In My Own Voice Vol. 2 edited table of content updated -

Dr. Lant passed away April 16, 2023

In My Own Voice
Reading from My Collected Works Vol. 2
More Assorted Selection

Dedication

To my mother, who read to me.

Contents
INTRODUCTION 3
https://youtu.be/mIOkXPnyvFk 3
Chapter 1 14
“A story of fortitude, West Texas and of water more precious than gold.” 14
https://youtu.be/oC9J1cCrQg0 14
Chapter 2 18
“The fish that ate Chicago. A true story of the invasive carp that won’t quit.” 18
https://youtu.be/jTkHCS2z3lY 18
Chapter 3 22
“The tragic and enraging story of how Great Britain and lawful bigotry destroyed one of its greatest heroes. This is Alan Turing’s tale, and it will outrage and sadden you, if you have any humanity at all.” 22
https://youtu.be/ys1VYKf7kik 22
Chapter 4 27
“On board the Ferdinand Magellan with Harry Truman. A great set-piece of American politics with a moral for all of today’s ‘leaders’.” 27
https://youtu.be/HzRFffyJcsY 27
Chapter 5 31
“‘Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run.’ The story of Colton Harris Moore, exasperatingly cute…. and as fast as the wind!” 31
https://youtu.be/c1xbERlIKtk 31
About the Author 35
SPECIAL WRITERS SECRETS CATALOG 36

INTRODUCTION
https://youtu.be/mIOkXPnyvFk

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/mIOkXPnyvFk
In this book, I take you to a place where every writer ought to go, but so few even know it exists. I am talking about reading aloud what you’ve written. The whole point of writing is to motivate a fellow human being, to seize their mind, their brain, their entire being, and suffuse it with your thoughts, your point of view, your unique take on the human condition, all its manifestations, and the improvements you offer.

I am a fanatic about that human voice… at ensuring that it be heard, and that it do its unique work transforming a situation from A to B, and on to C.

I have become, if not famous for, then certainly a fanatic in the matter of grabbing the mind, holding that mind, changing that mind. That is to say, being tenacious in the struggle every writer must not only engage in, but win. For make no mistake about it, a writer’s life is about struggle, pain, and the triumph of truth.

In this book, I help you deliver yourself because it is only through your skills and attributes that you can win this significant, indeed pivotal game.

What’s so important about hearing prose anyway? Won’t just reading it do?

To ask the question is to realize how silly, indeed detrimental it is. What is the reason why you write in the first place? Is it merely to pass a few hours in harmless endeavors? If you believe this, than you will never be a writer, much less a force for human improvement. So let’s be clear with each other: this book is for the fighters, the dreamers, the visionaries, the people who have a better idea, and will do whatever is necessary to implement it, and achieve the broadest possible change and recognition.

As I write this book, I feel my blood pressure rising. I think of all the would-be writers I have known. I think of the lies they tell, and oh, yes, their assertion that they are still writers indeed, when their quota of writing is small or nonexistent, and they do not go forth to fight for a better world, because such fighting makes for dirty hands… and we all wish to stay clean, don’t we? Even at the cost of truth and our God-given integrity.

So, I write this, not for the lazy and slothful, not for those who will not try hard enough, not for those whose truth is disposable, and whose integrity doesn’t exist at all.

I believe I hear a stampede to the exits about now… for you say, “That Lant character, he’s too much!” And I say back to you, you non writers, non readers, “You are too little!”

I have selected for my further remarks about the necessity of not just how to read your poetry but your prose aloud, five articles of my extensive composition, articles which I may have been the only person alive to read aloud, as if before the discerning auditors of the ancient coliseum, when a writer would step forward and assail the audience with the best language on Earth, the written language, brought to life by its creators and its affectionate followers.

When you write, you must be in that amphitheater before those hopeful and critical crowds. You must take every skill you possess so that the auditors of your privileged audience may be touched by the fire that you bring. Now, as you ready yourself to bring the words to life, you transcend beyond mere writer, beyond a slinger of words and phrases, and you become the Messenger of God, touched by nobility and the hand of possibility.

Why did the creator give us a brain, and the capacity for touching souls, and transforming situations of no merit whatsoever into our new, better realities?

Why indeed.

I’m going to, now, make sundry remarks on the five stories I have chosen for this all important point… the best prose, the best poetry, is read aloud and necessarily involves you, the reader, the performer, the enlightener. Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage”. What he meant by that was that each of us, particularly those who christen themselves writers, have within us the power to transform, to change, not just in picayune ways, but radical, and that this ability does not just exist here, but everywhere you bring it, in whatever format you use.

We have, through our discerning brain, the power… but do we have the will?

One of the saddest things one can see is a poet or writer who burns within… who sees the great fires down the great vistas, and knows he can make the world a better place through his constant application, but does not do so, for terror, fright, horror, anxiety, and alarm… these take precedence among the cowardly, and it is these cowardly you must eschew, for they bring us nothing but defeat, ignominious, spineless, disgraceful.

I dedicate these next lines to you, fair-weather writer. You say your vision is pure, but who would know, since you scarcely share it with us, and then, in a shuffle-footed way. Writers, if you have something to say, for God’s sake, say it!

Do not rely on a single word of approbation, encouragement, or enthusiasm. This is not what you live for, if you are more than a fair-weather scribbler. You dream for change! You dream for transformation, or transcendence, for the better thing that your choice language may open up to the rest of us! Your language and how you deliver it is the engine of the change you say you want. Remember, you work for God.

And so it pains me when I see particularly young writers, the ones who should be fueled by sacred fire, when I see them throwing in the sponge in such early days because they want the compliment, and not the victory. As I said, I have chosen just five articles out of my vast array, and I intend to give you some worthy instruction about what I’ve written, what you’ve read, what it all means, and how you can benefit.

Let us start with a story of fortitude. Water in West Texas.

Before you read a single word, you must know the effect you wish to create, and the benefit you wish to derive from the audience, which, as you step forward to speak your first word, cares nothing for you, but which, upon the conclusion of your final word, must see you as God’s messenger. You, yes you! A Messenger of God, and therefore, of unrestrained truth, no matter how uncomfortable that whole truth and nothing but the truth may be.

In considering the story of Barbara and David Buegeler, you have a tale, a challenge, of pain, of great struggle, but of, at last, a perfect union between God and man. Your job is to render that perfect union understandable and persuasive. It is hard, it is so hard, for you must first peer into the mind of God, and only second, into your own mind.

Now, take the opening words of this story, and read them like the whole world depended on how you seized the facts and turned them into glory. Listen to me now.

“Today you will turn on the water tap, in your home or office, over and over again. Just how many times you will not bother to consider. The water is there, it is easily accessible, you can have as much as you want, as often as you want.”

I must now advise you, in all seriousness, that only 1 in a thousand people reading these words will read them properly. This is because our school system is based on rote memorization, not the creativity of untrammeled language and presentation. Thus are our students diminished to mere automatons, the beauty of language and truth destroyed by our so-called “teachers”, whose primary subject is always restraint.

Before you open your mouth, I want you to consider the state of the Buegelers, and read it as they have lived it… one momentous step at a time. If you read this in a flat, monotonous, unbearably dull fashion, you will touch no hearts, no minds, no souls, you will touch nothing at all. Your job is to infuse the Buegelers’ story through your rendering, and to change the world, even if that world is as recalcitrant and obdurate as West Texas in drought.

Step up to your imaginary microphone in your home or use any equipment you may have. Do not allow any of your fellow creatures to disturb you now, you have enough challenges on your plate just this minute. Step up as if you were the last guardian of truth on this benighted planet. Now, chin up, chest too, eyes straight ahead… you are about to astonish us all, but most of all yourself, for most likely you never knew you had it in you, what is about to come now.

I will not read you the entire article, I will not cite all the important points in this article, but I do want you to take a closer look at the last paragraphs. The article about the Buegelers is of a work still in progress. At its conclusion there is no end, after all, in real life, there is hardly any end, until there is just The End.

So, I have written this article in almost biblical cadence. Listen to the words when they have been properly advanced… Hear me in your mind’s ear as I read you from the conclusion:

“Then, just the other day, a thing so small to the rest of us, so crucial to the Buegelers and their neighbors… some rain. Six inches, not enough. But God’s pledge there would be succor and better times. And so, Barbara and David made thus more hopeful, went out to feed the 22 baby calves and their mothers, and thought that, despite all, theirs was still paradise, the right place to find serenity, and even the God who did not forget them after all.”

If you kill this prose through insufficient ardor, you are no better than a murderer, and you are surely no writer.

“Hear me, hear me”

There are many different kinds of writing, some pedestrian, others sublime. You need to decide, as I decided a long time ago, which type is your forte. As for me, I selected while still a lad, a form of writing called commentary. Let us be clear what I mean by that. A commentator is not a journalist, although the two words are intermingled in common use.

A journalist is responsible for gathering and arranging the words so that they are as truthful as possible. In other words, the journalist hunts for facts. And, because of the First Amendment, he feels perfectly comfortable using any means to get that truth.

A commentator is a different animal. We spend our waking hours pinpointing the most significant stories of our time, researching the factual basis for all claims and points of view, and then using our well trained skills to write a story, not merely as one fact after another, but as Truth. Commentators report, to be sure, but more so deduce and explain the significance of what is known about their subject matter.

The best commentators are the most thorough researchers, the wisest, the visionaries, the people who dare to take on the establishment, whose integrity is unquestioned, whose boldness unmatched, and who sees what others do not even dream.

I am a commentator. My models, the five articles that follow, are examples of how a commentator approaches an important subject. What commentators want to do is motivate you, inform you, win over you, so that at the end of the story, your point of view has been bolstered if the commentator agrees with you, or blasted away if the commentator doesn’t.

You will understand that true commentators are rare. Becoming a commentator is like scaling Mt. Everest… it is demanding, it is a lifetime task, it is a struggle between what is not truthful, and what is, and it involves people of learning and skill committing their hearts to the unending struggle between good and bad.

Now with this in mind, listen to my next story. It is the story called “The Fish that Ate Chicago. A True Story of the Invasive Carp that Won’t Quit”.

This subject breaks down naturally into its news component, and its ability to provide grist for a commentator’s mill. Read it before we continue. Consider for a moment the issue: the greatest bodies of fresh water on Earth are being challenged and won by a fish. But not just any fish… an imperial fish with the grandest objectives possible… to seize what belongs to man, and to turn it into their personal pond.

Reporters will tell the facts. But the facts alone get us nowhere. We need more than facts, we need passion. And so, my article portrays the relations between carp and man as a cosmic struggle, and thus when you read this article, you must put threat in your voice. You must put anxiety in your voice. You must put the great struggle between man and fishy competitor in your voice. For, above all else, you, as commentator, must be on the side of threatened human destiny, and must make our case, in each case, better than anyone else in the world.

We cannot support this fish, for it is our antagonist. We cannot support any aspect of its endeavors, for it means us ill, now and forever.

So, would-be commentators, now this presents you with an opportunity to arouse the multitudes and become a hero in the prevailing struggle for fresh water, against this deleterious fish. Get up now, and read this article with zest, a cutting edge, a vision, a hope, and a gratefulness that you were on this spot on this time, and could provide such a valiant and necessary task. Yes, here is where you not just write, but are given your opportunity to change the world.

He loved, not just mankind, but a man

I am pleased to say that my original article on Alan Turing, tragic victim of bigotry and stupidity, had, to whatever extent, changed the law in general, and Alan Turing’s reputation in specific.

As a commentator, your goal is to embrace truth, justice, fairness, equality, diversity, and honesty. The Alan Turing story was tailor made for a commentator with these skills and attributes who is willing to go forward, bolstering the good cause with every word he wrote.

Consider for yourself, in the darkest days of WWII in 1942, the Nazi wolf packs were very near starving the Empire on which the sun never set, a long, lingering, and gruesome conclusion foreseeable. Alan Turing headed the team of cryptographers that made it impossible for the Germans to press their submarine advantage. And so, the great convoys were able to get through, and God saved the King.

After 1942, after Turing’s literally life and death research was completed in Britain’s favor, the war was essentially won, all that remained were the details. The Nazis never knew what hit them, and could simply not understand the “luck” that brought the Royal Navy to exactly where it was most needed, at exactly the moment it was most needed. In a nutshell, the secret weapon was Turing.

Alan Turing saved the nation. But when that nation’s bigoted, prejudiced, biased governors found out he was carnally involved with a man, they gave him the opportunity to stay in jail, or take estrogen, and cease to be a man. And so, arguably one of the greatest heroes of WWII was castrated by his own country, worried about the menace which one man put forth, whilst in the company of another consenting adult.

In short order, Alan Turing went from hero to menace, and a thimble full of cyanide, which wiped out the genius that was Turing. As The Beatles said so much later, “no one was saved”.

This story, which ultimately resulted in Queen Elizabeth II’s pardon to the long deceased Turing, needs to be told with a commentator’s skills and insight. This is a story for outrage, for indignation, and for rage. A journalist may look at this story as merely another story, but a commentator looks at this story as a chance to do God’s work. And is grateful for the opportunity.

Write it accordingly. Read it accordingly.

“Give ‘em hell!”

The good presidents all have a certain moment in their office, the moment they remember they’re not the president of the White House, but president of the nation. Their job is not to snap selfies in the Rose Garden, but to go out beyond 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and allow themselves the privilege of being touched by the nation, his fellow citizens, rank, disorderly, confused, puzzled, strongly crying, needing, obstinate, closed-minded, for these are the denizens of the Great Republic, and each leader forgets it as his peril.

The story of president Harry Truman and one of the greatest railway cars ever created, the Ferdinand Magellan, is a great story, not just of a president, but of the way this president went forward not just to touch the lives of a nation, but to allow those people of the nation to touch his life. “Give ‘em hell, Harry!” Senator Barkley shouted as president Truman walked up the steps of the Ferdinand Magellan and into history. “Give ‘em hell, Harry!” And Truman set out to do just that.

The story of Harry Truman’s trip across America in the Ferdinand Magellan and his growing connectedness of the nation is one of the greatest tales of the presidency and the nation. A mere journalist could not tell this story, for the facts alone are not sufficient to arouse the maximum excitement and thrill.

The rhythm of the story is the rhythm of a train, of a great engine passing over the tracks in a steady click, click, click, sharp sounds that indicate movement, progress, action.

When you are on a train, you are always going somewhere, and the future is always your traveling companion. So it was with Harry Truman.

If you are one of the lucky people who is able to read this story aloud, seize the opportunity, “carpe diem”. It is written in the idiom that all real Americans like best. It is about progress, adventure, change, and hope. They’re all there, every single one of them, on the great rails of the Great Republic. When you get up, for you must get up to recite this tale, you cannot but feel the heady excitement and importance of the train you inhabit.

And so I shall share with you the last paragraph of this marvelous tale, a commentator’s tale, not just a journalist’s:

“This great railroad extravaganza did not win Truman the presidency… but it transformed him from a certain loser to a possible winner, a man gone from hopeless to plausible while riding in the greatest railway car ever built, over the greatest network of track ever laid, en route to the greatest people on earth, asking them to confer the greatest office on earth on him by first giving him a listen. And they did.”

When you read this as a commentator, you will realize the importance of the story, as well as the importance of every single word in delivering just the message you want, in just the way you wanted. “Give ‘em hell, Harry!”

“Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run”

We’re talking in this chapter about the human voice, and its necessary partner, human language. They were born for each other. Each story needs to be told in its appropriate idiom. In other words, it needs to sound like the reality from which it came.

The fifth and final chapter deals with an attractive young man, brought up under unsavory circumstances, who became a thief at an early age. As such, he should have been denigrated, execrated, shunned, but there is that about the boy which makes him attractive to us. Indeed, so attractive that we raise him to the status of Folk Hero, and wish him well, not condemnation.

This is the story of Colton Harris Moore. It is tailor made for you, if you are young, difficult to handle, often a confusion even to yourself, for you can bring the necessary perspective and point of view to Colt Harris Moore’s difficult life, a compound of misery, muddle, exultation, and romance.

This is a story of action, a story of a boy who did not care where he was going, so long as he was going somewhere. This is a story of the craziness that differentiates young life. Colton Harris Moore was beautiful, but he was also crazy. It’s a combination that is attractive to so many teenagers, who cannot get enough of it.

Get up, it is time for you to weave this story and wean us all from our legal ways, to an enchantment with a boy who makes us understand how imprisoned we all are. As Janis Joplin once sang in “Me and Bobby McGee” (1970), “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”. Colt Harris Moore had lost everything… everything but his ability to charm us, and it is your responsibility to make sure you give him his due, for his due cost him everything.

I wish this chapter could go on and on, I wish that you and I could spend the evening tonight, each of us ensconced in a big red wing chair, such as I have in my home, and where we could beguile the long hours by using our voices to deliver stories and tales more truthful and honest.

If, as such pessimists as myself might at this very moment be predicting, such happy and memorable occasions are doomed to be replaced by text messaging… yes, text messaging… the lowest form of communication ever invented, and the laziest, then, upon this sad occasion, I unburden my heart to you. For I cannot bear to see the imperium of words passing.
I cannot bear to see our high standards degraded. I cannot live without the word, and every emotion it may conjure.

If we are losing the ability to communicate with each other, despite constant new forms of technology, let us, in these waning days, enjoy the end of the empire of words, for we have built this planet, every aspect of this planet with words. Words aptly wielded, beautifully presented, and agile. And while we have them, let us use them, for they have defined us, empowered us, enthralled, and excited us, and we have all been the better for it; especially the purblind users of text messaging devices, for they are throwing their futures away without care or second thought.

And so we end this chapter with a story from the fleet-footed repertoire of Colton Harris Moore, a.k.a. the Barefoot Bandit.

“On May 30, 2011 police found a handwritten note and $100 at a veterinary clinic in Raymond, Washington. The note said, ‘Drove by, had some extra cash. Please use this money for the care of animals.’ He signed it ‘Colton Harris Moore AKA ‘The Barefoot Bandit.’ Camano, Washington.” It was just the kind of thing a real folk hero would do.”

So make your choice. With words, the story of Colton Harris Moore resides with us forever. Yes, that boy will live forever, and we will be glad for it.

However, choose the text messaging alternative and you are talking to yourself, and as such you will be devoured and destroyed as easily as the flimsy messages on the flimsy machines that transmit them. These, with every click, diminish us. He who lives by text messaging dies by it.

Now, get up and read the story of Colton Harris Moore, and read it like it matters, because the younger you are, the more it does. O tempora o mores!

Musical note

I have selected for this introduction the theme music from Ray Bradbury’s classic “Fahrenheit 451” (1967). Composed by Bernard Herrmann, it, too, is a story about the destruction of words and the books that contain them. In this case, as in so many others, truth is stranger than fiction. The longer you live, the easier this is to believe.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmKDQvnrOdk

Chapter 1
“A story of fortitude, West Texas and of water more precious than gold.”
https://youtu.be/oC9J1cCrQg0

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/oC9J1cCrQg0

Author’s program note. Today you will turn on the water tap in your home or office over and over again; just how many times you will not bother to consider. The water is there… it is easily accessible… you can have as much as you want as often as you want.

But this most assuredly is not the case for Barbara Buegeler, her husband David, and their arid acres in West Texas. Water, for them, is a constant concern; one they ponder about during the day and which they dream about, still pondering, at night. This is their story… a story of fortitude, commitment, and, yes, of a love that binds them to the land that defines them. It is a story every worker on the land will know and which every urban dweller, folks like me, should know… but do not… and so I write today as much for myself as for you.

A statistic that defines all.

A West Texas ranch like Barbara Buegeler’s, where cattle are raised mostly for breeding, just a few for meat, needs at least 20 inches of rain each year. When these rains come, each drop a benediction to the earth and its momentary proprietors, all is well. People like Barbara, though they wouldn’t like their neighbors to know, greet the rain when it comes as congregants in God’s own cathedral.

The water falls from on high and, before touching the good earth, enabling everything that follows, they are happily drenched and grateful. Water is everything here… and they greet it accordingly, with pure joy – and relief — in their hearts. Only those who have ever been without can so exult and the prayers that come involuntarily are not just words… but profound gratitude. These are the people of the land… and they know what is important.

These are now the people of drought and this is a story of resolution, faith, of fear and apprehension… but most of all, of abiding commitment. Meet Barbara Buegeler and her husband, both 67 years old.

The Buegelers have for over 30 years ranched west of San Saba (dubbed “Pecan Capital of the World”), at the edge of Hill Country, just where West Texas begins. It is a place that, for them, transcends mere beauty.

It is “something of a heaven on earth,” they say and which their decades of commitment confirm.

It is a place where they wake up early to greet the dawn, grateful for the decision they made so long ago in their human lives, but just the shortest instant in the life of the land they own in law…. but whose acres in fact own them; again a fact which every land dweller knows and no urban dweller near or far away ever really comprehends.

These acres, always waiting for the rain, bring forth fruit in plenty and the pecans for which this place is famous. Here there have been good years… even great years… but since the summer of 2010 there has been drought, day after day when the rains have not come, just a few tantalizing drops. Local folks scan the skies, looking for portents in the clouds and hot breezes and have turned inward as they wait for what they and the land must have.

The rain stopped and the searing winds commenced.

Prosperity in West Texas is the result of a formula, conceived by Nature, known to all the people of the land. There must be just so much water, just so much sunshine, and the land must supply just the right cocktail of essential nutrients. Changes are neither desirable nor welcome, for changes spell problems and problems, over a particular period of time, spell catastrophe for the land and all its inhabitants, man and beast.

Beginning in mid-May 2011 the great heat began. No one thought much of it at the time; great heat is a regular feature of this land…. but as this heat continued day by day, inhabitants knew that this was the heat they fear and respect… for this is the heat that brings drought and all its well-known miseries.

These predictable miseries marched smartly in as the daily temperatures rose, as high as 118 degrees, never lower than an even 100. And what the sun delivered by day, it left a hefty residue by night, when the land and every inhabitant still perspired… and knew the relief would come, had to come, but when?

Water tanks never dry before, dry now. And still no relief in sight…

How bad is it? So bad that three ponds which were never bone dry in these 30 years are now completely dry, no drop to be seen, even by accident. And this meant, for the first time, too, the need to haul water from the fire station in the town of San Saba, lest the drought on the land carry off its parched inhabitants. For lack of water the land and everything on it dies, no matter how inured to drought they may be… and this reality is known to all.

Hauling water.

Anyone who has ever carried liquids home from the grocery store, knows only too well the heft of water and how difficult it is to move. Imagine, then, the need to haul every drop needed by plants, animals and humans… and to know that to stop means death and desolation. Thus, no one thinks twice about the task; it is necessary, and so must be done.

In San Saba each tank is filled to its 525 gallon capacity. Two such tanks are carried on a gooseneck trailer; another truck, this one driven by Barbara, hauls 325 gallons more. To maintain life (and hope) the Buegelers must make three trips a day (each trip 1 1/2 hours) three times a week. In each trip they haul 1,375 gallons. Home, the water moves by gravity flow and pump to fill the storage tanks, a time-consuming, laborious and absolutely essential process which cannot be missed, skipped, forgotten or complained of. It is all an inescapable process on which the land depends.

And as it is with water, so it is with everything else, too.

The animals, bereft of grass, must have all food and water promptly delivered by their human servitors… or they will perish under the blazing sun. Hay is non-existent and must be delivered… at prices that rise with the temperature. Many bales are needed each week; the prices now $110-175 for each, a worrying rise of up to $50 per bale. But this, too, is necessary, life in its delivery; death without.

And there is worse, far worse, to report.

Good neighbors and friends of so many years now broke; selling what little is left, dreams gone, now of the land no more. Towns you never heard of like Goldthwaite dried up, no water there at all. Eighteen hour days are now the norm as thirty years of work come down to the back breaking reality of food and water, unrelenting labor. And around them wildfires start and surge amidst the dry trees and foliage and worse expected, as Winter is prime season for these fires which jump and play — and destroy.

Then just the other day a thing so small to the rest of us, so crucial to the Buegelers and their neighbors… some rain, 6 inches, not enough, but God’s pledge there would be succor and better times. And so Barbara and David, made thus more hopeful, went out to feed the 22 baby calves and their mothers. And thought that despite all, theirs was still a paradise, the right place to find serenity and even the God who did not forget them after all.

Musical note

For the incidental music for today’s article, I have selected Dimitri Tiomkin’s soaring score from the 1956 film classic “Giant.” Click the link below and listen… but remember this: the music you listen to accompanies a work of fiction. What follows here is a work of fact.

Chapter 2
“The fish that ate Chicago. A true story of the invasive carp that won’t quit.”
https://youtu.be/jTkHCS2z3lY

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/jTkHCS2z3lY

Author’s program note. This is a fish story… a big fish story… the story of two different Asian carp species who have already wiped out the competition down river from the Windy City and now mean to seize Chicago and swim north to capture the Great Lakes. It’s the story of what happens when man changes his environment without understanding the consequences (or, worse, knowing the consequences but going ahead anyway). And it is a story of our sneaking admiration for the… fish… who can outsmart us, the great poobahs of the planet.

How the carp got here.

The first thing you need to know about this story is that we did it to ourselves. Yep. Imagine you are a friendly, law-abiding carp. You’re living somewhere in Asia and life is good. You’ve got all the plankton you want… and you’ve got the respect of all the other denizens in the water ways you have populated and control. You’re the boss.

Then one day in the 1980s you find yourself captured by some hoodlum who’s sold you and your captured buddies to a bunch of Southern U.S. municipal wastewater treatment facilities. Your job: to control algae growth in aquaculture. Disgusting. You’re forced to do this job, this really dirty job, and you do… biding your time until you can escape to freedom and cleaner water.

Then one day when the humans who are supposed to keep you in captivity aren’t looking you… break out… and start swimming north! And along the way you reproduce like crazy. By the time the schleppers at the wastewater plant have figured out what you’re doing, you are already a significant river presence, a fact to be reckoned with… and you’re having the time of your life, reproducing faster than ever.

Facts about silver carp.

The silver carp is a species of freshwater cyprinid fish, a variety of Asian carp native to north and northeast Asia. It is cultivated in China. Pound for pound, more silver carp are produced worldwide in aquaculture than any other species. It has been introduced to, or spread into via connected waterways, at least 88 countries worldwide. The most common reason for importation was for use in aquaculture, but enhancement of wild fisheries and water quality control were also important reasons for importation.

These facts are important, of course, but what’s really important is this:

1) These carp are BIG, whoppers. Their average weight is 30-40 pounds, but it is not uncommon to find some weighing up to 110 pounds.

2) They can leap 10 feet in the air, thereby presenting substantial hazards for people fishing from boats. And you must never water ski in areas known to be inhabited by silver carp and bighead carp. That would be most foolhardy.

3) These carp are voracious eaters and in short order deprive native fishes of the nutrients they require while eating up to 20% of their body weight each day.

4) They are difficult to catch. Silver carp are filter feeders; this is what makes them difficult to catch on a typical hook and line gear. Special methods have been developed to catch these fish, the most important being the “suspension method” usually consisting of a large dough ball that disintegrates slowly, surrounded by a nest of tiny hooks that are embedded in the bait.

5) Silver carp feeding on certain species of blue-green algae, notably the often toxic Microcystis, can pass through the gut of silver carp unharmed, and pick up nutrients while in the gut. Thus, in some cases blue-green algae blooms have been exacerbated by silver carp… and the carp are therefore hazardous to eat.

Now this resourceful adversary, so far successful in all its endeavors, wants to seize Chicago and move into the greatest hunting area on earth, the Great Lakes, where, by the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.

Thus did America’s great Victorian poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855) write of Lake Superior, now a target for the silver carp and a prime reason why at this very moment in August 2011 deeply concerned humans are racing to raise defences which must hold, or the fish will triumph.

The carp must take the Chicago Waterway System to reach their goal… and we must make sure they cannot seize it.

The manmade Chicago Waterway System connects the Great Lakes to the Illinois River, which then connects to the Mississippi River. Both sides know the pivotal battle will be fought here. Each side controls a major part of the puzzle. The silver and bighead carp have overwhelmed the Mississippi River network; humans still own the Great Lakes.

The carp have numbers and time on their side. They also know that they can sacrifice as many of their species as necessary to win; they will produce as many as necessary. Above all, they know this: that their human adversaries must keep EVERY invasive carp out of the Great Lakes… while the carp have only to get ONE carp into the Great Lakes to seize the first lake, then all the lakes, and change the environment forever, turning it to their exclusive advantage and wrecking havoc on the ecology existing now. The stakes could hardly be higher.

That is why today, on a perfect summer’s day for fishing, crews will instead be straining muscle and mind to stop these brazen invaders, already too close for comfort. They will be using electric jolts to stun fish, sweeping the waterway with half-mile-long nets, and sampling and resampling Lake Calumet and the Calumet River.

What the folks at the Asian Carp Regional Coordinating Council (which keeps a detailed daily blog on the subject) finds so troubling is this: DNA from silver carp has already been found in 11 samples in the lake and river in July. The US Army Corps of Engineers announced July 22 that it had found additional samples containing DNA from silver carp.

Musical note

For this story, then, I selected the song called “High Hopes”, recorded by Frank Sinatra in 1959. With music written by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Sammy Cahn, it was introduced in the 1959 film “A Hole in the Head”. It was nominated for a Grammy and won an Oscar for Best Original Song at the 32nd Academy Awards.

It’s a tune about tenacity, persistence, grit and unbeatability… all things the carp have got to spare…. but which we humans often lack, too often taking the easy path… dozing through the crises around us. You will find the link below. Go now, listen up and get in the “can do” mood. This is the version Sinatra recorded for John F. Kennedy’s campaign in 1960. It’s a classic piece of Americana.

Chapter 3
“The tragic and enraging story of how Great Britain and lawful bigotry destroyed one of its greatest heroes. This is Alan Turing’s tale, and it will outrage and sadden you, if you have any humanity at all.”
https://youtu.be/ys1VYKf7kik

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/ys1VYKf7kik

Author’s program note. In the darkest days of World War II, in 1942, Great Britain held… but only held with the thinnest of thin red lines. Its valiant, uncomplaining people were worn, hungry, fearful and anxious and rightly so, for never before had starving the nation into submission been so possible, so likely. The Nazis had discovered their most potent and inexorable tool, the empty, gnawing stomach.

The drill went something like this. The British needed so many million tons of food imports to keep home and hearth alive. Without them mass starvation loomed and the nation brought to its knees. Thus, all the Germans needed was the means to achieve this result and victory must be theirs. Their weapon of deadly purpose was the submarine and in the winter of this dismal, disheartening year the wolf packs grew bloated on their easy prey.

Everyone knew the Yanks would come, were coming but when… when? Everyone from Prime Minister Winston Churchill down believed it, knew it, prayed for it, expected it… but when? And what could be done until they did?

This is where Alan Turing, just 30 that fateful year, and his fellow geeks and geniuses stepped forward to combat the deadly menace of the German silent service with their magnificent brains, the best in Britain. Verily, never before had so many owed so much to so few. Turing was arguably the best of these best which only makes this outrageous tale the more egregious and shameful.

About Alan Turing, OBE, FRS, born 23 June 1912.

Abraham Lincoln once said that God must have loved the common man, he made so many of him. God’s relationship with the exceptional man, the extraordinary man, the genius has always been more equivocal and difficult, since they often challenge the very existence of God Himself, as Alan Turing most assuredly did, though never publicly or with contumely or rancor.

Turing was born into the glory days of the great British imperium, his father a distinguished member of the Indian Civil Service, a Scotsman like so many who administered the jewel in the crown. Such people, with their intricate pecking order sustained an empire, getting the best of everything… and were unshakable in their deep-seated point of view that they deserved it.

This was the world of pukka, polo, and POSH (port out, starboard home). This was the Raj, reigned over by the King-Emperor, the Great Servant of God, the Master of uncounted millions, the man Alan Turing did so much to save to fight another day, the man who did so little for him, when so little was all that was required.

What you must know about young Turing is what everyone who knew him knew, namely that he was intelligent to a degree none of them had ever seen before… and would most likely never see again. What to do with Alan came to be the hot potato of their lives and his, right to the bitter end. What kind of a boy was he?

Just one anecdote reveals. His very first day as a new student at the prestigious Sherborne School in the market town of Sherborne in Dorset coincided with the 1926 General Strike. He could have stayed home like millions did. Instead he rode his bicycle more than 60 miles from Southampton, stopping overnight at an inn, to be there… on time… whatever the obstacle. He was just 14, and this was his code for the remainder of his short, extraordinary life.

Solving advanced problems at 16.

Mathematical genius is often found in the very young, and so it was with young Turing. He solved advance problems in 1927 without ever having studied even elementary calculus. Next, aged 16, he encountered Albert Einstein’s work. Not only did he grasp it, but he extrapolated Einstein’s questioning of Newton’s laws of motion. In short he was a genius happy and productive in the company of those with the highest human intelligence, who in turn welcomed him as a worthy member of their rare and astonishing ilk. And as his colleagues in intellect esteemed him, so he ascended…

First-class honors graduate in mathematics, King’s College, Cambridge, 1935; elected Fellow of King’s College, in 1935 at the startlingly young age of 22; PhD in mathematics Princeton University, 1938. Thus he demonstrated his mastery of his chosen subjects in what came to be called artificial intelligence and computer science… and as a cryptanalyst at the Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park, Britain’s code breaking center. The Germans never knew what hit them.

Enter Winston Churchill.

Of course matters were not so simple as all that; they never are. Turing showed up at GC & CS the first full day of war, September 4, 1939, only to discover the immemorial ways in which the British go to battle, namely with disorganization, inefficiency, and muddle from top to bottom. Thus the best brains in the world twiddled their thumbs at Bletchley Park whilst the lesser men who commanded bumbled away the precious days that were needed to defend against the realm’s most dangerous foe.

At last Turing couldn’t stand it another minute and so against all orders and protocol on October 28,1941 he and his colleagues wrote to Prime Minister Churchill to tell how much they could do if they had the comparative pittance they required for their important work.

Think for a moment what would have occurred if Neville Chamberlain had still been prime minister, or, worse, Lord Halifax.Think if this all-important, world-changing letter had been sent through the usual, ineffectual bureaucratic channels. Think what would have happened if there was no Turing and Germany’s unbroken codes had never been deciphered or deciphered so late as to be useless. This moment, this letter, and Churchill’s immediate response made all the difference. This is what is meant by fate and, perhaps, by God’s will.

But the letter was written and sent and Churchill did respond, at once, his reply the very essence of his leadership. “ACTION THIS DAY”, he ordered General Ismay. “Make sure they have all they want on extreme priority and report to me that this has been done.” On November 18, 1941, the chief of the secret service reported to Churchill that every possible measure was underway. And so Turing and company got on with their crucial work breaking the codes that Hitler needed for victory and Britain had to have or risk Armageddon. It was a near run thing… but it was done. Thus did God and Alan Turing save the King.

War won, every honor and reward should have rained upon him. Privy Council, peerage of the realm, Order of Merit, the whole bag of tricks, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Right Honorable The Baron Turing of Bletchley Park….” Instead, he was fobbed off with the kind of recognition reserved for pedestrian bureaucrats upon retirement. Why? Because he chose the love of man, not just the love of mankind, and this was adjudged by lesser men to be more important than all his great works combined. Thus instead of honors, he was despised, disdained, dismissed, and ultimately destroyed.

The role of Henry Labouchere, MP, hater (1831-1912).

Henry Labouchere inherited a large fortune which enabled him to indulge his many prejudices in politics, literature, journalism, and the theatre. Upon first encountering this man you would consider him a citizen of the world, boulevardier, cosmopolitan, amusing, sophisticated. However upon further acquaintance, you would discern not cleverness but condescension, not wit but the whip. He was the master of the barb, the put down, the purposefully hurtful comment, a man who lived to poison and condemn.

His particular targets were Jews, especially Jews who didn’t know their place and aimed to move up economically and socially.

He lashed out, too, and frequently against Queen Victoria and the Royal Family and the Conservative Party and its many failures to recognize his many talents and reward him accordingly.

And he loathed the very idea that a man should find love and comfort in the arms of another man.

Thus in 1885 he drafted the Labouchere Amendment as a last-minute addition to a Parliamentary Bill that had nothing to do with homosexuality. Without benefit of study, debate, or consideration of any kind, the bill passed and in due course over 50,000 men were charged and convicted of “gross indecency”, disgraced, imprisoned, marked for life. The malicious legacy of Henry Labouchere, bigot, bit deep and long. One of its victims was Alan Turing. Here’s how it happened.

In January, 1952 Turing (39) started a private, consensual relationship with Arnold Murray (19). Turing’s house was burgled at this time and Murray fingered one of his acquaintances as the culprit. Turing called in the police and during their questioning admitted his relationship with Murray. Both men were charged with gross indecency under Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act (1885). From that moment until the day he died, Turing, the man who had done so much to save so many, found it impossible to save himself.

Things rapidly spiralled out of control. His solicitor advised him to enter a guilty plea, though Turing never thought he’d committed any crime. On this basis he was convicted. The great hero of the war was given a choice. He could either go to prison, or be placed on conditional probation and be given synthetic estrogen. He made the terrible decision… continued estrogen treatment for one year… and was rendered impotent, a man no longer. No consideration was given to his war work and service. Could the Nazis have hurt him much more?

Of course, Turing’s world crashed about him. He lost his security clearance, his job and his access to the cryptograms he had done so much to solve. He had sought love… he received systematic hatred, discrimination, and injury.

Alan Turing killed himself by ingesting cyanide, June 7, 1954, aged 41.

Envoi.

December 24, 2013 Queen Elizabeth II issued a long-overdue pardon to Alan Turing. By any measure, it was too little, too late… not just for Turing but for all the men who had been victimized by the virulent prejudices of Henry Labouchere. Each of these men needs to be pardoned and suitable compensation paid. Britain bumbled into the sordid business of homosexual victimization… it must do far more to right this wrong.

Musical note

As for the music to this article, I have selected “The Lesson” composed by Richard Robbins for the 1987 film score for E.M. Forster’s 1913 novel “Maurice”. It is beautiful, lyric, edgy, and moving… perfect for the kind of love Turing craved for life. If there is prejudice in your heart, let this music wash it away and give you the peace, consolation and solace Alan Turing so wanted and never had.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4D8WemV5LA

Chapter 4
“On board the Ferdinand Magellan with Harry Truman. A great set-piece of American politics with a moral for all of today’s ‘leaders’.”
https://youtu.be/HzRFffyJcsY

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/HzRFffyJcsY

Author’s program note. No air ship can ever compare with the great age of American railroads. Air vessels are good for one thing and one thing only, speed… for arriving and leaving just as fast as possible. There is no allure in this… no bliss… no romance… and most certainly no grandeur and luxury.

But it is very different with railroads… very different indeed. It is the difference between eating to live and dining for fulfillment and total satisfaction. It is the difference between a pedestrian thing of mere utility… and an essential experience of life which once had you must have yet again, or pine and regret you have settled for less.

Grandeur on the tracks… History in the making.

Now, I’ve got your ticket to travel as a passenger on one of the grandest railway cars of all… the Ferdinand Magellan.

The 1948 coronation for future president Thomas E. Dewey… governor of the great Empire State.

Harry S. Truman was President of the United States in 1948, but from the way the media (which meant newspapers, radio and film) discussed him, you’d think he was a laughable reject who slipped into the Oval Office, and now refused to go back to Missouri. Every known form of ridicule and ribaldry was used to define this man and make fun at his expense. “To err is Truman,” said Mrs. Robert Taft, wife of the lordly Senator from Ohio, a man who thought he was born to follow in his father’s footsteps and so gain the White House without perspiring.

Governor Dewey and all the others felt the same way and decried the little man in the job, the job he was so clearly not up to handling and, besides, was an embarrassment to a great nation which, by right, should be secure in the hands of men like — them! Nor was this the view of just one party, either; these sentiments were aired, and robustly, too, by gentlemen of every political complexion. Truman not only spoke for the common man… he was the common man. And this, it was universally agreed, would never do.

And so all the princes of the land saw themselves as kings…. until the 1948 campaign came down to a three-way split in the Democratic party — Governor Strom Thurmond of South Carolina the Dixiecrat candidate of race baitiing segregationists… former Vice President Henry Wallace, the candidate of One World progressives, soft on Communism and “Uncle Joe” Stalin… and then Governor Dewey, the Republican candidate, who narrowly failed to defeat President Roosevelt in 1944 and was measuring his morning suit for January 20, 1949 the day he became president, and a Man of Destiny.

It was at this moment in America, that Harry Truman ensconced himself in the Ferdinand Magellan… and changed everything for everyone… surprising everyone but himself.

What a way to go….

When I speak of Harry Truman’s great railway campaign across America in 1948 as unique, I mean exactly that. It was the only private railway car ever fitted out for the exclusive use of the President of the United States. .. eighty-three feet in length and painted the standard dark green of the Pullman Company, once headed by Abraham Lincoln’s only surviving son, Robert. It was built in 1928 as one of several luxury cars named for famous explorers, including Marco Polo and David Livingstone. The government commandeered it for President Roosevelt in 1942, overhauled to become a mobile fortress, luxury and armaments mixed in immediate proximity.

From this flexible palace, this man of Independence, Missouri, this reviled little man so far behind in the polls pollsters didn’t bother to poll any more, this man of fiery spirit and determination meant to go forth and make his case… He told his sister “It will be the greatest campaign any President ever made. Win, lose, or draw people will know where I stand.” And he was as good as his word.

He had one chance… and he seized it with avidity, joy, fortitude and gratitude. It was a cocktail we all could use.

On Friday, September 17, 1948, Harry Truman, accident of history, went to Washington’s Union Station ,Track 15, where his 17-car special train packed with some 70 folks stood waiting for him. It contained diners, lounges, sleepers, a press car, a dynamo car for power, a communications car where radio teletype would provide continuous contact with Washington and the rest of the world near war because of the Soviet blockade of ravished Berlin. Everything was there — including unprecedented security — but the last, most essential thing… the passenger for whom all this was assembled….

Truman arrived exactly on time, looking “positively bouyant”, his daughter Margaret remembered. Vice presidential candidate Senator Alben Barkley of Kentucky, about to begin his own odyssey by plane, shouted “Mow ’em down, Harry.” And Truman shouted back, “I’m going to give ’em hell,” and so one of the most famous political phrases was thrown down as a gauntlet to the world…

Never before, never after, never say die.

The 1948 campaign was built on a series of “certainties”:

Harry Truman was a certain loser.
No man had ever won the presidency with his party so splintered.
There was no point in polling because people had made up their minds and that was that.
You couldn’t win the highest office in the land with so little money.
And you couldn’t win with so many people thinking you so incompetent and over your head.

Yet in 33 days, from the platform at the back of the car, where he greeted his fellow citizens and introduced them to “the Boss,” Bess Truman… and his beautiful daughter “Miss Margaret’,” Harry Truman touched people, opened minds, and made friends, in the process firmly establishing him as a likable man who knew them, not just as politician but as neighbor, so very different from disdainful Governor Dewey, who thought even unbending condescension too good for the people who made America great…

And so, indefatigable (whilst all the members of his party wilted), feisty to a degree, always positive, determined to rouse America and bring the importances of this campaign starkly into focus for all… little by little, at each whistle stop, he inched ahead. And so as Dewey floated aimlessly above the fray, arrogant, disliked, mouthing nothing but platitudes that touched and uplifted no one, Harry Truman got in there and fought for the right to be the chief representative of the nation and their engine for a better life.

This great railroad extravaganza did not win Truman the presidency… but it transformed him from a certain loser to a possible winner, a man gone from hopeless to plausible while riding in the greatest railway car ever built, over the greatest network of track ever laid, en route to the greatest people on earth, asking them to confer the greatest office on earth on him by first giving him a listen. And they did.

Afterword

On January 20, 1949, Harry S. Truman was inaugurated as President of the United States for a full term in his own right.

Musical note

For the incidental music to this article, I have selected one of the best known railroad songs, “On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe.” It was written by Johnny Mercer for the 1946 film “The Harvey Girls” where it was sung by Judy Garland. It won the Academy Award for Best Original Song that year. This much sung song makes you want to play hookey for a few days, rushing out and grabbing a ticket to — anywhere. Because you see, with a railroad it is not only where you are going… but, always, how you’re going there.

And on the Ferdinand Magellan you were on your way to the White House… if your name was Harry Truman.

Chapter 5
“‘Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run.’ The story of Colton Harris Moore, exasperatingly cute…. and as fast as the wind!”
https://youtu.be/c1xbERlIKtk

Reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at: https://youtu.be/c1xbERlIKtk

“a’we gonna do what they say can’t be done!”

You’ll never understand this story until you see the culprit. Born March 22, 1991, “Colt” Harris-Moore was a teen-ager until just the other day. He still looks like a teen-ager, and 16 or 17 at that. And he has the look of a fresh-scrubbed Disney character, all firm flesh and smiles and “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”.

He’s a big boy; a really big boy, 6 foot 5 inches tall, 205 pounds. He’s a boy’s boy and you know, with that wicked grin, he’d be mischievous… but you’d bet your bottom dollar he’s a good boy, not a mean bone in his body. But there’s a dark side to this story, and it’s a good idea to get that out right away, so you can make up your own mind about this important matter.

“Colt” Harris-Moore grew up in his mother’s house in Camano Island, Washington. It was a zoo there; chaotic, disruptive, a mess. Neighbors said they made several calls to Child Protective Services, believing he was neglected or abused. His father, Gordon Moore, used drugs and was in prison while Colton was a toddler. When he was just twelve years old, his abusive father walked out during an argument at a family barbecue after attempting to choke him.

According to his mother, Pamela Kohler, his stepfather died when he was about seven years old, and from the time Colton was in first grade, she knew there was “something off about him”, “sort of a disconnection.” He wouldn’t listen to his teachers, starting altercations at school and would sometimes deliberately break things at home.

According to a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation, Harris-Moore said that his mother drank and became mean, breaking his possessions. Any way you slice it mother and son lived in a snake pit of anxieties, fears, and dark depressions… a place to avoid and escape from.

At about the age of 7, Colt started living in the wild; it was better than what he got at home.

It was then he learned his craft as an agile, nimble thief, motivated by what he could get, of course, but increasingly, as he sharpened his skills, pushing the envelope, showing himself how far he could go, how good he could get. He was determined to excel…

He started with robbing the vacation homes of people from far away places; rich, they’d never miss the stuff so easy to purloin, all indications of the stable, ample life he could only know second hand and would never have. They had so much; he so little. Why shouldn’t he just help himself? There’s hardly a kid, even those from the “best” homes who didn’t steal something, sometime. But if they were lucky, they got caught and learned a thing or two.

But Colt didn’t get caught — yet. And so he got better and better. And the game more exciting. He wanted to know, he had to know just how far he could go….

And so it began.

The authorities all knew about Colt… although even in his early days he had no trouble outsmarting them. Still, he got his first conviction for stolen property when he was 12; by the time he was 13, he had three more. Now diagnosed with depression, attention deficit disorder and intermittent explosive disorder, he reckoned he had nothing to lose. Each conviction bought him just 10-days in a detention center, or in community service.

In 2003 things changed and the stakes went up. He stole a neighbor’s camcorder; the police found it in his room. This time he got a sentence with bite: three years. He looked in the mirror, liked what he saw, combed his hair… and walked out of a halfway house. It was April, 2008…. and the Barefoot Bandit was about to show America how folk heroes are born….

“We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.”

Now this master thief, gifted by God with a cherub’s face and a dazzling smile, got serious.

With adolescent energy and grit and determination which any entrepreneur could envy, he found his vocation… and ran with it, bare footed. He stole just for the joy of stealing. It didn’t seem to matter what he stole… although he favored toys that could move him on… for Colt was a moving target… the fastest of all.

He pinched bicycles, automobiles, light aircraft, speedboats.

He was a boy who liked speed… liked turning it on, turning it up… the wind always blowing through his hair… getting away from mother, from teachers, from court-ordered psychiatrists… and from every other trammel and inhibition.

“I’m east bound just watch ol’ Bandit run.”

He zoomed east with manic energy and no purpose whatsoever except to keep on moving. The crazinesses added up: he stole flight manuals and flight simulators… so he could steal planes…

He would often slip into homes along the way to soak in a hot bath… or steal ice cream. He stole a credit card to order bear mace; remember, he generally slept in the woods. He stole another card to order a pair of night vision goggles for $6,500.

On May 30 or 31, 2011 police found a handwritten note and $100 at a veterinary clinic in Raymond, Washington. The note said, “Drove by, had some extra cash. Please use this money for the care of animals.” He signed it “Colton Harris-Moore AKA ‘The Barefoot Bandit.’ Camano, Washington.” It was just the kind of thing a real folk hero would do.

And so America began to root for this boy who robbed with his shoes off, in the freedom of bare feet. He moved, always fast, through states he saw only as a blur… authorities everywhere eager to nab him…

“… he’s hot on your trail and he ain’t gonna rest ‘tiill you’re in jail”

And so it went…. running… robbing… running some more through Idaho, South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois… over 100 thefts and counting.

“So you gotta dodge him… you gotta duck him”

And so he did… and while we paid bills, bought groceries, went to work, the image of that boy whirring through time and space grabbed us and grew. We knew he’d get caught…. we just hoped it wouldn’t be for a while yet. We knew he’d go to jail for a long time…. but he had freedom, real freedom… albeit purchased at a staggering price.

It all came to an end in Harbour Island, Bahamas, July 6, 2010. He was about to steal a boat, bless him, and local police shot out the engine and grabbed him. Colt had a gun to his head when apprehended. It’s a nice point about whether he’d have been better off using it.

Instead they apprehended him and, in due course extradited him back to Washington State and law and order in the shape of U.S. Attorney Jenny Durkan. She knows nothing of folk heroes and her rage about the boy and his celebrity is palpable. She made sure Colt would never benefit from films, books, or anything else. It won’t matter… we know Durkan is right, doing her job… but she is not the stuff of Americana. Colt is… and she knows it. So do we…. movie, or not.

“Keep your foot hard on the peddle… son, never mind them brakes.”

Musical note

I had no trouble at all coming up with the theme music for this article… It’s “East Bound and Down” from the smash 1977 hit film “Smokey and the Bandit.” It’s got toe-tappin’ energy. Make sure you keep the link because, sure as shootin’, there’ll be some morning or other when you’ll wake up ornery and irritable, the world too much with you. This tune will cheer you up in a flash… and make you smile.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mehbMnHWac

About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four university degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities and is quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 50 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at …writerssecrets.com

His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered nine literary prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at www.writerssecrets.co

More can be found on Dr. Lant on his author page at: http://www.amazon.com/author/jeffreylant/

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Dr. Lant also was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award with a focus on “A Connoisseur’s Journey” with this citation.
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Treasures From The Lant Collection Series
– One of the most personal book ever written on art, artifacts,
auctions, conservators, and the great yarns that constitute the better part of provenance.
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What follows will sure to delight you.
Found in the Kindle Store at Amazon.com

Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and confusion at Queen Victoria’s Court by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
269 pages
Both Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Charles read and liked “Insubstantial Pageant” and found it to be a very interesting book indeed especially since it was written by an American.
The author Dr. Jeffrey Lant was given unique access to the Royal Archive at Windsor Castle for his research of the material contained in this book.
A book that has always been and remains to be the most detailed book about the British Royal Events.
Throughout the reign of Queen Victoria, confusion and uncertainty marked the great ceremonials of the English Court. The young sovereign was, at her Coronation, recalled from refreshments to complete the service because a significant part of the ritual had been left out.
During her wedding, her bridegroom, Prince Albert, was wracked by nervous embarrassment about what he was supposed to do, while at the marriage of sir son the Prince of Wales troopers with drawn sabres charged into milling crowds and titled guests elbowed each other for a place.
As the Court’s at first limited ceremonies grew during the nineteenth century into great national pageants matters did not improve, exacerbating the situation after the Prince consort’s death was the Queen’s rooted position to display and royal pomp which gave her officials no chance to gain efficiency in organizing ceremonial. Matters came to a head in 1887, at the greatest royal pageant since the Coronation: the Queen’s Golden Jubilee had to be pulled together from scratch, in circumstances of the utmost dedication.
The next great royal event, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee ten years later, had precedents to draw on and things went so much better that optimists thought the additional muddle had been laid to rest forever. Their expectations were confounded at the arrangement of Queen Victoria’s funeral, an event which in many respects converted to the traditional disorder.
In this remarkable book, Jeffrey L. Lant sees behind the scenes to set out in rich detail how great Victorian royal events developed. Drawn from a wide range of previously unpublished sources, the final result is a perceptive and rollicking piece of crucial history, which many of those involved might have hoped would go unrecorded, authoritative and thorough, this book will fascinate all who have ever marveled at the impressive discretion of Court officials.
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In My Own Voice Vol. 2 edited table of content updated

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