Dr. Lant passed away April 16, 2023
My most memorable Mother’s Day… a tenacious memory that tugs at my heart and may touch yours
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. My mother is dead now. But I want you to know that hardly a day goes by when I don’t think of her… not in some idealized fashion either. For she was a vibrant, beautiful creature whose reality, for me, even if flawed, was more compelling than any fairy tale I might make up. And as for charm, why she was a by-word for that; I knew that before I even knew what charm could lead to. Some say that along with her penetrating eyes I inherited my full measure of that charm too. I leave that to you to find out.
This article is being written because it gives me the perfect opportunity to remember her… not just vaguely… but as she was and remains in my mind’s eye, a real woman, my much loved and often argued with mother. Here I am able to indulge myself in the most profound memories, certain that I am writing this article for you… not just for myself. And because the woman is important and the day I am recalling here one of the handful of truly special days of her life (so she often told me afterwards), I savor every word as I think it, write it, consider it, review it — and if not perfect and exactly so, change it. For there is not a word here or even a comma that I can accept in any other way. For you see, this was one of the handful of truly special days of my life… and I want you to share it and know why.
Thomas Gray, treasured poet.
Where did my mother’s love affair with England and her poets begin? I cannot say, but I can recall that wherever we lived its premises were littered with the lyric beauty of the English language… where words mattered, where understanding them mattered, where using them to maximum effect mattered, and where a word was never an obstacle but a friend not yet known well enough, but welcome for all that. As such, books, rarely closed, always open with makeshift book marks were found in every room. We read as effortlessly as we breathed… and the splendor of language surrounded us, shaped us, sustained us… and no one more than my mother for whom poets were accounted special beings well deserving of the veneration they received from her… and in due course from me. And so the profound love between a mother and her first-born son was made manifest in the poems we discovered and shared, the readings of such poems to each other, and the meanings we strove to find… especially for me when she was gone before. Then these bonds mattered most of all.
Thomas Gray, 26 December 1716 – 30 July 1771, just 54 years old.
Thomas Gray was born in Cornhill, London, the son of an exchange broker and a milliner. He was the fifth of 12 children… 11 of whom died in infancy. he smell of death permeated his young world… a constant visitor to his home, a constant reality where birth and mourning seemed inextricably linked and inevitable. And so he grew up wondering whether his own expected demise was nigh, accelerated by his abusive father. This recurring thought shaped his life, his outlook, and his poems. Later in life Gray became known as one of the “Graveyard poets” of the late 18th century, along with Oliver Goldsmith, William Cowper, and Christopher Smart. But for Gray this was not a pose; he had been to the graveyard too often too early for that. Death and Gray were on intimate terms from the start.
His sense of humor.
For all that Gray’s life was turbulent and difficult, it had moments of unalloyed joy, not least because he had the valued knack of seeing the humorous side of even the most oppressive subjects. It is good to see he skewered the masters of Peterhouse at Cambridge University as “mad with Pride” and the Fellows of this College as “sleepy, drunken, dull, illiterate Things.” It was the kind of thing I wrote to my college friends, too, and I knew the joy of such characterizations.
My mother knew I wrote these kinds of acid word pictures; I sent them to her, and she carefully tied them with ribbons adding her own often equally acid responses. These, too, bonded us; we laughed together. Too, there were other traits which may have made her see me in Gray: he spent his time indoors, voracious reader, avoiding athletics and exercise of any kind. But when the companionship of his friends was offered, he was a crowd pleaser with the apt, devastating mot at the ready. Gray and I might have been siblings; surely Kindred Spirits… she must have seen this… and if so have approved.
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”.
Thus, my mother traveled to England where I was then working on my first book and asked me to accompany her to the setting of one of her favorite poems, the “Elegy” written slowly, painstakingly between 1742 and 1750. She had waited a lifetime for this excursion… and so she and I on Mother’s Day went hand-in-hand to the ancient village of Stoke Poges, to the churchyard of the Church of England parish church of St. Giles. There great Gray’s remains repose for the numberless ages, his monument weathered, tilted, too much too illegible, special torment for this man of perfect wording.
We had come hence to see, to learn, to venerate…. and in the graveyard to read the “Elegy”, together, in turn, lyrically, each word a pledge to love each other now and forever, though I didn’t know its purpose then.
She had her tattered, well thumbed Gray in hand, so did I.
So we commenced the reading, the first stanza hers by right to intone:
“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day/ The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea/ The ploughman homeward plods his weary way/ And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”
We are borne on these words to the place we most want to be with the person in this sublime moment we both wish most to be with.
Thus we walked and read together from the celebrated words which British General James Wolfe read to his officers September 12, 1759 the day before he was killed in battle, saying “Gentlemen, I would rather have written that poem than take Quebec tomorrow.” It was an admission made by thousands of those who have thrilled to these sonorous words and their eternal relevance to struggling mankind.
‘Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife”
Now my mother has gone the way of all flesh, the way we all must trod in time. We know such an end is natural but that does not assuage the bitter grief and finality of the matter, particularly when the dear departed is one’s mother. This loss is bitter indeed at whatever age it occurs.
Thomas Gray knew all this and in his beloved “Elegy”, popular from the moment of publication, popular still, he gave us all the words we need to cope, find hope and resignation — and the words of remembrance and above all of love.
Thus whenever I miss her and want her near me in all her humanity and that dazzling smile I can never forget, I take down from the clutter of my library her copy of Gray’s “Elegy” and read it aloud, as we did that memorable Mother’s Day so very long ago. Whenever possible I go to any search engine and play Domenico Scarlatti’s Sonata in D minor (published 1738). It was one of Gray’s favorites and perfect accompaniment to his surgically precise words.
“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power/ And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave/ Awaits alike the inevitable hour/ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
But not, with God’s help and with Thomas Gray’s, to the dark void of forgetfulness and oblivion. They have given us the joys of memory and the words we need to summon it –and our loved ones — at will and thus they live again in us.
http://jeffreylantarticles.com/jeffreylant/my-most-memorable-mothers-day-a-tenacious-memory-that-tugs-at-my-heart-and-may-touch-yours/
pic – Dr. Lant’s Mother
Mother’s Day article read for Writers Secrets
Of Words Written of Our Loved Ones, So When Summoned They Live Again in Us. Thus We Begin
Of Words Written of Our Loved Ones, So When Summoned They Live Again in Us. To My Mother with Love
Our course outline for the Impossible Dream Writer’s Group starts with:
1) How to begin successfully.
You must master each part of this course to succeed as a writer.
We begin with a wonderful example of an article written by Dr. Jeffery Lant that is a beautiful illustration of how you can bring life to your loved ones through writing.
http://members.20waystoprofit.com/of-words-written-of-our-loved-ones-so-when-summoned-they-live-again-in-us-thus-we-begin/
My most memorable Mother’s Day… a tenacious memory that tugs at my heart and may touch yours
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. My mother is dead now. But I want you to know that hardly a day goes by when I don’t think of her… not in some idealized fashion either. For she was a vibrant, beautiful creature whose reality, for me, even if flawed, was more compelling than any fairy tale I might make up. And as for charm, why she was a by-word for that; I knew that before I even knew what charm could lead to. Some say that along with her penetrating eyes I inherited my full measure of that charm too. I leave that to you to find out.
This article is being written because it gives me the perfect opportunity to remember her… not just vaguely… but as she was and remains in my mind’s eye, a real woman, my much loved and often argued with mother. Here I am able to indulge myself in the most profound memories, certain that I am writing this article for you… not just for myself. And because the woman is important and the day I am recalling here one of the handful of truly special days of her life (so she often told me afterwards), I savor every word as I think it, write it, consider it, review it — and if not perfect and exactly so, change it. For there is not a word here or even a comma that I can accept in any other way. For you see, this was one of the handful of truly special days of my life… and I want you to share it and know why.
Thomas Gray, treasured poet.
Where did my mother’s love affair with England and her poets begin? I cannot say, but I can recall that wherever we lived its premises were littered with the lyric beauty of the English language… where words mattered, where understanding them mattered, where using them to maximum effect mattered, and where a word was never an obstacle but a friend not yet known well enough, but welcome for all that. As such, books, rarely closed, always open with makeshift book marks were found in every room. We read as effortlessly as we breathed… and the splendor of language surrounded us, shaped us, sustained us… and no one more than my mother for whom poets were accounted special beings well deserving of the veneration they received from her… and in due course from me. And so the profound love between a mother and her first-born son was made manifest in the poems we discovered and shared, the readings of such poems to each other, and the meanings we strove to find… especially for me when she was gone before. Then these bonds mattered most of all.
Thomas Gray, 26 December 1716 – 30 July 1771, just 54 years old.
Thomas Gray was born in Cornhill, London, the son of an exchange broker and a milliner. He was the fifth of 12 children… 11 of whom died in infancy. he smell of death permeated his young world… a constant visitor to his home, a constant reality where birth and mourning seemed inextricably linked and inevitable. And so he grew up wondering whether his own expected demise was nigh, accelerated by his abusive father. This recurring thought shaped his life, his outlook, and his poems. Later in life Gray became known as one of the “Graveyard poets” of the late 18th century, along with Oliver Goldsmith, William Cowper, and Christopher Smart. But for Gray this was not a pose; he had been to the graveyard too often too early for that. Death and Gray were on intimate terms from the start.
His sense of humor.
For all that Gray’s life was turbulent and difficult, it had moments of unalloyed joy, not least because he had the valued knack of seeing the humorous side of even the most oppressive subjects. It is good to see he skewered the masters of Peterhouse at Cambridge University as “mad with Pride” and the Fellows of this College as “sleepy, drunken, dull, illiterate Things.” It was the kind of thing I wrote to my college friends, too, and I knew the joy of such characterizations.
My mother knew I wrote these kinds of acid word pictures; I sent them to her, and she carefully tied them with ribbons adding her own often equally acid responses. These, too, bonded us; we laughed together. Too, there were other traits which may have made her see me in Gray: he spent his time indoors, voracious reader, avoiding athletics and exercise of any kind. But when the companionship of his friends was offered, he was a crowd pleaser with the apt, devastating mot at the ready. Gray and I might have been siblings; surely Kindred Spirits… she must have seen this… and if so have approved.
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”.
Thus, my mother traveled to England where I was then working on my first book and asked me to accompany her to the setting of one of her favorite poems, the “Elegy” written slowly, painstakingly between 1742 and 1750. She had waited a lifetime for this excursion… and so she and I on Mother’s Day went hand-in-hand to the ancient village of Stoke Poges, to the churchyard of the Church of England parish church of St. Giles. There great Gray’s remains repose for the numberless ages, his monument weathered, tilted, too much too illegible, special torment for this man of perfect wording.
We had come hence to see, to learn, to venerate…. and in the graveyard to read the “Elegy”, together, in turn, lyrically, each word a pledge to love each other now and forever, though I didn’t know its purpose then.
She had her tattered, well thumbed Gray in hand, so did I.
So we commenced the reading, the first stanza hers by right to intone:
“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day/ The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea/ The ploughman homeward plods his weary way/ And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”
We are borne on these words to the place we most want to be with the person in this sublime moment we both wish most to be with.
Thus we walked and read together from the celebrated words which British General James Wolfe read to his officers September 12, 1759 the day before he was killed in battle, saying “Gentlemen, I would rather have written that poem than take Quebec tomorrow.” It was an admission made by thousands of those who have thrilled to these sonorous words and their eternal relevance to struggling mankind.
‘Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife”
Now my mother has gone the way of all flesh, the way we all must trod in time. We know such an end is natural but that does not assuage the bitter grief and finality of the matter, particularly when the dear departed is one’s mother. This loss is bitter indeed at whatever age it occurs.
Thomas Gray knew all this and in his beloved “Elegy”, popular from the moment of publication, popular still, he gave us all the words we need to cope, find hope and resignation — and the words of remembrance and above all of love.
Thus whenever I miss her and want her near me in all her humanity and that dazzling smile I can never forget, I take down from the clutter of my library her copy of Gray’s “Elegy” and read it aloud, as we did that memorable Mother’s Day so very long ago. Whenever possible I go to any search engine and play Domenico Scarlatti’s Sonata in D minor (published 1738). It was one of Gray’s favorites and perfect accompaniment to his surgically precise words.
“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power/ And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave/ Awaits alike the inevitable hour/ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
But not, with God’s help and with Thomas Gray’s, to the dark void of forgetfulness and oblivion. They have given us the joys of memory and the words we need to summon it –and our loved ones — at will and thus they live again in us.
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‘M’ is for the million things she gave me. Of my mother, my sister, and ‘Shut The Door’, once pretty in pink.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author’s program note. If you were alive on any Saturday night in 1915 and were of good family, soon after the dinner dishes were removed, soon after the gentlemen’s secret potation was poured and savored, you gathered in the drawing room with its spotless antimacassars and the hapless canaries trapped in eternal flight under the great glass dome that Cousin Billy, aged 8 and dangerous on roller skates, had managed to crack so noticeably one day a long time ago.
You, and that meant all of you from Great Aunt Freida whose dentures came from the Montgomery Ward catalog and were obviously askew, to Miss Elizabeth Ann who, aged 12, had received special permission to stay up late “just this once” so she could enjoy and learn from the “improving” ballads, for she was a sweet child given special treats because she had the consumption (and the tragedy that might so easily bring); all these, each a recognized and important part of the living family tree, which would always and forever have a place for you. It was the one place in the world where, no matter how negligent and selfish you had been, you were home — welcomed, accepted.
Cousin Fannie, honored in the family for her feminine achievements at the near-by Ladies College, had asked whether she might sing this night. The lady of the house knew why and approved. Mr. Benjamin Lowery, aged 28 and an up-and-coming businessman, was accounted the reason and so this evening graced the board, trapped and well and truly polished off by the succulent weapon that was Fannie’s rhubarb pie.
Thus, at an appropriate moment, Miss Fannie was asked if she would favor the company; was allowed to demur and nominate others for notice, thereby demonstrating her gentility and fine manners, only then to be persuaded. Her skirts beat a graceful rhythm against the highly polished oak floor and its worn Turkey carpets. She positioned herself for best advantage, where Mr. Lowery could see her just so, imaging the delights of “tea for two” to come.
Then she turned, nodding to her accompanist Sister Jane from the Reformed Methodist Church on Third Street; such a pity her squint was quite so apparent. A social rite was about to commence, here and around the Great Republic and a grand new song by Howard Johnson and Theodore Morris sung with such deep and abiding feeling by Eddy Arnold (among so very many) started on its certain work of touching every heart.
It was called “M-O-T-H-E-R (A Word That Means The World To Me” ), and you should find it now in any search engine. It was this song I learned at my Illinois elementary school, Puffer School, half a century later. It brought tears to my eyes the day Mrs. Hazel Knight, erstwhile music teacher of tenacious optimism and purpose, resplendent in the opulent orchid she always wore on recital days, sat down at the piano to provide the accompaniment to the tune which never failed to find its rapt audience. It is the tune that with another half century brings the bittersweet memories and the insistent tears I cannot help and shed without embarrassment.
My mother, the gift of springtime.
My mother, Shirley Mae Lauing, was named after the spring into which she was born. It was singularly appropriate for the duration of her life she, like the very season itself, brought renewal, optimism, hope; a festival of joy and revival. Yes, she was very like that which you, too, would see at once if you would bend over my shoulder and help me sort the raft of unmarked photographs, a project I say I will do someday, but without conviction.
There she stands, her smile marked by brilliance and an unmistakable touch of insight and wisecrack, never demur, always forthright, smart, a smart aleck; the ’40’s girl fun on a date in bobby socks; the young suburban matron in Eisenhowerland circa 1955 scrubbed young sons in tow; alluring, provocative a la Elizabeth Taylor in 1960, sun drenched in the ’70’s in a California which she came to love fiercely and where,
despite life’s obstacles and hindrances, many of her many aspects came together, as they sometimes do, producing happiness, bliss, satisfaction, a woman whose radiant smile summarized who she was and what she could do.
It was in this time that Je t’adore was born…
Pink, plush, poodle, a present…
My mother gave gifts as easily as she breathed… although there were moments when we wished she hadn’t; like my primo collection of cat’s eye marbles she gave away when I was in college “because you won’t be needing them any more, love” and my extraordinary and much loved Lionel trains which were used, amongst so many ways, to transport my Roman gladiators to the battles at which they made all the difference. She gave those to a “poor boy who had so little. I knew you wouldn’t mind, darling.”
I can imagine how Je t’adore joined us, seen in a store window, arresting her attention, saying, siren-like, “Shelby would like me”. And so an American toy, still in those far-away days made in the USA, was liberated for an American girl… Shelby Allison… aged about 4… at whose birth I told my teacher we intended to swap her for a goat. It says volumes that this same teacher, a friend of the family, called POM (Poor Old Mother) to see. Now this sunny child (the goat deal having fallen through) was given a gift that was also a clarion declaration: Je t’adore, “I adore you.” Of that there was never any doubt. And so Je t’adore joined the family where Shelby gave her unstinting love and a lasting name, “Shut the door”. It stuck.
All-consuming passion.
From the first moment, Shelby’s passion for Shut the Door was obvious, total, a thing of joy and rapture. Of course this obsessively loved friend went everywhere Shelby went; no possible excursion could occur without this object of her affection. Thus, favored friends learned to inquire about Shut the Door and her well being while wags like me, quips and cracks always at the ready, inimical to family serenity, were warned off as a menace. Thus did Shelby and Shut the Door, tied to each other by more than the string on Shelby’s arm, become an item and a veritable smile machine.
Filthy.
But in time, pure love was sullied… Dragged hither and yon, Shut the Door became an object not welcomed but banned; noisome, unhealthy, a cautionary tale even I ,saddened, disdained to deride. And so Shut the Door’s fateful encounter with the washing machine began. Just 30 minutes in the wash cycle were about to change everything…. As soon as she opened the hatch, it was immediately apparent that she would be spinning this story.
Shut the Door lay before her, clean to be sure, never cleaner, but limp, shapeless, lifeless, inanimate, defunct, her eyes not as amiable and loving as before. Immediately POM, who had literary propensities, thought of Princess Lise in “War and Peace.” “I have loved you all. Why have you done this to me?”
POM was frantic and applied applications grave and frivolous to solve the problem, but of course nothing could be done; the saddest words in any language. “Why have you done this to me?”
In due course, with Shelby expected home far too soon, POM resolved on the subterfuge of deceit and so dashed to the store where once Shut the Door had resided. The problem was solved… Shut the Door had a twin… cost was no object with so much at stake.
Thus, when Shelby returned and at once asked for Shut the Door POM (role perfect) opened the drier, where lay Shut the Door, plump, prosperous — a plausible fraud. Shelby’s screams, never stinted at any time, now alarmed the neighborhood. This was not Shut the Door, the beloved. No facsimile could possibly deceive any true lover; certainly not this one. And so Shelby, her shrieks masterful and piercing, learned what I already knew, with love…
“R” means right, and right she’ll always be, Put them all together, they spell ‘MOTHER’ a word that means the world to me…
especially at Christmas, when I miss her so.
The author’s dedication… to Veronique Van Der Linden –“Nicky”, the good mother who loved this story so because it makes her laugh and remember the good times. At Christmas, 2012.
http://jeffreylantarticles.com/jeffreylant/m-is-for-the-million-things-she-gave-me-of-my-mother-my-sister-and-shut-the-door-once-pretty-in-pink/
pic pink poodles
Dr. Lant reading article on sister and pink poodle
Dr. Lant brings the crucial features of his over six decade writing career to Writers Secrets for others to master writing too.
Words Written of Our Loved Ones, So When Summoned They Live Again
Dr. Jeffrey Lant of http://writerssecrets.com shares a beautiful illustration of how you can bring life and vibrancy to your loved ones through writing. The article he shares is:
“My most memorable Mother’s Day… a tenacious memory that tugs at my heart and may touch yours.”
Published at www.WritersSecrets.com
Go to:
http://members.20waystoprofit.com/of-words-written-of-our-loved-ones-so-when-summoned-they-live-again-in-us-thus-we-begin/
Writers secrets.com holds an extraordinary writer’s course with special emphasis on writing family stories that make your beloved live again and soar.
For the last over 60 years Dr. Lant have been writing stories about his family, including his grandparents, his father, his mother, his two siblings and his only niece and nephew. He has written biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, commentaries and recollections focusing on relatives, friends, neighbors, employers, co-workers, room mates, teachers, pastors, coaches, and more. And let’s be clear, he didn’t forget pets either! Stories like that of his pet Peking Duck, George Quacker, who used to fly to greet him and retail all the news upon the arrival home from school.
In his stories they all live, and live forever. He has now written hundreds of stories about these people. The repertoire includes stories that make you cry and stories that make you split your trousers laughing, because, you see, it’s all part of what makes you and every member of your extended family tick.
Hardly a day goes by that folks from all over the world don’t come and ask Dr. Lant “How can I write like you write? How can I keep the people I love alive, like you do?”.
Well now you can at www.WritersSecrets.com!
Go to: http://writerssecrets.com
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It was a great honor to work with Dr. Jeffrey Lant during his tenure as CEO of Worldprofit. This
article was given to Daniel Fischer while Dr. Jeffrey Lant was at Worldprofit.
Yours In Success,
Daniel Fischer Dano Enterprises
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