The lady from Maine laments and quits; the gentleman from Oklahoma says shoot ‘em, and we revisit the savage beating — on the Senate floor no less — of Sen. Charles Sumner by Rep. Preston Brooks

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. There’s a whole lot of lamenting going on in Washington, D.C. It goes like this: once upon a time the Congress of the Great Republic was a genteel place where ladies and gentlemen put on their white gloves and best manners, taking tea while cozily arranging America’s affairs… thence home to a Dickens novel and well-earned slumber. The problem is that such a time never existed in the Congress of these factious United States. It’s the merest myth… for all that the poor lads and lassies who represent us yearn for such a place, such a time, and such amiable, thoughtful, sympathetic colleagues on both sides of the aisle.

And so, these folks give way to frequent tears and even more frequent sighs and vapors… with lamentations loud, frequent, poignant, heart-rending — and silly.

The most recent to give way to this “feel sorry for me” rubbish is the lady from Maine, senior Republican Senator Olympia Snowe. On February 28, 2012 the Honorable Olympia announced her inability to stomach the poisonous, internecine, downright nasty senatorial environment for another term. And so, lamenting, petulant, self-pitying, she said “basta!”… and started packing her valises with the accumulated treasures and heirlooms — not to mention the pensions and emoluments — of over 33 years in Congress. These will be substantial indeed.

As for me, I cannot find a single tear for the lady, rather the reverse. She says she was armed for another campaign, had money aplenty to fight the good fight… but she clearly lacked the stomach for so much closeness to her feisty and outspoken Mainers. Senators are revered, coddled, kowtowed to in Washington, D.C. Back home amidst the problems and bleakness of Portland, they are asked, insistently too, just what have you done for us lately, Missie… and you’d better have a detailed answer at the ready. Demigods like Senator Olympia find such directness rude, and long for fragrant camomile in a fragile cup of Old Worcester while aides fan her with cooling air…. unlimited incense… and deference to every word and wish.

Ms. Olympia says she’s a Greek from Spartan stock… and while that might have been true 30 years ago in her elected salad days, it is most assuredly true no longer. She’s gone Athenian, and now demands reverence, not the stark choice of returning with her shield — or on it. And so she must retire… because she is no longer able to fight the good fight for Maine, for Mainers, and for the Great Republic which needs visionaries, fighters, not aging voluptuaries who crave comfort, not confrontation.

Enter Congressman John Sullivan (R-Oklahoma).

February 22, 2012 Representative Sullivan made a few red-blooded observations during one of his regular “town hall” meetings with constituents. The subject was how to get the Senate of the Great Republic to get serious, I mean really serious, about balancing the out-of-control federal budget.

“I’d love to get them /the senators/ to vote for it. Boy, I’d love that, you know. But other than me going over there with a gun and pointing it to their head and maybe killing a couple of them, I don’t feel they’re going to listen unless they get beat.”

Cornered by the ever present Thought Police, Representative Sullivan, that able and forthright member for Tulsa, backed down. He didn’t mean it….shouldn’t have said it… certainly didn’t imagine… and would never, ever do… You get the picture. The Honorable John was tripping over himself, back pedaling to beat the band. But why?

After all, he is far more what we actually want in our elected representatives, even while we say we prefer the Olympia model. No, we want our reps to represent us robustly, directly, rudely, shrewdly, without limits … because unless they do that our share of the pie — and the extra bucks we covet — will go to others more able to bring home the bacon than our shrinking violets… and that will never do.

The great example of Representative Preston Brooks.

In 1856, the great issue of the day was slavery. It was a question which overshadowed all others. It was intractable, divisive, perhaps insoluble… certainly unavoidable. And because moderates could not prevail in resolving the matter, it was left to the zealots on both sides to see what they could do, using whatever means they chose to use.

And so on May 18, 1856 the Honorable Charles Sumner, the Senator from Massachusetts, arose to see what he could do to resolve the irresolvable… his vehicle being his great speech “The Crime Against Kansas” given to ensure that slavery did not encroach into the Kansas Territory and so augment the South and the slave owners he despised.

It was a great speech in every way — 50 single-spaced pages in length, a detailed analysis of the problem, the most brilliant, vituperative language; language meant to insult, to scald, to enrage, with a position that absolutely no one could misunderstand, whatever side they supported.

Picture the scene. Not a cup of camomile to be seen.

Great Sumner rises sustained by sanctimony, rectitude and rage; each word is sonorous, delivered with venom, designed to sting, outrage, rebuke, condemn, no quarter asked, none given.

And so this man of Harvard, of Boston, of Massachusetts, this man of certainty, no doubt or hesitation rose to challenge the nation and to reshape the Great Republic.

Every eye was on the man, a mere man no longer, but the agent of a stern, implacable God, God the Avenger, majestic, awe-inspiring, I Am that I Am.

“Mr. President,” he began, “You are now called to redress a great transgression.”

And every word that followed in that vast torrent of words beat home this point.

There was no note of accommodation, no politics as usual, nothing less than total victory would do.

In the course of this great philippic, which ultimately saw one million copies distributed, Senator Sumner attacked Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina, not just the man or his ideas but his stroke-impaired physique. It was brutal, it was hurtful; it was insulting… and a few days later inspired the Senator’s outraged nephew, South Carolina congressman Preston Brooks to enter the Senate Chamber and, with his gutta-percha cane with solid gold knob, beat Sumner insensate, even when Sumner was comatose, lying in his puddling blood.

So did immoderate Sumner make his case…so did immoderate Brooks retaliate.

And so was the Congress of the Great Republic shortly peopled by representatives carrying devices of every kind, guns, knives, and of course the gutta-percha sticks with gold knobs made fashionable — or abhorrent — by this incident which moved the Civil War appreciably closer.

That is why, Senator Snowe, your decision to leave is a bad decision. The people of Maine need you.. the Congress needs you… the Great Republic still has great need of your services. No, it is not convenient for you; not least because you must present yourself again to your constituents, and, being Mainers, they will question you closely, for they are no respecters of persons and so may affront you. What of it? You have the Great Republic’s work to do. And that is far more important and pressing than your own personal feelings or comfort. They count for nothing against what you can do, must do and cannot abandon now.

Thus I give you this song, “John Brown’s Body”, a rousing tune which arose from the American camp meeting tradition in the early 19th century and, after many changes of words, became the marching tune for people who understood the implementation of Truth was a long, difficult, often dangerous process. Go now to any search engine and find the rendition you like… and bookmark it, for you will have need of it in the work ahead:

“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave His soul’s marching on.”

And so must you, too, Senator Olympia Snowe, for your work for the people is most assuredly not finished yet.

Dedication: The author is pleased to dedicate this work to Joshua Aaron Sumner and Roshelle Elena Sumner, descendants of the magnificent Yankee who alerted the world to “The Crime Against Kansas,” children of dear friend, Lance Sumner, fellow Internet argonaut.

100% sales. The ‘must read’ for business people who want more money and want it NOW!

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. I have the inestimable privilege of training some of the brightest business people on earth… people of wit, intelligence, good humor… and a fierce determination to be successful, climbing the greasy pole, making more money, and living just the way they want. I find this work enthralling, exhilarating… and (I’ll admit it) frequently frustrating… as I watch even the best and the brightest muff it.

And so, today, I am writing about the one essential thing these fine folks — and that now includes YOU — must do every single minute of every single day that you want more money. For, let’s not kid ourselves… if you understand this crucial article and follow its directives… you are going to make more money, lots more, and leave your lackadaisical and languid colleagues in the dust. And won’t that be sweet?

To put you in the mood for my insistent message, I have selected a dance number that once made you gyrate and awe… “I Want Your Love” by a group named Chic. It hit the charts in 1978, and it made its point early and often:

“I want your love. I want your love. I want your love. I want your love.”

In other words, they kept on message, driving home the point of their endeavors until even the most mentally challenged “got it”. As a teacher with a sledgehammer, repetitive delivery, I like that… I like it a lot.

And so to set the stage for what follows, look this tune up in any search engine now and move that overweight, arthritic body; because you’re about to recapture your alluring youth… and be the person who got what you wanted, oh yeah!

Painful, so painful.

It happened again yesterday… and it gets me, right in the solar plexus, each and every time I see this fundamental error. The sales person I was training was operating solo. In other words, they had progressed sufficiently far in their instruction to where they get to fly all alone. I am there, of course; I am always there… but I try to remain as silent as the grave and unobtrusive so that I am seeing the student and just the student. And make no mistake about it… this situation (as every parent knows) can make you as nervous and frustrated as all get out.

Lights, camera… think!

Picture the scene. All parties are on the ‘net. I am present in my video box, the student is in his… and the “real life” prospect enters… like a bull at a corrida. Everything happens in real time…. and has real world implications, for good… or for ill.

Ok… the student (and, remember, my students are established business people, not wet-behind-the-ears kids) goes into closing mode. This starts by greeting each and every prospect by name; then asking each prospect to watch a 20-minute video packed with the vital data that both excites the prospect and instructs her.

These steps are crucial… and the students know I am a stickler for ensuring that they occur. In other words, make SURE the prospect has the critical facts before any further action can occur.

The prospect is prepped… are you?

“As soon as you’ve finished the video, return to me for a spectacular one-time-only offer.”

These words usher in the next phase of the operation. We make it clear what must be done (watch video) and what is coming thereafter (spectacular offer). So far… so good.

Close but no cigar.

The first mistake the students make is to present the offer before the prospect has been adequately prepped. This is a critical error. Prospects must have the necessary facts… or they end up asking a ton of unnecessary questions; questions which have already been answered — and in precise, clear detail, too — in the video.

The video, the whole video, nothing but the video.

As soon as you have confirmed that the prospect has watched the ENTIRE video, proceed to the “Big rock candy mountain,” your scintillating offer. It IS scintillating, isn’t it? For if it doesn’t snap, crackle, and pop you’ve just thrown away a sale. Sales occur because the offer sizzles, excites, is just too thrilling to decline. You ARE making such an offer, I trust. And if you’re not, you’d better make its improvement “Action this day,” which is what Winston Churchill did when as Prime Minister of England he demanded instant attention and RESULTS.

And now… the critical moment that turns you into a master… and puts another sale in your pocket: 100% sales.

To remain an average closer, keep doing what you’re doing.But to fly high as one of the world’s sales masters you must set the desired goal… then do everything possible, everything necessary to achieve it.

That is… 100% sales.

Is this what you do?

Make your objective immediately clear to the prospect: “I want you to get the benefits of this widget… and I’m going to do everything I can to make it happen.” Don’t just say these words… mean them. Because once the prospect knows you’re serious, they can be serious too, working with you for fastest, most complete mutual advantage.

At this moment, the prospect may well start back peddling saying things like this:

“I don’t have any money.”

“I can’t do it today.”

“I need to tell the little woman. We’re a team.”

And so forth. Your job is to thrust these obstacles out of the way and CLOSE THAT DEAL.

To do this, you must remind yourself AT ALL TIMES that you have a 100% closing goal… and that you are going to make this close. If the prospect stalls or blocks you, keep things going by asking for the prospect’s undivided attention and for an all- important OPEN mind. Make sure the prospect understands what the offer is…. and if necessary improve it; always making it clear that this offer expires the second the prospect leaves. In other words, there is a premium for staying, working things out, but irrevocable loss if they won’t.

Now, gun it.

Keep in mind at all times, with the terrific offer you are making, the prospect will be better off… if… and only if… they take immediate action. It is your job to drive this home NOW… making it abundantly clear that action now is the only sensible course.

Do this, and do it with enthusiasm, gusto, and good humor, and you will not only want that sale… you will get it! For as Chic sang, “a better love you won’t find today…” or a better offer either.

*** What do you think? We invite you to post your comments below.

The first, the last, the epic journey of RMS Titanic, and you are there. Some centennial observations.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. You know Titanic. It is the most famous ship that ever sailed… and the most famous ship that foundered, listed, and sank. It is this ship I ask you to board with me now, having cleared your mind of everything you know, every thought and impression you have ever had about this great ship, and so recapture the state of mind you would have had when you boarded her at Southampton, England 10 April, 1912. For you are weighing anchor towards destiny… but do not know it, no one does.

The Ritz afloat.

The White Star Line was an enterprise that dreamed dreams of magnitude, dreams of floating palaces, of luxury that made you catch your breath and hurry back to record what you saw in your diary, which your grandchildren would savor, a treasured heirloom forever. They brought the very idea of awe to their work… and it was nothing but the very truth, a source of pride to an empire that existed solely because of its command of the seas.

Born in Belfast.

The idea for Titanic and her sister ships RMS Olympic and RMS Britannic commenced in mid-1907 when White Star Line’s chairman, J. Bruce Ismay, met with American financier J. Pierpont Morgan, the man who controlled White Star Line’s parent corporation, the International Mercantile Marine Co. These men had everything… and so, of course, they wanted more. And they had the means to get it.

They insisted, they were adamant, Titanic must be the ultimate in every single element, every feature, every component, the dernier cri, the ship for which even the word acme was not good enough.

Thus they hired the renowned firm of Harland and Wolff, giving them carte blanche, with but a single command: the result must be the best, unrivalled, unexampled; colossus in the age of colossi, the incontrovertible symbol of this greatest age of man and his wondrous works.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, was stinted for Titanic, and if six men were killed constructing her, with 246 injuries overall, 28 of them “severe” (meaning loss of limb), why, what did that signify… great enterprises have great costs.

Launched 31 May, 1911.

Of the many proud days in Belfast, this was amongst the proudest for this was a day when the intricate skills of the men of this turbulent city were on best display. Project supervisor Lord Pirrie, J. Pierpont Morgan and J. Bruce Ismay were joined by over 100,000 jubilant, God-fearing people who cheered to the very echo the ship, its sublime grace, the officials who dreamed, the designers who imagined, and the small army of workers who constructed this masterpiece.

So you who read of these happenings longed to be part of Titanic and its gilded future… rather impulsively buying two tickets, a present (rather expensive to be sure) for your wife, for an event you would never forget, of that you were sure.

Thus you found yourself in Southampton… head high, walking up the gangway… where you heard the unmistakable sound of a fashionable waltz, “Songe d’Automne”… it was exquisite… if a trifle sad for such a glad occasion. Yes, haunting, beautiful… mentally noting you would ask the band to play it en route when you wanted just the right sound for a perfect evening…

Thus did the great ship sail on… with no one imagining that she would soon become renowned not for every aspect of nautical expertise, but for hubris, arrogance, ineptitude and for an end that would rival the very essence of Hell itself.

11:40 pm 14 April, 1912. The end begins.

At 11:39 pm of its final night afloat, the magnificent Titanic was a glorious vision, lighting heaven itself, steaming to a ceremonial entrance in New York City, the happy berth of 2,223 people, including the creme de la creme of European and American Society, names you knew, admired, envied.

Just one minute later, suffering a glancing blow from an iceberg whilst maneuvering to avoid it, Titanic began its transformation into a metaphor, not for man’s greatness and technical abilities but for his littleness in the face of unkind and unrelenting Nature, becoming a matter of myth, not merely history.

“No, ‘t is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ‘t is enough, ‘t will serve.” (“Romeo and Juliet”).

And so it did… a mere gash in the pristine hull an invitation for the gelid waters of the ice-flecked Atlantic to rush in, mocking the high works of man, drowning them without any effort at all, their merest motion enough for the gravest consequences.

In such times, the very best and the very worst of man’s behaviors are evidenced… how one demands that half-filled life boats be lowered into the calm sea, the only chance to live, whist another, unbidden, gives up a place of safety in that very boat, to ensure the life of a total stranger. The remaining moments on doomed Titanic evince all, telling evidence of who we are and what we may do at anytime, to anyone, for good or ill.

Then came the moment you had to decide…a single moment that shows who you are… and determines what you must do. The moment is charged with importance; it is a life or death decision… and you must make it now, decisively, without regret or recrimination, and absolutely no opportunity to alter it, even if you could.

“Darling, get in the life boat.”

And so you, like every other passenger traveling with a loved one, must act. Must do the right thing, although that thing may cost you your life. And this action must be prompt, for the great thing that was once astonishing Titanic is sinking faster now, its frightful end apparent, and with it your fate.

Thus, you look into your beloved’s eyes and realize that your lives are now separating forever… and the pain is more than you can bear. Then, as her life boat is lowered, you remember a token, sacred now, in your pocket. A locket… with pictures of you both and the single line, “Remember, 14 April, 1912″, the happy day you meant, a lifetime ago, to memorialize… Giving this is the last time you touch her hand… a fact she will never forget and will cherish forever.

Now trapped on the sloping deck, you search your soul for whatever comfort you can derive… and resolve not to die here, passive, but to jump to your fate. As you do, you hear the band still playing; the song you first heard upon boarding, the “Songe d’Automne”, now not merely a waltz… but a hymn for a ship, an era… and now… for you.

Author’s note: Of all the people who sailed on Titanic’s only voyage, just 710 survived. The remainder heard the valiant band play on, until it reached its final arrangement. There is good reason to suppose that was the “Songe d’Automne’. It was composed by Archibald Joyce, the “English Waltz King”. We shall never know for sure, because the entire band went down with the ship. Find it now in any search engine and think on its pathetic history and its final performance on the fateful ship Titanic.

*** We invite you to post your comments to this article below

‘You are the one…’ An Open Letter to the Honorable Barrack Obama, President of the United States… the subject: the need for immediate, thorough, empowering action against computer hackers.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s Program Note: It is time for me to again address the President of the Great Republic, as I do from time to time as the pressing significance of a given subject makes such contact necessary, proper, and my duty. Today I address the growing problem of computer hacking… and again I call upon an eminent artist for assistance. Today that is Cole Porter (1891-1964), a genius for music, lyrics and style, an American original, the man who breathed sophistication and a cosmopolitan attitude into all of us… and so changed the world.

In 1932 he wrote a tune that became the signature song for every yearning lover on this planet… “Night and Day”… featuring four words that justified every action, every deed of derring-do, an avalanche of execrable but heart felt poesy and above all constant ingenuity and substantive action. These four words, of course, are “you are the one…” the words a man or woman in love keeps in mind at all times and which justify everything they may do in pursuit of bliss.

Now I am addressing these words to you, sir, because you are the one, the right and necessary person to take the leadership role in what is now a daily, indeed hourly event on the most important method of communication ever invented… the Internet.

So, in a nutshell, I shall today present for your immediate consideration and action a problem of global significance… a problem already causing often baffling difficulties to governments, businesses, non-profit organizations and simple citizens. That is the problem of computer hacking and unauthorized access to and unauthorized use of private documentation, often of the most sensitive and important kind.

This problem has never existed before… no precedents exist for solving it… and no one, not even the most gifted Internet authorities, can be certain which means for curtailing this menace, this clear and present danger to so many good people, may work to solve the problem, or not.

But because it is essential to approach this draining, frustrating, demanding problem in the right state of mind, you, like every other reader, should search for Cole Porter’s masterpiece in any search engine. It will do at least two things: remind you that this is a problem that is with us “night and day”, and it will put a song in your heart, the better for a productive, cheerful day and useful deliberation on the problem overall and my point of view on what is happening… and what must be done to turn the tide… and solve a problem which should never have been allowed to grow to its current unsatisfactory, worrying, expensive, dismaying, infuriating and dangerous level.

We shall not solve this problem in one day with one document… but in one day with one document we can and must begin… and here we shall do so.

Hacking cases proliferate.

Hacking is not an occasional, ephemeral, casual problem; it is not limited to one industry, one country, or one kind of information. As even the most cursory glance at all newspapers will attest, we are seeing daily hacking events. Here is just one, one which must serve for the unlimited number of such events taking place on a continuing basis.

Item: On January 20, 2012, The Boston Globe, the most important newspaper in one of the two most important technology development areas of the Great Republic, reported that the online activist group Anonymous took responsibility the day before for a series of network attacks on government and entertainment industry websites. As a result, service disruptions were reported by the Justice Department, Universal Music Group, and BMI, which collects copyright royalties for composers. In addition the US Copyright Office and the Recording Industry Association of America were attacked.

It is important to note the apparent reason for these attacks, since they illustrate a key aspect of this problem: electronic vigilantes taking the law into their hands, deciding what is appropriate and necessary for any perceived outrage to their affiliations and interests. In this case the digital assault was launched in retaliation for the indictments of seven individuals and two Hong Kong companies accused of distributing illicit content worth more than $500 million. In other words, the alleged guilty parties launched the hacking to hurt the reputable authorities who had hurt them… and Anonymous activists cheered the culprits on, an alarming and frequent situation in these matters where those with privileged and private records are automatically fingered as the villains by hackers who are as close to Anarchists as history can find.

First steps.

The first thing the Great Republic must do to begin the counteroffensive against hackers who have, until now, lead the attacks is to create a department of government under the Justice Department with a name that makes crystal clear what this office is in business to do: The Anti Computer Hacking Division. This agency must be launched in a White House Rose Garden ceremony which will at once indicate the importance of the endeavor and enable you, sir, to announce the formation of the Presidential Task Force Against Computer Hacking.

This ceremony will feature the members of this Commission, senior officials from Congress and the computer and Internet industry, as well as representatives from particularly affected groups such as the federal government itself, the military, banks, universities. etc. It must be the bluest blue-ribbon panel ever picked, and deservedly so given the importance of the subject. The Chairperson of the panel must have national and global recognition and clout, someone like Bill Gates immediately comes to mind. The appointment of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg (himself once a hacker of note) would be clever and appropriate, for he will be a power in the industry for life.

Everything you ever wanted to know about hacking.

With the development of this structure, the overall objective must be made clear to all: viz, that EVERYTHING related to hacking and its promptest eradication must be gathered under one umbrella. Of course this will affront offices already involved in the matter, territorial to a person. But that is where you come in, sir, for yours is the job of visualizing this crucial enterprise and using the “bully-pulpit” of your office to sell it to all. But your job does not end with selling all this to those in the Great Republic, no indeed; for this is a global problem and must be solved globally.

Urbi et orbi.

When the Pope offers an encyclical, he speaks to the people of Rome (“urbi”) and the people of the world (“orbi”), and so it must be now, for every poor hamlet on earth has computers and hackers with animus against authority. Their governments must take their place in the war against hacking… assisting in the identification, detention, trial and imprisonment of hackers. And if such governments do not assist this necessary cause? Well, then, that is what economic and other sanctions are for, and most deservedly here.

Take action now.

As I have rightly and often pointed out, the repute and standing of the Great Republic have rarely been lower in the world than now. Whole generations now look upon us and our endeavors as the problem, not the solution. Launching assertive war against hackers and clearing the world’s e-lanes, as we once did for the world’s sea-lanes, cannot but help change such deleterious perceptions.

And so it falls to you, Mr. President, to begin this endeavor, long overdue, a credit to yourself, your Administration and a relief to our citizens and every law abiding regime on Earth. So much to be gained, at such a trifling cost. Do this, Mr. President, do this now… and reap the grateful thanks of all but hackers, selfish, disrupters, arrogant, malevolent, malcontents all who should never have had this weapon, much less so long.

Do this, Mr. President, because it is the right thing to do, and because you are the one who can do it.

*** We invite readers to comment on this article below.

Thoughts on assisted living, aging, Dad, and guilt.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. Here is the most important four-letter word in the entire English language: home. It conjures up and is connected to every element of the well-lived life: spouse, family, peace, comfort, security. Nothing can match its importance, nothing can duplicate its significance. Nothing is more powerful than our memories of home and their enduring pull, always tugging at our heart strings. Home and its rhythms, its well remembered aspects, its secrets, its traditions, its confidences, its ways so well known and carefully maintained… these have a power over us that never fails, never pales, never wavers, never diminishes, and are always clear, fresh, joyful, unforgettable, bittersweet, haunting, the sweetest memories of our entire life.
This is an article on the moment that comes to each of us… when this home, our very special, irreplaceable place, must be given up because its proprietors can no longer maintain it, now needing particular care themselves. This is an article about a moment poignant, sad, dreadful, irrevocable. It is about the people who take this step first, our parents… then about their children, us, who will trod the difficult road, too, but not yet… and what they must do today, a day of emotional turmoil, distress, a day for which all preparation is inadequate.
For this article I have selected the song “My Old Kentucky Home” (1852) by America’s first great composer, Stephen Foster. It is one of the most wistful, longing songs of our country… and whenever one hears it one thinks, and tearful too, of one’s own home, now gone, far away, never to be replaced, always to be remembered, the more so as the destination you are now going to can never be a home like the one left behind. Go now to any search engine. Find and play it at once. It is the perfect accompaniment to this article.
The call.
The call we all fear, cannot bear thinking about, but must think about — comes the day our aging parents first consider assisted living, whether outwardly calm and willing, or fighting the hopeless battle to avoid this fate, roiled by turbulent emotions deep within, so clearly visible without.
Assisted living.
The words “assisted living” are two of the most frightening and disturbing in our language. It is easy to see why. Assisted living is mostly the province of the retired, the ill, the aging, geriatric survivors of better times. As such it is a venue to be put off and avoided whenever possible, for as long as possible; as much so as if each assisted living facility had posted at its front door this immemorial admonition from Dante’s “Inferno”: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
Such institutions are perceived as the final way station before cosmic extinction; the place one enters unhappy, angry, misunderstood, and which one leaves dead; the place for the irremediably old, those who are past it, marginal, unconsidered, beyond the care and concern of anyone other than those paid to care and be concerned; lonely people of the Eleanor Rigby variety.
All of life…
Assisted living, with its implied inadequacies and dependence, is always and often indignantly compared to the joy of independent living, where you do what you want, when you want, with whom you want, in just the way you want; in other words the kind of living each of us desires, insists upon, and does everything possible to maintain. Assisted living, of course, is widely perceived as the antithesis of the desired independent living.
But this is wrong.
ALL living is assisted living. For unless you are rabidly antisocial and determined to remain that way, alone, isolated, happy and contented in your aloneness, you are assisted — every single day — by people whose aim is to make you reasonably happy, reasonably content, and reasonably comfortable. Thus, in truth, when one moves from living regarded as independent to living regarded as assisted, one is evolving from one kind of care to another kind of care; one is tweaking circumstances the better to ensure the maximum continuation of your desired life style. One is not undergoing metamorphosis, but comparative and necessary improvement.
Sadly, most people undergoing this process are unable to see this, or at least to state it to guilt-ridden relatives who are thus distressed by the painful thought that Aunt Martha is being cast off rather than moved to an appropriate level of care, concern, and consideration. Most assisted living facilities these days resemble college campuses or resorts; they know the grief, anger, recriminations and distress which new residents bring and work hard to create an atmosphere that is at once attractive, even beautiful; livable, practical, and serene, factors which soothe the guilt of those recommending assisted living to those near and dear but are often dismissed as inadequate or unimportant by those being recommended into the facility.
Receiving the intelligence.
Twice in my life, so far, have I been a participant to greater or lesser degree, in conversations surrounding the movement of one near and beloved to assisted living. The first such conversations involved my mother; the second set involved my father. These conversations could hardly have been less similar — or more instructive about the principals involved and affected.
My mother, student of Dylan Thomas that she was, did not, nor could not, go gentle into this good night. She raged, raged against what she was sure was the dying of the light. Despite weakening health and the myriad of problems stemming therefrom my mother fought hard, strenuously, vociferously, painfully against the notion of “incarceration” in an assisted living facility, thereby branded as penal institution, not comfortable necessity. Her transition from living deemed independent to living deemed assisted was therefore protracted, painful, packed with imprecations, denigrations, accusations, maledictions which made Emile Zola’s famous declaration “J’accuse” look sniveling.
My father handled the matter entirely different… and I suspect this was partly because he will have with him his wife Ellie; to be alone at life’s end is painful; to be partnered with a loved mate lessons the pain while increasing the means to combat and to live with it.
Sad, wistful, practical, accepting.
When my father called yesterday to inform me that he and Ellie had made arrangements to share their dwindling, most precious days together in assisted living, I felt a lump in my throat. He extolled the grounds, their private apartment, the food, the friendly residents… but whether he believed all this as stated or was just trying out what would become the stock reason or their move, I cannot say… for I was reflecting on a few words that he had said.
Entering the dining room where they would find their daily meals, he was surprised to find it peopled with the old, feeble, and infirm. Could this be he at 86, Ellie at 87? Or had some mistake occurred? She, knowing how difficult it had to be for him to transform his independent life to one “assisted”, took his hand and reassured him that no mistake was made; they were in the right place, which he would soon know, if he did not know already. And thus these proud, fiercely independent souls, more used to assisting others than being assisted, move into the next phase of their lives, together, facts faced, practical decisions made, gently, calmly, with love and care. And I admired my father so, not merely as son to father, but as man to man. For he faced the difficult, the fearful, the unpalatable, with grace, quietude, reserve, with good judgement, good humor, and a good wife, well stocked and ready for the journey ahead… which they will travel similarly and with kindness, above all with kindless and the help of those glad to assist them, and with kindness too.
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