Updated !!!The boy next door… the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy throughthe night because of him… and millions like him. A Tribute!

Updated !!!The boy next door… the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy throughthe night because of him… and millions like him. A Tribute!



I wanted to share with each of you this special occassion!

The boy next door… the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him… and millions like him. A Tribute!

Author’s program note. When was the last time you considered the state of our Great Republic and did anything — anything at all — to sustain and improve it?

If you cannot immediately say and cannot recall what you did, if you have nothing but rancorous thoughts and feelings about our continuing great experiment in the governance and well being of mankind, then stop and focus your full, undivided attention on this article and its subject: Howard Hector Martell, Jr. For this day, like every other day over the past 20 years, Howard Martell has served us… you, me, the Great Republic, all of us able to live life as we wish because of him and his colleagues in every great service of our great nation.

To set the stage for this story, to provide the essential sound, I have selected music from one of the greatest public affairs programs ever — “Victory at Sea.” It is a documentary television series about naval warfare during World War II that was originally broadcast by NBC in 1952-1953. The stirring music was composed by Richard Rodgers and Robert Russell Bennett. Rodgers, well known for a string of iconic Broadway musicals, contributed 13 “themes”; short piano compositions a minute or two in length. Bennett did the scoring, transforming Rodger’s themes into a variety of moods, all designed to touch your heart and fire your imagination. The result was pure magic.

Find out for yourself. Go now to any search engine. Listen to a few of the “themes” to get you started. I like “Hard Work and Horseplay”, “Theme of the Fast Carriers” and, of course, “The Song of the High Seas.” However, to honor Howard Martell, listen to “Guadalcanal March.”  It is the essence of what a grand march should be… the kind of march Howard has so well earned… I’m playing it now as I write.

New London.

New London, Connecticut is a seaport city and a port of entry on the northeast coast of the United States. It is located at the mouth of the Thames River which locals demand you pronounce to rhyme with “James”, unlike the great river of London, England which rhymes with ‘hems”. The folks in New London insist upon their rendering; after all, they were part of the victorious Revolution that tossed the Brits out — and their eccentric pronunciations. As you hear this said, you begin to grasp the fact that New London is not merely a place of picturesque aspects; just what meets the eye. Rather, it is a place where young boys glimpse the great sea at hand, so beckoning, and dream dreams of faraway places and what life can be.

Howie Martell was such a boy.

He was born June 27,1973, attended local schools, graduating from Griswold High School. People remember him, if they remember him at all, as shy, uncertain; a boy who would smile at you… but only after you had smiled at him. Teachers with many students to instruct would remember him indistinctly and call him “average.” But such an appraisal would have been incomplete, inaccurate, failing to capture his essence, for this boy was a dreamer of great dreams… and New London, for centuries the home port of audacious mariners, offered him the means to live them, mere dreams no longer.

On August 10, 1992, just 19, he left the comfort of family, friends, the only place he had ever known, placing his future in the hands of strangers who would, in due course and short order, become comrades, a word civilians may know but so seldom understand. And so Howard Martell entered the service of the Great Republic, discovering a destination more important than any of the 48 countries he came to visit. He found himself… and became a man.

From this point, his resume tells the story… it is all USN, the resume of a man who studied hard, knew his business — the Great Republic’s business — and was esteemed by superiors who always found him ready to assist, eager to learn, and above all trustworthy and responsible.

In the process a man was shaped who was the complete Navy professional, respected by all, able to be, as events required, a man who could lead, a man who would be loyal, a man you wanted on your team, because he (and this touches the heart of this man) always stood for the success of his team, never just his own. As people came to know him, they saw this… and admired the man who put collective success above mere personal gain. Thus the Navy took Howard Martell, once a shy boy no one could quite remember, to its heart. He received one deserved honor after another… Navy Good Conduct Medal… six times… Navy & Marine Corps Achievement Medal… four times… Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal… Iraq Campaign Medal… two times. And most telling of all a plaque from his fellow First Class Petty Officers who thereby saluted one of their own. He was indeed the complete Navy man…  a man who twenty years before had made the right decision.

The need for service in the age of selfishness.

It is a truism that older citizens will engage in endless rodomontades which detail the innumerable outrages perpetrated by the young against society. How they are ill-educated, lazy, unkempt, unclean of body and language. How they cannot be depended upon… how they flout all established behavior, video game obsessed wastrels who cannot be trusted and will never amount to a hill of beans. Thus goes the jeremiad; you can catch a whiff of it whenever two adults of fifty or so gather. From the very start of the first civilization each man steps into this argument in his maturity, as easily as he dons casual clothes. It is one of the perqs of aging, and no senior citizen will ever give up this sacred right to pontificate. I shall not give it up either and so I give you some pungent thoughts on the matter of service, a concept that alternates between being an afterthought and the salvation of the nation. What we require is calm reflection and sensible policies on the matter. And so I choose to use my words not to grumble but to exhort… to touch a shy boy or girl reading this article and help them both select the responsible path, the path trod by Howard Martell and generations of young people before… the path of service… and the abiding need of the Great Republic for… you!

Young friend, our way of governance, our core beliefs, the very future of our noble enterprise is not only challenged, but at risk. You have a choice — mindless dissipation and decay, or personal development and redemption through the bestowal of your time, mind and heart to the pressing affairs of the Great Republic. In short, you can ignobly remain part of the problem, or become infinitely more valuable as part of the solution.

There is nothing neutral about this decision. It is of the greatest possible consequence and can only be made by you. A great idea, the greatest notion of statecraft ever propounded, the Great Republic itself awaits your verdict, hopeful, expectant, confident. Howie Martell made the right choice. Will you?

… And now it is time to end Howard’s military career with all the pomp and circumstance he has earned… and which a grateful Navy can provide.

Stand forward Petty Officer First Class Howard Hector Martell, Jr.. For your service, your nation, your friends, family and comrades mean to honor you before the world in due recognition for what you have so abundantly given… above all the gift of loyalty and fidelity to a great institution so needed by this great nation.

And so through each of the hallowed retirement traditions all Naval personnel know so well… until this event, at once festive and solemn, reaches the Shadow Box. This is a symbol of a sailor’s many career accomplishments and recognitions. Shadow boxes contain a U.S. flag folded into a triangle, ribbons and medals, insignia and revered devices. They act as a reminder of ranks earned by the retiree and the awards received. It is a mark of the highest honor and cherished accordingly. Yours, Howard, comes complete with the unqualified gratitude of the nation you have served so well… none better… and the sincere thanks of us all. May God grant you sunshine and a fair wind to your many ports of call still to come.


End this article by returning to any search engine and playing the “Victory at Sea” theme. It remains glorious.

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 Howard Martell <a http://homeprofitcoach.com/associates  Check out Surveys Paid ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=pq334y8a

Why My Kids Need Me To Be Impert


SchulteProductions / iStock

I dropped my 8-year-old off at her classroom today and the last thing I saw was a little hole in the center of her shirt and a head full of tousled, knotted hair. Our most recent uninvited house guests, the head lice, effectively caused an embargo in our parts on all hairbrush usage.

A few weeks ago, the head lice swept through our school district like wildfire, jumping with unabashed glee onto any little girl unfortunate enough to have long and luxurious locks, much to the horror of every self-respecting mother in the school. After the great poisoning ordeal necessary to rid ourselves of said guests, I had yet to make it to the store to purchase new grooming tools. Needless to say, there’s a lot of tangled little girl hair in our house. We make our sacrifices right?

The next stop today, dropping the 5-year-old off at her preschool class, she herself sporting wilting magenta- and teal-colored feathers in her hair (her design) affixed with a pipe cleaner no less. It was only then that I happened to overhear another mom, announce in a singsong voice “It’s picture day today!  We’re so excited!”

I’ll admit, I knew it was picture day—in the most watery and distracted, trying to hold too many details in my head all at once kind of way. Of course the messenger mom had her child perfectly groomed in beautiful new clothes, a curly ponytail, and a matching bow (a matching bow! Where does one even source these things?). And here I am, one kid already in class with rip in her shirt and one kid with feathers in her hair and chocolate milk smears dried on her cheek. This is what parenting is like for me. It’s one big cornflake getting stepped on in the kitchen with a bare foot. The kids are still alive—don’t get me wrong. They even seem to be thriving despite the fact that their socks never match (this is not an exaggeration).


I found the above excerpt in my writing files. I began writing this piece five years ago. My girls are long past the snarled hair phase (I’m relieved.) We haven’t had a visit from the head lice since then (thanks be to Jesus), and I’m still a pretty imperfect mom (the socks remain unmatched). My eldest, now 12, had a meltdown last night; she had worked herself into such a worried and nervous state about the day she would have to move out of the house and away from us.

I knew that this was one of those moments in motherhood where I was being presented with an ideal opportunity to comfort her and walk her through the truth: that in actuality, chances were quite high that she’d be absolutely delighted to get the hell out of our house in six years. I kept thinking this. I kept taking deep breaths on the verge of dropping my straight up wisdom on her, but god, I was so tired. We’d had such a busy weekend, and all I wanted to do was just sit in silence and zone out on my phone.

So instead of using the moment to bring us closer and open up a conversation about confidence in the beauty of the future, I kept repeating—in between scrolling on Instagram and watching my youngest do constant and jarring gymnastic flips on the floor in front of me—“It’s OK, babe, it’ll be fine, seriously. You don’t need to stress about that. Now will you please go brush your teeth and get ready for bed?” (aka, oh my god, hypothetical problems are not real problems! Please just leave me alone for five minutes!).

I blew it. Yep, kind of like picture day. I see women on social media who seem to have this motherhood deal dialed. They do things like take their five kids to the park and manage to write (and post!) a blog entry while the kids are playing. There are moms at our schools who actually have the time and energy (and desire!) to put together enriching activities like after-school computer clubs. And then there’s me. I’m just over here getting the warning letter from the school regarding chronic tardies and their disruptiveness to the classroom, or pushing the daughter who wants to cuddle off my lap because her elbows are too sharp and her wet hair is too cold.

I admire (and I’m jealous of) the moms out there who can pull off the things that I cannot. Although when it comes to my personal life, are those the things that really matter? Do I need to meet a certain number of perfectionistic standards—my own—every week? Do I need to be available for activity development, deep conversations, and cuddling every single time? I used to think I did, like somehow well-brushed hair and perfect advice would eventually save my children from experiencing any trauma in their lives.

I don’t believe that anymore. In fact, the older they get, the more apparent it becomes that a little bit of imperfection in their home lives actually makes it easier for them to deal with disappointment in their public lives. So it’s a learning process for all of us. I’m learning to let my imperfection flag fly, and they’re learning that they can take care of their own needs. Or at least they can rest assured that in six to eight years when they (hopefully) want to move out into the world on their own, they’ll be able to handle it—even if they’re running late and wearing mismatched socks .

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Author: HO

We Are Raising Good Humans, So Stop With The ‘Special Snowflake’ Bullsh*t

jonathanfilskov-photography / iStock

I was guilty of a certain way of thinking before I had kids: Letting a child have their way, negotiate with you, or talk you out of your decision creates nothing but an asshole.

But I would never let that happen to my kids. I would always be the boss.

I am not embarrassed to admit this. I know most parents had similar thoughts before they had kids.

It is so easy to think this way before you have children of your own. While you are at a romantic dinner, all dressed up, listening to a toddler scream “I don’t like you” at their mother, the only thoughts you are capable of having in that moment are likely unkind. And anyone who has witnessed such behavior before becoming a parent and responded with, “Oh, he is just having a bad day and is trying to express himself,” is much better than me. So much better. Also, they were probably very drunk.

Parents don’t want to raise asshats, and most of us know it is our job to ensure that doesn’t happen. But just because you see a parent discussing options with their child or letting them “scream it out,” it doesn’t mean they think their child is a precious snowflake who should never have to compromise and should always gets their way. It doesn’t mean the child is a spoiled dickweed who will never make it in the real world.

If you judge a parent by watching them for two minutes, you are the dickweed, my friend.

Many of us take different approaches to raising our children. Sometimes we do negotiate with them. There are moments when we do hear them out because they actually have valid points. They are real people with real feelings, and their voices matter too.

There was the time my son asked if he could buy a stack of red plastic shot glasses. I wasn’t worried about other parents judging me if my child had a container explicitly used for taking shots of booze. I was worried about my son scattering the glasses all over our kitchen as his mini experiments dripped out and made not-so-mini messes all over the place. So I said no — until he told me how long he had been wanting them because “they are so cute and will be perfect for drinking milk out of because sometimes I only want a mini cup of milk.” This was me showing him empathy, letting him be heard, and letting him know he is safe to express himself and his emotions.

And he does, in fact, drink mini cups of milk while extending his pinky as he sips because “this is how the fancy, rich people do it.” Okay, kill me now, you can have as many of these shot glasses as you want, kid, and can you be any cuter? This set of glasses is one of his favorite things, and I’m glad he talked me into the purchase. It’s probably the best $5 I’ve ever spent. He still appreciated them, he still said thank you, and he still knows how to behave in a respectful manner even though I changed my mind.

Kids are smart, we all know it, but sometimes our knee-jerk reaction is to overrule them because we just can’t, or we are too tired, or we don’t really know what the fuck they are talking about.

The problem is, our kids are human, not machines. They need room to make mistakes and decisions for themselves. These can start small and get bigger as they grow. I like it when my kids offer a healthy argument, like the time my son was told he shouldn’t wear a necklace because he was boy. The person who said it to him was an adult, and my son’s response was golden, “I like it, and someone I like gave it to me, and I will wear it because I want to.” I can’t help but think that if I’d trained him to be a little robot who never spoke his mind, he wouldn’t have known how to stand his ground.

When we give our kids the opportunity to speak, to explain their thoughts, we are giving them a voice and the confidence to ask for what they want and need. The value of this and its rewards are huge, both in the present moment and later in life.

They have to learn how to stand up for themselves at some point, so why not start early when you can teach them how to do it without being a dickweed? I am not waiting until my kids are 18 to give them permission to have a voice. It is theirs to use now, and I’m going to help them channel it to become thoughtful, articulate, vocal world citizens.

I would much rather have kids who stand up for themselves and others and speak up when they think something is unfair than kids who think they have to go with the flow or accept a punishment for something that was an accident — all because they are meant to be “seen, not heard.” Nope, not my kids.

If helping my kids grow into good people by letting them use their voices in respectful ways or allowing them to have opinions that oppose mine means that they’re “special snowflakes,” then I don’t give a flying fuck. It is 2017, and the way we parent now looks different to those who were raised in previous generations. We let our kids have more choices and different experiences because we want better for them, and I think that is a noble cause. We are constantly being reminded to “know better, do better,” and I’m simply putting that thought into action. And if my kids serve as proof, I’m doing a damn good job.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb


No More Cold Calls: The Complete Guide To Generating — And Closing — All The Prospects You Need To Become A Multi-Millionaire By Selling Your Service

If you are selling a service in America and are not yet a millionaire it had better be 1) because you have only been in business a short time, or 2) you expect a maiden aunt to leave you a bundle. There is no other reason not to be rich, really rich, from selling services.
And this book proves it.
Here in the next 16 chapters, you get precisely what you need to create the process that provides all the prospects you need to become a millionaire selling your service . . . and how to work with these prospects so your millionaire status is assured.
This is no idle claim on my part, either. For the last fourteen years, I have helped literally millions of people launch, develop and maintain businesses that have delivered their financial objectives.
In the pages ahead, I shall spare no effort to give you just what you need to fulfill the promise of this book’s title. If you’ve read one of my books before, you know precisely what I mean. It is my life’s aim to upgrade the quality of “how-to” information so that it really does deliver what the author promises. I continue to achieve this objective here.
In the pages of this book, I stand forth as your consultant. I shall be urging you, prodding you, even occasionally angering and infuriating you to become the consummate — and most successful — service seller possible. Like many people who read my material, you may find the necessary tasks exhausting … but like many more, you will probably thank me for my candor, hard-hitting honesty and, I am glad to report, my integrity. I do not offer some magical road to success (like many less scrupulous “how-to” practitioners).. . but I do offer a road that will take you to where you want to go … if you are willing to stay on it.
What You’ll Find In These Pages
This book is divided into 16 chapters and, briefly, I’d like to introduce them to you.
I begin the book in Chapter 1 with “Thirty Reasons Why You’re Currently Sabotaging Your Chances Of Becoming A Multi-Millionaire Selling Services.” If you solve these thirty problems, you will become a millionaire selling your service. That’s why if you find yourself failing to reach this objective, you should return to this chapter again and again until you have solved every single one of these problems.
In Chapter 2, you’ll learn how to create the Multi-Million Dollar Plan. Here you start breaking away from the service sellers whose businesses run them to become the future millionaire who uses your business to make money. You know about having to plan your work and work your plan . . . here are the details you need so you can successfully do so.
Once you’ve got the plan, you need to gather — and store — client- centered cash copy. That’s what you’ll learn to do in Chapter 3. This is the process you must go through before you write any marketing communications. Most service sellers don’t plan these communications … and don’t do what’s necessary to get the proper information they need to motivate people. They just write. Result? They don’t make their investment back, much less any profit.
Once you’ve got the right material — the skeleton — for your marketing communications, then and only then should you produce them. In Chapter 4, you’ll master the components of marketing communications that get your prospects to respond … and learn how to create all the communications themselves. Thereafter you’ll never be at a loss for how to create the right marketing communication . . . the communication that gets the person you’re addressing to do what you want him to do!
Before you start using these powerful marketing communications, however, you’ve got some more work to do in your office. In Chapter 5, you’ll find out how to turn your personal computer into the most client-centered marketing department imaginable. You’ll find out what to put in it and how to organize all your data so that you are prepared to deal effectively with both prospects and clients- so you get more business faster!
FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

A Connoisseur’s Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.


Multi- award winning, gloriously written and unique memoir by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Awarded FIRST in Class at Southern California Book Festival.
SECOND in Class at the Great Midwest Book Festival.
THIRD in Class at the London (England) Book Festival.
THIRD in Class at the New England Book Fare.
Dr. Lant also was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award with a focus on “A Connoisseur’s Journey” with this citation.
“Dr. Jeffrey Lant. On behalf of the citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I congratulate you on the release of your Memoir, ‘A Connoisseur’s Journey’. Your work is a ground-breaking experiment into the use of musical citations in literature, adding depth and nuance to the reading experience.”
(signed) Charles D. Baker, Governor and Karyn E.Polito, Lieutenant Governor

This is Dr. Lant’s twentieth book, but only the first of his memoirs. Over the course of his long connection with books, the discovery, the reading, the writing, the rewriting and rereading He has come across many volumes of memoirs, some glorious and gloriously written, some so forgettable that you cannot remember the author even a moment after putting the dreary pages down, vowing to avoid him like the plague forever after. However, dear reader, not so here. Dr. Lant shall give you what you want in a memoir… humor, indiscretion, secrets, stories of the rich and famous, stories about places and situations you’ve longed to visit and enjoy. You will learn much in the least demanding of ways… and feel more and more intelligent as you read.

You will be in the hands of a man of learning, privilege, and audacity, who has been there, done that, and lived to write the tale. There is nothing fair or objective in what you’re about to read. Nor should there be. For a memoir is all about you, your life, your point of view, your unique journey wherever on Earth and in whatever way you choose to make it. And if some — even you! — cavil or object to even a single word or sentiment, why then write your own memoirs, for the genre is open to all.


FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb


Rock ’N’ Roll Legend Chuck Berry Dead At 90

Music legend Chuck Berry penned a great number of hits in the 1950s and ’60s that influenced generations of rock groups, including The Beatles. 

Rock ’n’ roll pioneer Chuck Berry has died, Missouri police said Saturday. He was 90.

“The St. Charles County Police Department sadly confirms the death of Charles Edward Anderson Berry Sr., better known as legendary musician Chuck Berry,” police said in a statement posted to Facebook.

First responders were called out to a home on Buckner Road around 12:40 p.m. and found a man later identified as Berry unresponsive “and immediately administered lifesaving techniques,” the statement reads. They were unable to revive him and he was pronounced dead at 1:26 p.m.

Berry penned a great number of hits in the 1950s and 1960s like “Sweet Little Sixteen,” “Roll Over Beethoven” and “Rock and Roll Music” that influenced generations of rock groups, including The Beatles. Merging a captivating stage presence with his own blend of blues, country and jazz, Berry helped define the fledgling rock’n’ roll genre, later becoming one of the first musicians inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio.

Born into a middle-class family in St. Louis, Missouri, Berry picked up the basics of guitar from a neighbor and started performing music as a teenager. In 1952, he formed a trio with Johnnie Johnson on piano and Ebby Harding on drums that rose to fame in the local nightclub scene. To pay the bills, Berry worked as a hairdresser. But soon enough he wouldn’t have time for that ― a trip to Chicago netted a recording session with Chess Records, during which Berry performed an old hillbilly tune called “Ida Red.” Changing the name to “Maybellene,” Chess sent the track to an influential New York DJ, and it became a hit among the teenage set.

According to an oft-cited line by John Lennon, “If you tried to give rock ‘n’ roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry.’” Berry’s music became so well-known, he toured the country with only a guitar, trusting he’d be able to find musicians in each city he played who could serve as his back-up. Many of his lyrics focused on teen culture, although he was significantly past that age by the time he started traveling around singing about cars and dates.

Chuck Berry’s signature “duck walk.”

But in the nascent era of the Civil Rights Movement, Berry’s status as a black man with a following of young white people ― a lot of them girls ― caused certain conflict. He’d been known to take refuge in police stations to dodge protesters after his shows, which sometimes featured police presence themselves, according to an Esquire profile. After a teenage coat-check girl who worked briefly at a club he owned alleged Berry had an affair with her, the guitarist served two years in prison. A tax evasion charge sent him to prison again, briefly, in 1979. Then, in 1990, a police raid on a recording compound he owned turned up a stash of marijuana and images of Berry with nude women ― including one underage ― but charges were later dropped.

Notoriously interview-shy, Berry had been living out his later years in Ladue, Missouri ― near his hometown. He never stopped writing music, and performed regular gigs at a local restaurant and club called Blueberry Hill.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

Author: HO


  • Lifestyle Books
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  • “You Were Never Lovelier, You Were Never So Fair.” June 2016.: Flower Power Vol. 3


When I first moved to Cambridge I encountered a disgusting display of what happens when civic “leaders” forget what they are in office to do, thereby leaving a disgusting eyesore in the middle of the city for all to see. I took action and I called the mayor’s office, I called the office of the city councilors, I called the parks division to do something, and do it now. I continued to call until finally one Cambridge mayor was produced. I literally took his honor by the hand and showed him where to look and where to sniff. He made a note of both. And so, the
great wheels of government began to turn, ever so slowly. I
said to his honor, the mayor, “Any official in any European city
our size would regard the absence of green grass properly
cut, trees properly tended, and pots of flowers in riotous
numbers as a disgrace.” But Americans seem to regard flowers
as superfluous, unessential, and a waste of money.

Slowly, improvements came to the great Common, where I might, by law, allow my cattle and horses to graze, should I ever get any.

The statues take a prominent place but you will look in vain for snatches of color, riotous color, color that thrills you. Flowers have that power, but we have no flowers.

Perhaps the City Fathers and City Mothers think the careless folk, little aware of how difficult it was to get the flowers here in the first place, might allow their urinating dogs to pollute them. I concur, that could well be an issue.Or perhaps they will think that hoodlums might do wheelies through all the color, for the shear joy of being destructive and “cool”. This, too, is a potential worry.

Or young lovers, of whom we have a plethora, an overabundance, might pluck the fairest blooms to give to a lover, who might be superseded in an moment or two for someone better in every way. This, too, could happen.

But we cannot deny the great majority of our fellow citizens the beauty of flowers… even if the first crop, and the second crop, and, yes, the third crop be destroyed by one menace or another. We must be tenacious and insist upon beauty as the goal, no matter how long it takes to achieve it.

Here, in this book, in this three volume series, you will find all the reasons you will ever need to put flowers in our Common, and complete the long pending task. For without flowers there cannot be, will never be a conclusion that is suitable for the people of this great, internationally renowned and much visited city, settled by Puritans for the work of God.

And if you do not think that planting flowers is the work of God, then you need to stop and look about you, for each flower is an emissary of God to cheer us in our miseries, as the stories in my three volumes show so well.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

Author: HO

This comes as a gift from Dr. Jeffrey Lant to you. May your every word flourish. Ex Libris

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s Program Note.

First there was the thunderclap, sharp, unyielding sound overawing all, pulling me anxious from my bed; to be swiftly followed by a cascade of erratic sound, my sundered rest punctured by noises that made the end of the world seem puny and insignificant by comparison. I was alone and soon to be unhappy, bereft, no comfort, my world altered forever.

This is the story of what happened just the other day. I know that sympathetic folk worldwide will join me in my lamentation… for this is a tale any one of us could have penned and which all of us might easily share and could as easily experience.

I call it Ex Libris, and it is a sad tale.

“84 Charing Cross Road”

If you’re a Bibliophile like I am, I don’t have to introduce you to this cinema classic released in 1987. It features an adamant, opinionated, chain-smoking, wise-cracking, irreverent New York writer (is there any other kind?) expertly played by Anne Bancroft (1931-2005), a lady in love with books, the more obscure and esoteric the better. Her correspondent is a soft-spoken London-based expert in finding out-of-print English books. (perfectly rendered by Sir Anthony Hopkins b. 1937).

He has at first no clue quite how to handle this rather alarming customer; then discovers that she is what all writers and lovers of language require, a Kindred Spirit, puckish, golden hearted, honest to a fault, friend, jousting companion, lover of words, lover of those who shape these words, dram at the ready but never to excess; willing to let the rest of us into their enthralling lives, changing us forever, even the ones who bathe infrequently and are too vocal about their ill-considered (and frequently
changed) politics.

I had absolutely no trouble adhering to the rites and precise rituals of their arcane mysteries, not just in London either, but New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Oxford, Chicago. Chicago?

Purists may wrinkle their fastidious noses but, yes, Chicago where I sprawled for hours (age 12 or so, thank you very much) in the magic caverns tottering in unimaginably lofty formations on Clark Street. Yes, Chicago, “my kind of town, Chicago is” where I often heard my mother warn me that I could have all the books I could carry but not one more. Then hear my practised wheedling for more and still more, for my mother believed in the curative powers of disintegrating fine tooled leathers and the cats which could lead you if they would to wondrous editions not yet found by my tardy and less persistent competitors. Yes, Chicago, too, by all means, and proudly.

Where have these discriminating tabbies and their erudite successors gone? I feel guilty and ashamed that I don’t know, such is the undeniable pull of these establishments and their silky inhabitants down my ages. Forgive me!

“The Look”.

I know now what I could hardly even imagine then; that I was either born with or early acquired the unquestioned demeanor and certain stance and undoubted swagger of a Bibliophile. That is to say, I was a lad for whom doors were open wherever I went, wherever books in all their aspects and appurtenances were favored, as they were widely and worldwide.

Unfavored school mates and taunting cousins (self designated sans peur et sans reproche, especially if a grid iron and locker room were involved) might deride, but they would do so at their considerable risk and undoing. Bibliophiles, remember, have the benefits of deep memory and the certainty that revenge is a dish best tasted cold.

In those long-ago days I brought home a steady stream of prizes with resounding names, grandiose certificates, the letters patent of our realm, and even Yankee cash on the barrel head. Such unanticipated (to them), irritating developments, which caused my more brawny, athletic peers to rethink their positions, and (no matter how reluctantly) to treat me with the reverence and veneration I so richly deserved. Parents of such sad scoffers might be heard, and in public, too, intoning this righteous sentiment: “Why can’t you be a scholar like Jeffrey?,” words which no doubt enlivened and encouraged the sorry lot. Their roles in life have no doubt been the better for it.

Every click a diminishment, a certain loss, a looming tragedy.

I live in the middle of the greatest constellation of words in the Great Republic, Fair Harvard and dozens of institutions of higher and other learning, over 70 such institutions just minutes away, the whole one of the greatest achievements of our species and a light to people everywhere who appreciate and advocate humane values and a world of peace, serenity, fairness, and equality, the hallmarks of this special place and its abiding message to the ages.

Generations from now historians and other researchers into our past will call this the Golden Age, the final days of what we have worked so diligently for a thousand years to create, foster, and maintain, including language and the books which enshrine it forever.

The proven vandals, the assured barbarians are not just at the gate, they are placed within our glorious precincts by our very children, placed here by committed parental thrift and scrimping; each more adept than the one before in their proven ways to eradicate what we have so loved, supported and honored; imposing standards which are no standards at all.
Come to Cambridge, to Harvard. The future is breaking here like a brand new, unwelcome dawn. As if by wizard’s wand, institutions once boasting that they were citadels of progress and the liberal arts now are teetering on the knife edge of extinction; buildings gone, faculties dismissed, the very idea of liberal arts and progress derided and dismissed; the potent weapons click by click on the agile fingertips of the young and careless, are dooming not just multitudes, useless cargo on Spaceship Earth, but our very species. Truly Father forgive them for they know not…

I’m forced to join the revolution

I have for the last many years, harbored a guilty secret. I cannot bear to send my books to other homes and foreign shores. I hide them in places where even I forget, but better work of literature misplaced by sympathetic hands than gone forever, a sacrifice to the savages and their wanton ways.

The books that fell were a small part of the thousands of books which have found sanctuary here and over the course of my entire life. They were stacked and crammed and buried and pushed and shoe-horned into a space sustained by the thickest of woods, mahoganey. Now and again I would look at them and sigh, for like “Sophie’s Choice” (1979) by William Styron, I knew I would have to make a decision, and that the decision would be unwelcome, whatever I decided to do.

And so, God stepped in, impatient with my inability to decide, and said, as sure as he’d send a telegram, “Clear the shelves of these books!” And He did.

Thus, my precious books, though only a few hundred of the total inventory, were marked for extinction, coming in the shape of the Goodwill truck from Somerville. They have pestered me often for them, and now, at last, they shall have their way. Of course I feel terribly, which is silly, isn’t it? Because as my assistant, Kris McNamara said as he helped me pick up the fruit of generations, “Everything you want is on the internet anyway, what’s the big deal?” But then, he is only 33, and can scarcely remember anything the outrage that I have lived with for so long. And so we in our turn shall be forgotten, too.

The Goodwill truck will come, life will go on, though admittedly altered and lessened. As for me, I have hidden as many of them as I can, in places no one would ever look. You see, I shall not go down without a fight, all flags flying, every page intact, every word. For even if I become known as the last man of suitable standards and goals, I shall accept that title, that honor, with gladness and pride, the stearnest demeanor… for even then there will be hope.


Whether you have seen “84 Charing Cross Road” before (lucky), or, whether this is your first time seeing this magnificient film (lucky), this distinctly moving film, I advise you to go to any search engine and watch it. In the meantime, here is the film score to whet your appetite:


In some ways, technology is a blessing.

About the author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant, Harvard educated, started writing for publication at age 5. Since then, he has published over 1,000 articles and 57 books, and counting. For information about his oeuvre, go to:


Remember, even rich and successful authors derive acute satisfaction from letters of ebullient content and affection.

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Memoirs > Happy and Glorious. Encounters With The Windsors HAPPY AND GLORIOUS. ENCOUNTERS WITH THE WINDSORS

  • Memoirs
  • >
  • Happy and Glorious. Encounters With The Windsors


I little thought, so many years ago, when I first encountered the Queen and the
royal Windsors, that I should be, so many decades later, writing my own memoirs of my several encounters. But I am.
How did I begin my connection with the Windsor dynasty?
In just this way: to get a doctoral degree at Harvard, you must write a work of intellectual distinction, challenging existing nostrums, replacing them with new truths, found and defended by you; your topic in due course becoming your first book.
Just what topic you select is closely evaluated and reviewed by your designated dissertation adviser, a poobah with enormous influence on your life.
Here’s where my English History Professor at Harvard, Professor Hanham now stepped in to alter my life, irrevocably, thoroughly, beneficially. He said, “Why don’t you write about the formulation of the great English royal pageants. It would make a splendid book.”
Thus, he handed me a subject which I have been able to dine out on for my
entire life. Millions of people worldwide have participated in the British pageants
since there were such pageants. But “real” historians disdain such frippery. It is beneath their lordly notice.
Here, however, Hanham made an astute observation about me, one for which I
probably have never given him sufficient acknowledgement or recognition.
Forgive me.
The pageants are so obvious, so ubiquitous, so universal, so wide ranging, that by definition, amongst my more snobbish colleagues at Harvard, they couldn’t possibly be important.
However, Hanham was shrewd. He knew, or must have known, that I would be
the only true lyric historian in my class. It was a canny observation. So I began
my lifetime career writing about the “obvious”, because it never really is.
Thus he set me on this path… The path that led to the pageants of the
Windsors, their lives, their foibles, things that were happy and glorious, and
things that were not.
I accepted his challenge, and went to work at once in my usual bull-dog way,
for I am a man who does not fear hard work, so long as at the end of the day, it
produces something of real magnitude and importance. In other words, a thing
worth doing.
My first real breakthrough occurred in one of the most beautiful buildings at Christ Church, Cambridge. There, in a medieval library perfect for my imaginings, I was presented with a box of unpublished letters and documents owned by the current Marquess of Salisbury. These were the letters of his ancestor, the 3rd Marquess (1830-1903). He was Queen Victoria’s Prime Minister three times. Now, thanks to these papers, I had my first sampling of truly substantive and important information.
That day, I knew that I would have further encounters with the Sovereign and the Royal Family. Thus, I set out with a will upon the task of promptly finishing my dissertation. Out of innumerable pieces of the puzzle, I fashioned a work of two volumes, 623 pages, presented to the Department of History, December, 1974, and immediately accepted.
I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the opus maximus, “Queen Victoria’s Golden
Jubilee, 1887”. I am as proud of it today as I was proud of it then, and this work
has worn well over the years.
Plus all the material for my first book “Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and confusion at Queen Victoria’s Court ” 269 pages available at www.writerssecrets.co – http://writerssecrets.co/products/insubstantial-pageant-ceremony-confusion-at-queen-victorias-court
Now, I was a Recognized Scholar.
Yankee Doodle was coming to storm the palace. God save the Queen!

A tale from an insider, the first American granted unique access to the Royal Archives of Windsor Castle.

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