trip to oven store at once… new machine to be installed next Thursday.

But old coots don’t think that way…. no indeed.

All but useless… still good enough for coots.

If there’s a penny’s worth of value left in any object, no matter that that object can not do the job you need done, a coot, any coot, will die rather than lose that value. That’s why dear old Dad, not only did not get a new range, but told the flip wench that he would keep looking for the part until he found it. Then he called a couple of repair places to see if they could help; they couldn’t. This continued until he had the bright idea of going to Ebay, and there the matter rests because he doesn’t know how to use Ebay and daren’t ask me because he already knows what I’ll say and getting rid of the friggin’ stove is just the beginning.

I’d make him chuck the toaster that doesn’t quite toast… “but I only got it 15 years ago, and it should be good for another 5,000 pieces at least…”

The typewriter he hasn’t used, not to type a single letter or address label in a couple of decades at least… “but it’s an Olivetti, top of the line”… Then the punch line, “They discontinued this model years ago, and you can’t get ribbons anymore.” Of course.

Even the bromo seltzer in the medicine cabinet… that he picked up for “Just a penny, I tell you” at the estate sale of my great grandmother, the sale held when I was just 13 or 14 or so; (I’m 64 now). Then, in 1959, it was already over 20 years old. But she’d say when people told her to get rid of it, she’d say with horror, “Why, what an idea, Lura Marshall”… and then these unanswerable words: “You never know”… and these unanswerable words were rendered with the hauteur of a queen… or at the very least of someone who knew a great, dark, secret, like maybe it was a poison reserved for her Satanic rites. But it was worse, far worse than that.

Now I know what that secret is.

You see, that bottle of bromo seltzer arrived the other day, compliments of my father who decided he needed the space, but absolutely couldn’t throw this away. Why, it was owned by his own grandmother.

When I opened that box, I knew; I knew not only I wouldn’t… I couldn’t throw it away.

And so I came to know.. and now I tell you the secret, that .. becoming an old coot is a matter of heredity, genetics, not choice, which makes me a Young Coot.

Thus I called Poor Old Dad (it took over a dozen attempts to reach him on his wonky answering machine) and promised I’ll find him that part if it takes a year, or more; he’s right, that range is far too valuable to discard, and new ones cost the earth.

You don’t have to have silver threads among the gold to know that, although I most surely do. Why if I find that part, and I shall, that range has at least 20 good years left…. Dad says he’s leaving it to me…

*** Your comments on this article are invited.

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. Details at worldprofit.com

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Categories : Blog
Tags : aging, authors, elderly, family, Jeffrey Lant, old age, old coot

O Little Town… Christmas comes to Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 25, 2011. 12:54 a.m. 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Winds W-NW 8 miles per hour.

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Sunday, December 25th, 2011

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. Before I left on my Christmas walk-about at not quite 1 a.m. Eastern today, I turned on every light in my brilliantly lit house. On the lights in the hallway thereby exposing in radiance the wistful picture of a young 18th century prince of the House of Brunswick-Luneberg. Dead too soon, not even 20, he craves all the light I can give him, and that is much.

On the lights, all the lights in the Red Drawing Room, on the lights, all the lights in the Green Room, on the lights, all the lights in the Blue Room from where I am writing you now, where the chandelier throws out over 10,000 facets of light. So the seller told me; I have long since given up counting them… but their colors entrance while its welcome heat warms me…

What kind of mania is this that demands every light lit, every treasure burnished, everything bold, audacious, polished, warm and, to my uttermost ability, welcome?

Just this: It is Christmas Day, this very day, this day of days, to come but once and go… and I am alive, ready, eager to take myself from here and see how this 2,011th Christmas is evolving from my vantage point in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I command all this light, first, to celebrate the advent of this day and its great meaning, that on this very day, over two thousand years ago the Prince of Heaven was born, a boon to mankind, our sustaining hope unto the ages. And I want Him to know that He is welcome here… and always has been, though often I did not know or show it…

And, too, there must be light, an explosion of light, to welcome me home, for I mean to go out and see for myself how this Holy Night is faring and what my neighbors may be doing.

Red hat, white fur, my lassez passer.

This is my 63rd Christmas; the year when my many friends worldwide, of so many climes and countries, offer their advice freely before I venture out into the dark and cold. “Bundle up,” says Mark Anderson. “Remember to cover your ears,” proffers Dale Thomson. “Don’t stay out too long,” offers David Mobile. Such words, each one on any other day lese majeste’, convey care and love… and make me smile. A man like me knows well the warmth of such words and how to conjure them; they cheer the heart such as no fire can. Age hath its wisdoms and privileges; no one knows that better than I do, and I crave them as surely as air or sun; and get them, too.

And so I put on the foolish Santa hat I was given by a young friend who looked raffish when he wore it, whereas I look just silly… but I know that wearing it out this night of all nights, will safely mark me as harmless, eccentric, a man who has imbibed too much of the grape, erroneous conclusions to be sure, but useful when a man leaves his cozy house at midnight, and warm bed, too, to venture out into the piercing cold of a Bay State Christmas in pursuit of… but you must come out of your snug world and along with me to see.

Presents for me…

In the lobby of my building where I am now, I think, the senior resident or close to it, I see two boxes for me. These neat parcels, festooned by words like FedEx and UPS and the numeric mysteries of their tracking systems, firmly establish me as a card-carrying person of the middle classes and of means; poor people shop at stores and carry home their packages, often on buses and late-running subways. Mine ascend by elevators and are given by delivery men, exceptionally polite at this time of year, who say things like “Something else for you, Dr. Lant. Somebody loves you…”

But I have no time for such packages now… I have a mission.

Cold air, colder Puritan.

The cold of midnight is piercing but by no means the worst I have felt; the Internet weather report (the only place I go for weather intelligence anymore) says the wind chill factor is 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I feel superior to that, and further plunges, too. I am glad to take it, and to know I can still take worse; more evidence of my evergreen condition; of increasing importance as I get older…

The Cambridge Common, where by ancient law and privilege I could graze my cows (should I get some), is vacant tonight… but the statue of John Bridge continues its austere duty, scrutinizing the lives of Cantabridgians, ensuring not that we are as worthy as he (for that is impossible) but that we do not stray too far from his noble example.

Bridge was a Puritan, a man of God and God’s affairs and ran these, no doubt to God’s satisfaction, for Bridge’s all-worthy career prospered in mid-17th century Cambridge. Such men, the very fibre of moral rectitude and self-assurance (my ancestors, too, for the nonce) made a point of destroying the olde English Christmas of “God rest ye merry gentlemen.” Bridge would no doubt have disapproved the frivolity of my chapeau… and so I walked on, glad he was not coming to disdain my liberated Christmas.

The artistry of ice.

Burdened by winter as I often am here, captive of the chill Atlantic and its perishing cold, I more often avoid the ice than consider it. Tonight I rectified this error and stopped to scrutinize the random beauty of ice, frigid patterns that turned yesterday’s puddles into tonight’s etched allure. It is beautiful, the kind of sharp avant garde pattern in black and silver a stylish billionaire might use to dazzle every penthouse guest; here this transient beauty goes unremarked by all but me.

There is livelier fare across the street, when seven squad cars spurt police, busily at work at the main gate of Harvard College, just opened days ago from the thrall of the hapless revolutionaries who Occupied Harvard, but not effectively or for very long. The police are out in force, a tow-truck at the ready, a fellow human being in their arms, his Christmas and destiny to be paid out in hospital or jail cell.

I look instead at the statue of Senator Charles Sumner (1811-1874), a man of such austerity and respectability that when he escorted Mary Todd Lincoln there was no touch of scandal at all, though he was reckoned the most handsome man at Harvard and in Civil War Washington. I often wonder whether the burden of such rectitude made him happy. Certainly his statue does not show it. He was cold in life, and perhaps the coldness of this statue is its truest aspect.

I prefer to spend my Christmas night with another Harvard man, the Reverend Phillips Brooks (1835-1893). He is memorialized in Harvard Yard, but not in copper and stone. His is a memorial of people, for the people who admired and loved him created in 1904 Phillips Brooks House Association, a student-run, community-based non-profit public service organization whose mission is the true meaning of this holiday, to give and give until it truly helps and makes a difference.

Brooks took the fine tune by organist Lewis Redner and graced it in 1868 with the words we know as “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and whose words are my prayer for us all this day, and every day.

“O holy Child of Bethlehem Descend to us we pray… O come to us, abide with us Our Lord Emmanuel.”

(Concluded and sent to the world as the author’s gift, 5:05 a.m., Christmas Day, 2011).

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. Details at worldprofit.com

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Categories : Blog
Tags : christmas day, Jeffrey Lant
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