Storms and Weather

Hurricane "Sandy" - The Waves of Wrath!

Preface / Introduction

Hurricane "Sandy" and Hurricane "Irene" with articles related on weather...

Table of Contents
1. On the vernal equinox and the advent of spring. All poets need apply.
2. 'Darlin', everybody hustles. It's just a question of how, when and where.' A tale of pre-Katrina
New Orleans and your business success.
3. 'The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is blowin' in the wind.' Waiting for
Hurricane Irene in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 28, 2011.
4. Autumn comes to New England, September, 2011. And we are glad of it.
5. First snow comes to Cambridge, February 12, 2012, a story of life's unpredictable savor and joys.
6. Summer guilt, 'A Summer Place', Anne Hutchinson and fare home in the dog days.


On the vernal equinox and the advent of spring. All poets
need apply.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
An event occurred just the other day which impacts each and every one of us on Spaceship Earth,
but which hardly one of us knows anything about and mentions, if at all, quite casually. Yet so
momentous is this occurrence, coming with clock like precision, that our very existences depend
upon it; nothing could be less prosaic, nothing more significant.
It is the vernal equinox...
Hereabouts in old New England, the vernal equinox took place at 7:21 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time,
March 20, 2011. The spring we have all been awaiting, the spring that delivers the relief from the
oppression of cold and damp and short dull days, the spring that blows soft winds, as so many
unexpected kisses -- and flowers, too -- that spring, right on the dot, arrived...
but we were heavy laden and may have been distracted when it came as our new reality.
Good citizens of this galaxy, give an ear now to this great event, which next occurs September 22,
2011 at 10:49 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.
There is nothing that concerns you more than these great celestial movements, the unheard but
momentous, unearthly music of the spheres, awesome, terrible, the very stuff of grandeur, eternal,
too.
Put aside mundane concerns and remember, for an instant, who you are, a one-way passenger on the
greatest of galleons, and wither it goes, you go.
What is an equinox anyway?
An equinox occurs twice a year, when the tilt of the Earth's axis is inclined neither away from nor
towards the Sun, the center of the Sun being in the same plane as the Earth's equator. The term
equinox can also be used in a broader sense, meaning the date when such a passage happens.
The name "equinox" is derived from the Latin "aequus" (equal) and "nox" (night) because around
the equinox, the night and day have approximately equal length. Each are, then, about 12 hours long
(with the actual time of equal day and night, in the Northern Hemisphere, occurring a few days
before the vernal equinox.) The Sun crosses the celestial equator going northward; it rises exactly
due east and sets exactly due west.
But of all this, we need remember only one thing: the vernal equinox, and the unending adjustments
we make to the matter of human time, are all about light and the Sun at the center of our universe.
Sol Invictus.
While the celestial movements, now this way, now that, are liable to confuse; we all know the
crucial significance of our Sun; even the youngest amongst us looks up, involuntarily to admire,
rejoice, and be glad of it. Our Sun, of an immensity and heat unimaginable, is brought nearer to us,
and happily so, with the vernal equinox.
We are, all of us, Sun worshippers... for without it there would be nothing here for us, or of us either.

The vernal equinox brings that Sun closer.
Tinkerings with time.
http://www.Profit2Riches.com Copyright Lance Sumner - 2012 4 of 22


Tinkerings with time.
Because of its unexcelled desirability, we humans have long been beguiled with the notion of how to
get more of the Sun we crave. All ancient peoples, particularly the Greeks and Persians, the
sophisticates of antiquity, gave serious attention to the matter. Sadly, much of their findings are lost;
what remains from the works of Greek astronomer and mathematician Hipparchus (ca. 190- ca.120
BC) and Aristarchus of Samos (around 280 BC) is suggestive of their expertise and insights. But we
cannot tell more.
However, we do know about Benjamin Franklin, jack of all trades, master of all.
Franklin, with his unstoppable curiosity, wanted what only God could deliver: more time. It is easy
to see why he desired it so: he, long before Edna St. Vincent Millay, burnt the candle at both ends,
and not in purely scientific endeavors, either. At the Court of the Bourbons of France there were any
number of elegantes who found Franklin, American minister, worthy of closer study. There was
never enough time to gratify them all...
And so Franklin advanced the suggestion that became daylight savings. It was a quintessentially
American proposal -- bold, audacious, practical, based on science, not theology. Sadly, it is still not
clear that it actually works... and each American state, every single one, is by law entitled to adopt it,
or not. For God and His equinox time is simple, majestic; humans muddle the matter, to general
grumbling and consternation.
But not poets...
All poets worth their salt weigh in with a will on one of their signature topics: the advent of light, of
Sun, of spring. So excited are they by this topic, that they are severely prone to skip over the residue
of winter that comes in the first spring days of March, concentrating on the riotous, unrestrained
days of April and May. This is wrong, and Henry Van Dyke (1852-1933) rightly noted in
"Fisherman's Luck" (1899).
"The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them
is as great as a month."
Having said this, I confess I, too, want immediate egress from the grim, cold, muddy days of March
spring. I am impatient, like Walt Whiteman:
"Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling."
(1819-1892) From "Leaves of Grass" (1855; 1891-92.)
Patient through long, drear winters we can be but as we see relief near at hand, we can be patient no
longer, for we know, we all know, what is coming and we cannot longer wait. Still liable to be
tripped up by winter... we are adamant that the spring is coming.
"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is
out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to
speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months
back in the middle of March."
Robert Frost (1874-1963) "Two Tramps in Mud Time" (1936).
But I cannot better end than by urging you to find in any search engine your favorite recording of
Aaron Copeland's "Appalachian Spring" (premiered 1944).... It will seize you, uplift you, refresh
you... and perfectly position you, in reverence, as you walk into this springtime of your life,
whatever your age or circumstances. We are all young again in springtime... such is the magic of the



vernal equinox.



'Darlin', everybody hustles. It's just a question of how, when
and where.' A tale of pre-Katrina New Orleans and your
business success.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. I didn't have to look for the perfect tune to accompany this article. I've
known it for decades. "I'm still here," from Stephen Sondheim's incredible musical "Follies" (1971).
It's a song about grit, determination, doing what you have to do with the person you must do it
with... to move up, move on, and force the big guys at the top to move over. This is the song you
listen to on days when the recalcitrant world is just not going the way you want... it's the song you
listen to when you mean to change that... and try again, because that's what winners do and losers
can't even imagine. Go to any search engine now... go into a room all by yourself, the better to turn
up the volume to the ear-shattering range... and let Sondheim's incredible music waft you to the place
of your dreams... then listen to what you have to do to get there!
In the days before Hurricane Katrina, I used to frequently teach marketing communications at the
University of New Orleans. My classes were held on week days downtown and on Saturday's on
Lake Pontchartrain, whose name I loved, coming as it does from a great French statesman who had
the infinite good sense to be painted by Robert Le Vrac de Tournieres (1667-1752). I loved that
picture from the first moment I saw it... and I loved New Orleans, too, its people, its spirit, its often
painful madcappery and self destruction. When I came to know about "A Confederacy of Dunces"
by John Kennedy Toole (published 1980), I read it with an avidity fed by its macabre history; (the
author had to commit suicide before any publisher would condescend to review it; it then went on to
win the Pulitzer Prize). From the very moment I left my hotel room (where I spent the absolute
minimum amount of time) adventures were drawn to me, because they knew I was completely
receptive to them.
Her name was Yvette...
On my very first day in New Orleans (it was a Friday), I stayed in a big, fancy hotel just off the
French Quarter. I never made that mistake again; on my many future visits I always stayed in a little
hotel in the Quarter, steps from the wonderful people I met who filled me with admiration for their
zest for living and unadulterated joy under unremitting duress.
The first person who met me (note the language) was a person who looked to me like Tinkerbell on
something. He walked up to me and said, "Honey, I can tell you are new to La Nouvelle Orleans. Let
me be your guide". I had never, and I mean never, been spoken to like that... but I recognized in
these words Fate's distinctive messenger. I accepted, bought my guide a drink... and in due course,
having gleaned without difficulty but with some incredulity that I was a writer, he said, "But you
must meet Yvette." Of course, I must. That too was Fate...
She was, as the French say, a woman of a certain age; that might have been anything from forty into
eternity. I knew at once she had that unmistakable quality the Parisians call "chien". Yes, I know
that means "dog", and its English connotations are not good... but she had, and unmistakenly, that
mixture of age, chic, dress sense, allure and brass that forces one involuntarily to look back and be
sad that vision is rushing to be with someone else. But this time, perhaps for the first time, this
woman with a Past was going to influence my future... and I was ready to hear whatever she said.
The conversation turned to life... it always does in the French Quarter with such people as Yvette.
With each drink (and there were many) came another piquant observation that convinced me "real"
life and I had only a nodding acquaintance. Yvette knew the vicissitudes of life inside and out... and



I was bright enough to pay close attention to her observations, often as diamond sharp as Madame
de Sevigne (1626-1696). This one completely arrested my attention:
"Darlin', everybody hustles. It's just a question of how, when and where." It instantly occurred to me
that this is precisely the element missing from far too many of my business students and people
starting and running businesses generally. They are running businesses; they are not hustling for
success as if their very lives were dependant on it... and that was the reason so many of them were
barely getting by and wondering why, when they were such good and proper folk.
It's because they were missing what Yvette had to spare: hustle. In short they wanted success, but
they wanted it on their terms... which just ain't gonna happen.
YOU say you want success, but (for whatever reason) you are not willing to work all the necessary
hours it takes to achieve success. SUCCESS says, "You will work as many hours as it takes to
capture me... not merely the hours you wish to work."
YOU say you want success, but are not willing to work evenings, week-ends, even standard
holidays. SUCCESS says, "If you want me, you must be willing to sacrifice time you'd like to use
for other things. Choose!"
YOU say you want success, but you'll only do jobs that make you such-and-such amount. SUCCESS
says, "If you want the money, stoop to conquer. When you've got the money you want, then you can
afford to be so picky. But that day hasn't dawned yet."
YOU say you want success, but your spouse is doing everything but put you in a cage to make sure
you can't achieve it. SUCCESS says "Sugarbabe, there are more good women and men in the sea
than those who've come out. Dig my meaning?"
YOU say you want success, but you'll only look at business opportunities that cost you nothing.
SUCCESS says "Lambikins, ain't nothin' ever come from nothin'. You've gotta invest to get a return
on that investment."
Still more...
YOU say you want success, but you are not willing to do the necessary homework and due diligence
to ensure that what you do delivers the substantial rewards you want. SUCCESS says, "Quit trying
to beat the system. People who make money are constant, never-ceasing students of success. They
review each and every thing to understand how it works... then follow the directions EXACTLY to
achieve success. They are not trying to cut corners, because they know that doesn't work."
YOU say you want success but once you get some, you don't gun it to get more. SUCCESS says,
"Every successful person on earth has a success system. They know that if they do X, they will get
Y results. Thus, as soon as they are successful and can prove their system delivers the desired results
(or even better), they arrange their time and resources so they can replicate their successful system
over and over again, each time reaping the expected (and ever increasing) benefits."
YOU say you will study successful people to see how they do and how they work because you
understand that the achievement of success is inextricably linked to studying the successful and
making a point of then doing what they do. SUCCESS says, "Well, are you studying the successful?
I certainly haven't seen you around anyone but your low-down worthless friends. The only time
they'll appear in the media is for robbing a convenience store! Dump 'em."
YOU say you want success on the Internet. Good for you; it's where lots of people nowadays get big
bucks and worldwide, too. SUCCESS says, "You're all talk and no action You don't have anyone to
help you. You don't have the necessary tools you need; you don't have the training. And, as for your



traffic, that's a joke that you don't know how to fix. Moreover, you have no way to profit 24 hours a
day in this demanding 24-hour-a-day environment.
And what of Yvette?...
Let's just say my appreciation for Yvette and what she taught me did not flag as the hours advanced.
And as for her profound insight into the sustained hustling all true success seekers must engage in?...
why that has now gone from just Yvette to me... and now from me to you... for my next adventure...
and, by grasping this article and its recommendations, for your faster, greater, truly impressive
success.



'The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is
blowin' in the wind.' Waiting for Hurricane Irene in
Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 28, 2011.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Whether it is because of the unsettling information we have received minute
by minute over the last few days; whether it is because of the ominous predictions of so many
knowledgeable authorities; whether it is because it is just 5:48 a.m. and it is still pitch black, the
moment of the day when night fights its ouster and will not cede to the light, I cannot say... but this
is a moment of apprehension, disquiet...even dread.
This is the moment we remember the power of a Nature we so often forget and so regularly outrage.
Now this Nature has reminded us of where true power resides... and of what it means when we talk
of an "act of God."
For now, this very minute, amongst the treasures and securities of my comfortable life, I await the
advent of the manifestation of unrelenting power, a force capable of disrupting this cherished life in
an instant, leaving me, and millions like me, bereft, shocked, lamenting.
This is the tale of an act of God, called Irene by mankind; this is the tale of one man in storm's path,
waiting, waiting, every daily occupation and thought now set aside while we await the capricious
judgement of this mighty storm.
We ask ourselves and carefully scan our multitude of information sources for answers to these
insistent queries:
When will it hit?
Where will it hit?
How long will it punish us?
What will it take... what will it leave?
These are the questions of the hour... and we have only the fallible devices of challenged mankind to
answer them... and so "the answer is blowin' in the wind..." Thus I selected "Blowin' in the Wind" for
today's background music. You can easily find it in any search engine. Find it now and listen
carefully.
Written by Bob Dylan in 1962, it became the anthem of a restless generation... which wanted
answers... and got none. Now I want answers, too, and renewed securities and peace of mind.... But
none but God Himself could reassure me at this moment when even the coolest hand of all craves
confidence to be reinforced, restored.
6:25 a.m., first light.
From the window of my study I look out upon the usual early day scene. There is rain in the air...
and a light breeze blows the still-green leaves, not yet touched by an autumn now just days away. It
is quiet now... no living soul to be seen. This is my world... and at this moment no man alive could
say what its condition will be just hours away. But we know, in every fibre, that what is present now
will somehow be different, great or small; storms, even as they weaken, make sure of that.
6:48 a.m.



Like millions I scan the news services, not so much for a history of this storm's destructiveness as for
clues and prognostications of what my future holds in the hours ahead. Fallible though even the
greatest storm authorities can be, I nonetheless examine their predictions with care; my life, my
future, perhaps my very existence on this planet is here foreshadowed. Whether the news be
intoxicatingly good or the very worst it could be, I must know...
While scanning my sources, gleaning every fact, I note the condition of my dining room; my storm
command center. There are crumbs on floor and table, this room with its historic paintings on the
wall not as pristine and well ordered as usual.... and there's the open pizza box, a certain sign that
last night's meal was eaten in a rush, gulped down while listening to the latest storm coverage.
People facing grave disruption, even extinction do not concern themselves with dirty dishes and
wayward crumbs. They have graver issues at hand than where crumbs have fallen and what to do
with last night's congealed remains. Normality is when these matters regain our notice with broom
and dust pan at the ready. What seizes my attention now is battlefield intelligence from this fast-
moving war zone.
9 of my fellow humans, quick and alive just hours ago, now dead. Irene has cost them everything
while robbing us of the necessary time and mental state essential for mourning. For now, the dead
must take care of the dead; the living have other priorities.
Item: Millions of people from first battered North Carolina north have "at this hour" (as only t.v.
newscasters ever say) no electricity... It's loss drives home their vulnerability and submission to the
storm. To be without power is to lose the vital moorings of life. To lose power is to be removed at
an instant from every essential service of the 21st century. We feel its loss keenly, for the loss of
power is crippling, humbling, demoting us in an instant to the primitive realities of our ancestors
who lived with the reality that it is better to light just one little candle than curse the darkness. Do
you have your candle ready for just this moment? I do...
8:01 a.m.
The news reports are coming in thick and fast now as sleepy journalists file the day's first reports.
Outside the windows the trees now bend low before a wind not so gentle as before. The light of
early Sunday morning is greyer now and obscured by the rain, now heavier, harder falling. Is this a
worrisome portent of what we may expect as Irene moves toward us... or is it but the kind of storm
that irritates and inconveniences but does not disrupt or kill?
While I wonder, the great cities of the Eastern seaboard are shuttered, quiet, watchful; it's inhabitants
chary, anxious, hopeful that they and their world will survive intact, this incident to be forgotten, not
the day of dread remembrance which may still be their fate. They cannot know if their roofs will
hold, they cannot know if they will suffer and lose all; they cannot know if dear friends and
neighbors will die. And they cannot know in these hours before impact if they will live... or be
nothing more than a statistic, dead, so brought to oblivion by Irene's thoughtless puissance.
Its winds now 115 miles per hour.
Its wingspan 500 miles.
Frothing the sea with waves of 7 feet.
And the most important statistic of all: 65,00,000 million people directly impacted, prisoners of a
remorseless presence, disregarding the people of this land, their lives and occupations. Storms care
nothing for these; their movements, their actions; in everything they do explicable only to
themselves and answerable to none.



8:30 a.m.
Darkness now covers the land, the day now awash in heavy rain from a darkening sky. Except for a
few daredevils, impacted humanity is now inside, hopeful, a nervous prayer on their lips and quiet
words to God for deliverance. My shutters are beating now against the glass... the chandelier above
my head has now flickered and flickered again. Thus does the great storm announce its movements
and threaten our already threatened equilibrium.
It is said that there are no atheists in a fox hole. Neither do such disbelievers abide in storm zones
and catastrophes. In such times prayers come as easily as breathing. As the stormy sea rises, as the
seas rush in to threaten and drown our realities, this is my prayer, for myself and my beleaguered
fellow travelers now facing the fate that great Irene carries through the surges for us all:
"O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreads out the heavens and rules the raging of the seas, receive
into your protection all those who go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business on the great
waters. Preserve them both in body and soul, prosper their labors with good success, in all times of
danger, be their defense, and bring them to the haven where they would be, through Jesus Christ our
Lord. Amen."
Let God hear this our prayer for we are all mariners today, threatened by Irene's great wind, roiling
the seas around us... and so now we wait... prepare... and pray,, our Lord our sure redeemer now and
forever.



Autumn comes to New England, September, 2011. And we
are glad of it.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Our first travelers to Massachusetts arrived at Plymouth just in time for
Winter, too late for Autumn, specifically trodding on terra firma, December 26, 1620... and were
they ever irritated, taking the opportunity to lambast the luckless captain who delivered them so late
after a most disagreeable voyage, my dear, anxious for something new and exciting, but not (so they
all later agreed) so new and exciting as the standard walloping, punishing New England Winter they
came to know so well.
And so the mystique of Autumn, as something worth having and decidedly superior to what follows,
was planted at once... and has never waned. And for good reason.
Autumn in New England is not merely a season. It is a mood, evocative, sacerdotal, an essential
experience for the sensitive and anyone with the soul of a poet. It is a season that forces us to deal
with transition, decay, transient beauty, and history scattered around and through the hamlets, towns,
and occasional city. Indeed there is a feeling, never shared with outsiders and casual visitors, that
each and every citizen of New England is merely history that hasn't quite happened yet. History in
New England is not merely vestiges of things past; it is present reality, no ghost, but events of long
ago, our neighbors still, as fresh today as at inception. This view of ancestors puzzles casual
travelers who have no ancestors. They come from places without History... and are, of course, of no
consequence whatever. They naturally take umbrage and as many pictures of dying foliage as the
traffic allows. We are glad to see the back of them.
States that more (or less) make up New England.
It is well known to even the least educated that New England is comprised of six states:
Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine, and Connecticut. The least
educated, however, know nothing more than that and are not, therefore, in a position to inform you
of sundry facts which if left untold to you will create problems for life and submerge your social
standing. Here are the facts:
* Massachusetts is the largest New England state and offers a dizzying array of important events,
people, ideas, institutions, etc. I don't have either the time or inclination to share these significant
details... for that you must visit any one of our dwindling number of bookstores and buy something.
We need the money.
Autumn in Massachusetts is most about students arriving at pluperfect academies and institutions of
higher learning graced by Corinthian columns and departments of humanities beset by troubles and
the budget axe at every side. Such institutions attract the brightest students of the world. Sadly, even
these are less educated than their parents, though they pay substantially more for what no one
anymore considers a "good" education. Future students enrolled in such places in what is known as
the Bay State will come for only a few weeks or even a few days, the prime objective being to say
they "went" to (whatever institution they may claim) and to have their pictures taken in front of
those venerable columns. Of course, it goes without saying that tuition and fees will not decline;
rather the reverse. You will remember: we need the money.
Rhode Island, minute state, longest name.
Rhode Island, the littlest state, suffers from an indelible inferiority complex which has produced in
once nick-named "Little Rhody" the insistent temerity of the "mouse that roared." Rhode Islanders



take no guff, and with that chip on the shoulder, defy you to knock it off. Even the boldest think
twice before they try...
Rhode Island and Providence Plantations was founded by zealous brethen who grew appalled and
aggravated with the sanctimonies and regulations of their former colleagues in Massachusetts and
walked to a new destiny, one in which their truth was The Truth. So busy with the business of God,
they had no time for the wistful vistas and God-delivered splendors of Autumn.
In due course, after their relationship with God was well and truly cemented and its manifestations --
money -- began to pour in... Rhode Islanders of means (and there were many) had no time for
Autumn... they were busily spending their millions on sad copies of European culture and so nicking
their fortunes and ensuring the sniggers of more enlightened, less respectful generations.
Later, in recent years, Rhode Islanders still had no time for Autumn. Gambling, lurid sex, and
corrupt politics held sway... and to those who indulged the only season that mattered was the season
in which their nocturnal activities waxed.
As a result of all these episodes Rhode Island came to know nothing at all of Autumn... something
the more enlightened amongst them should regret, but probably do not.
New Hampshire.
There was no "Massachusetts" in the Old Country; there was no "Rhode Island." But there was a
peaceful place, a verdant place... called Hampshire. It is no wonder new citizens of the new land
wished to memorialize it and pass a nostalgic hour reliving the place they would always remember
as "home." Such a place is a good place to see and to reflect upon the verities of Autumn, its beauty,
its sadness that such beauty must be fleeting.
Go, then, to New Hampshire where their by-word is "Live free, or die." It is a silly motto and would
be better rendered "Live free, or fight," something feisty, bold, gutsy, uplifting. But at least the folks
in New Hampshire mean well, though that isn't always enough. After all, at a time of fiscal austerity,
they have wasted millions promoting that foolish motto of theirs.
Vermont.
Now we come to the Holy of Autumnal Holies, a place as sanctified and revered as Delphi. It's
everything that every Sunday travel supplement says it is... villages rendered and revered by Currier
and Ives, places so quaint and tidy you are sure they are imaginary. I confess. I love Vermont in
Autumn, and so that is when I scheduled my classes at the University of Vermont. One bows low
before such a riot of glorious colors and swiftly dying verdure. Still, I have a pet concern... Vermont
is not a name of Old England; rather it is a name of Ancien France, for Vermont ("Green mountain")
was an outpost of the Bourbons and reminds us they dreamed imperially, too, if less successfully
than England. Perhaps locals kept the name which concerns me because it was tangible evidence that
they had pulverized those Frenchies... even to the extent of annexing these words from their
language for eternity... an insult to the people most conscious of the outrage of insult. En garde!
Maine... Connecticut.
As far as Autumn in New England is concerned, after the "in your face" exuberance of Vermont, the
rest is dross. Maine, after all, was just a hunk of Massachusetts ripped off the Commonwealth in
1820 and established as a "free state," to balance the "slave state" of Missouri then entering the
Union. But we canny folk of Massachusetts are glad; Mainers are poor and exigent. They really need
the money.
And as for Connecticut, the less said the better. Connecticut looks today as it has looked for eons



south to New York and Pennsylvania. The folks in Hartford and environs condescend to the rest of
New England. We hate them cordially and have made sure to sell them everything we can at inflated
prices. You see, they have the money.
At the end...
Now you know about Autumn in New England. Book your tickets at once. Bring the family; the
more the merrier. And, remember, bring all your credit cards and instruments of credit. Keep in
mind at all times, we need the money.
Oh, and by the way, should you like a little light music to accompany this article, I recommend Edith
Piaf singing "Autumn Leaves", in both Johnny Mercer's English and Jacquec Prevert's French. It is
superbe. You'll find it in any search engine. Do it now before the falling leaves have all drifted past
your window...



First snow comes to Cambridge, February 12, 2012, a story
of life's unpredictable savor and joys.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. The sound was unmistakable. It was, quite literally, that harsh, grating noise
made when steel of the most tenacious kind scrapes against unyielding concrete; that immutable
thing that insists (to the outrage of your ears) it is here today, here tomorrow, here forever.
And I cringed, snug abed as I was... for though the drivers of these inexorable machines would like
the shower of municipal largesse that snow rains upon them every single day; these (usually) high
school drop-outs and bumptious get such benefaction only when the snow flies. Miserable for the
rest of us, this is their happiest time, for inclemency and beautiful large flakes by the million line
their capacious pockets and always open palms. Thus are they always johnny on the spot to see this
snow, consider the profits in this snow, remove this snow... as loudly as possible and, whenever
possible, especially at the moment you grasped slumber.
So does snow, the most silent thing on Earth, make its presence known by one of the most loud,
stentorian and coarse manifestations... and that should have been your first indication that this was
no simple story... quite the reverse... for life's first lesson (and hard learned by most, too) is that
things are not always what they seem... something too many romantic young things have learned to
their peril too late...
"Let it snow..." some idiot's fancy.
For this tale of our times, a tale you like me might have often experienced in life without a moment's
thoughtful consideration, I have selected an insinuating 1945 tune entitled "Let it snow, let it snow,
let it snow," lyrics by Sammy Cahn, composed by Jule Steyne and sung by one of the most unctuous
men ever conceived, Dean Martin. It is a tune that no sensible person likes and which proves yet
again (if necessary) that misinformation set to a bouncy tune gets an award... not its just
come-uppance. (Go to any search engine, find it, and let its lilt uplift you.)
My Intention.
When I heard the first unmistakable sounds of the snow removal equipment and the loud commands,
imprecations and expletives most assuredly not deleted, I knew my fate... for all that it was dark
outside and my penthouse walls were gelid to the touch and its windows emblazoned with the rich
munificence of frost expertly etched ..... a clear command I needed to bundle up and go out. You
see, it's my self-imposed and onerous duty to report on my neighborhood and its denizens whenever
something of note is occurring. And there can be no doubt that the first snow of the new year is such
an event... despite the fact it causes me personal misery of the most acute kind to venture out, the
better to tell you what is happening and why it is significant. But as the recognized and much
heralded Sage of Cambridge, I know my duty and not even the tundra of Siberia will keep me from
it... though I am paid out in nothing more than chilblain and catarrh.
It was melting, melting, melting.
I selected this heading for one reason and one reason only: to brag that I was once kissed by The
Wicked Witch of the West, the character much better known than the actress who played her in the
iconic American film released in 1939, "The Wizard of Oz." Her name was Margaret Hamilton, and
when I was a student at Harvard I gave a tea-party for her one day and, of course, gave myself the
best seat on the couch thereby enabling me to rub elbows with a legend.
She, Miss Hamilton I called her, was a sweetie-pie, my highest compliment. I bought her, from my



own money too, an exuberant, grand, frilly box of Valentine's Day chocolates, of the Russell Stover
general store variety. She cooed the expected words "For me?" and graced me with a demure,
enchanting smile. Then she kissed me and since I was a boy who had been kissed often enough to
know, I conceived it was a Real Kiss, earnestly meant. But she was a great actress, mistress of every
role; thus I shall never know... but wonder what would have happened had I been as ardent as she...
But I digress...
... I simply wanted you to know that the kiss (and the look, mind) she gave me was sufficiently
heated to cause the situation which made her famous, the situation where (doused with common
water) she melted at the feet of ruby-slippered Dorothy. Perhaps had I melted as well and
thoroughly when Miss Hamilton kissed me life might have taken a very different turn...
But, again, I digress, for what I should be telling you pertains to melting snow, not paths not taken
or unrecognized (for all they were clear and apparent, had you the wit to see).
The snow outside my door, the snow for which I was well and truly bundled up, the snow that had
caused such high jubilation and exuberance amongst Cambridge's well-heeled proletariat was
already melting away, the storm passed on, a wimpish thing to be disdained and dismissed, of no
account or significance whatsoever. But here, precipitate in my too swift deductions and
conclusions, I was most assuredly wrong... for this storm, puny though it may have been, had the
power, ample, too, to change my life... and so it did....
Two incidents, one hard upon the heels of another.
I returned home not as cold as I thought I would be, not as impressed at Nature and Nature's wallop
as I expected to be and thought my due for my preparations before going out... a trifle irked at the
littleness I had encountered where I wanted sturm und drang, grandeur, the unspeakable eloquence...
you get the picture. But then the phone rang.... and a voice I hadn't heard for ages... was there on the
line, in need, happy to overlook the harsh words which had once, I cannot quite remember when,
caused estrangement.
He had gotten off the train at Harvard Square, climbing the steps towards the Church Street exit and
had fallen hard down several of them. No, he didn't think anything broken, but could he come for
some coffee and solace... could he come, he really meant, for forgiveness and peace-making?
So the snow, melted into icy peril on steps trod by thousands, had delivered... an unexpected
opportunity to mend a fence, a fence that never should have been broken in the first place, much less
broken for so long.
And this should have been incident enough for one day, one storm, one sage. But it wasn't... for
puny storms aim to prove a puissance and cool connivance mere bulk cannot deliver.
Thus, moments after my now resurrected friend was absolved de facto and with gladness, a car
skidded upon the picayune ice and crashed into an unconsidered telephone pole of great
significance, removing my telephone service for one day and still unresolved into two. The message
that now appears when you call my number says the call cannot be put through, that I am in fact
marooned inside my world, the sinews of my life so reduced. Thus this thought:
Suppose my regained friend had taken a later subway to Harvard... and suppose his hard fall had
occurred an hour or two later, after my phones went silent; that he had called, but received no
answer. What then? Do you think he, hobbling off, would have tried his impulse later, or simply said
"Que sera, sera." I shall never know... and that's why life is so interesting, its uncertainties and
unpredictabilities its very essence; our detailed and carefully wrought plans so often so insignificant
and overpowered beside them.



Summer guilt, 'A Summer Place', Anne Hutchinson and fare
home in the dog days.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. I'm telling you right from the get-go. I am going to write this article in the
tempi of summer... starting with andante non troppo and ending with non troppo, andante be
damned. I go even further: sizzled by sun, devoured by the fastidious creepy crawlies which abound
and find my pristine flesh delectable, and urged by all to "slow down and smell the roses," never
mind that the roses have wilted hereabouts weeks ago and now give scent only a little and
begrudgingly, if they even give scent at all.
These weighty matters, the stuff of every summer, all say the same thing: weary voyager you have
earned your rest, sit down in the shade a spell and savor it. I (say I) want to... but it is so very
difficult to do....
Guilt.
The first thing you should know about summer is this: it is (for me and my kind) the most guilty
season of the year; each day the conflict grows between what my grandmother said (and
exemplified) and summer's adamant insistence that the least be done and slowly at that. It is a battle
fought yearly in my brain, the more so since I am now that iconic age -- 65 -- the age at which we
are outfitted in truss, battered panama hat, a good cane, more free time than anyone needs, and a one
way ticket to the eternal destination.
Yes, in my mind's eye, it is one of those happily oppressive summers of endless heat... and tasks
only a beloved grannie could even hope to get accomplished.... "First, move those flagstones over
there...." In the home of this matriarch and in those of her offspring, the devil's luring ploys for idle
hands were not just an adage; they were present realities and if one were not always alert, the wiles
of Old Scratch would be one too many for us; and we should be lost to God, Family, and the
American way.
And so summer meant work... so much so that even summertime recreational rights and
observances often seemed more like work than work itself: "Tuesday, 10 a.m. swimming class.
Remember, Jeffrey has a dentist appointment right after. He can change in the car."
This was my summer, every summer, punctuated by Y.M.C.A. Day Camp, which I found exquisite
torture. Forced hilarity and good fellowship of the exuberant kind perpetuated by the Rotary Club
and exemplified by "Kumbaya" and college-age torturers masquerading as activity directors, "Hey,
Jeff, get the lead out", were not for me. This I demonstrated succinctly when, during archery
practice, I ran away and walked miles along melting asphalt highways to announce I would NEVER
GO BACK. And I never did...
... so concerned parents sent me instead to Christian summer camp, where my father made it clear
Jesus would take a very dim view if I escaped... and so I remained, memorizing more Bible verses
than anyone. It was not because they were the sacred sentiments of my ancestors... but because
winning was better than losing, a sentiment I adhere to to this very hour... and which makes forced
idleness, even for recreation and "fun" abhorrent to me... and frightening. Without the incessant
labor epitomized by my forefathers, I should be utterly lost, without anchor, in a universe that
frightens anyone with a lick of sense, and that I surely have.
Music. It is now time to introduce you to the music that accompanies this article. There are hundreds
of songs about summer that make us want to join the chorus and belt out a happy tune. But the



"Theme from A Summer Place" is so very right for the honor. It was written for the 1959 film, lyrics
by Mack Discant, music by Max Steiner. Many people had a hand in the success of this little
number, which was so simple as to be inane. Yet Percy Faith (so aptly named) turned it, his
instrumental version, into the number-one tune on the "Billboard" top singles chart in 1960; its run
of nine consecutive weeks in the top position remains the all-time record.
But it is the version by "The Lettermen" which causes us to stop, hear again, and somewhat
remember and mumble the insipid lyrics that still tug at my heart as if I were 13 or so, an epoch as
distant from me and my current circumstances than if warbled by Queen Victoria. We believed the
winsome lyrics then, and a part of us believes them still:
"There's a summer place/ Where it may rain or storm/ Yet I'm safe and warm/ For within that
summer place/ Your arms reach out to me/ And my heart is free from all care/ Go now to any search
engine, and you will find it in its many versions, testament to the fact that it tugged at many hearts...
and in our turbulent world still has its undeniable allure.
Summer People, Summer Place.
Until my father's annual vacation came, summer did not call us away from home. Except for one
great aunt or cousin, we knew no one with a summer place. Hers, in approved Midwestern fashion,
was at "the lake". One never said which lake, and it would have been mal vu to ask. The right people
knew, and that was sufficient.
Instead, we used the pool in our shaded backyard or the municipal pool which was more likely to be
in Naperville (where my mother's older brother resided with his unloved Ultramontane wife Marce)
than in Downers Grove where we lived. The water at Naperville was a shade of khaki I have never
seen again and tasted of unwashed immigrants and people one was not encouraged to meet, much
less befriend. It was, however, not merely acceptable but crucial to our way of life to share such
municipal services. It made us the Good Citizens we purported to be.
Dog Days.
All this came home to me yesterday as I walked through the dried grass of the Cambridge Common,
for the Dog Days of August, dies caniculares, are always days of remembrance, days slow, hot, and
lazy that are so perfect you know they will not last. And so even before they are gone, we begin
recalling them as so much ancient history. And that is just what I was doing, moving slower than
my wont, forced by the heat to give up speed and see everything before it, too, was gone.
In this spirit, I saw a young man and his girl immobile under the great maples, still for a few weeks
verdant, not yet a riot of inimitable color. They were bedraggled, wan, vying to be the unhappiest,
either because she had now discovered the limitations of her adolescent love or because he not only
knew these limitations but knew she knew them.
Almost in unison they piped up out of their lethargy and called for my attention. I was recalled to
reality and that meant The Touch, the God-given right of the down-and-out of every place and time.
Could they have a dollar? I was senior, I was well stocked with life's benefits... I could afford to
spend the time, my attention, and a small act of unexpected kindness. "Why do you need it?" "To go
home." "And where is that?" God supplied the answer, "Providence." It is the place we all want to
go, and I was being asked to expedite their passage. And I did.
I took $20 from my pocket and handed it over, pausing for just a minute to capture them in my
eternal eye, so young, dazed, but given a happiness the three of us would long remember. Their
thanks and "God-bless yous" were fervent, excessive.
Before I left, I told them about Anne Hutchinson (1591-1643), one of history's most important



women, sometime resident of Cambridge. Hair-splitting doctrinal differences caused her separation
from the Puritan establishment of the town they raised as the center of their theology. "My way or
the highway" was their solution to problems like this popular woman of heresy and schism, for all
that there was no highway, scarcely a path in the woods.
Undaunted, Mistress Hutchinson knew God would assist her... and so He did, for she, banished from
the Puritan's utopia, found instead a place of God's beneficence, a place called Providence. Now my
young friends were going there, going home, and so was I, each step taking us closer to our
destination, as resolute, determined and confident as Anne Hutchinson, who along with the
Reverends Roger Williams (1604-1684) and Thomas Hooker, (1586-1647), (whose plaque on the
Massachusetts Avenue side of the Common is so often obscured by bushes), helped shape the
conscience and tolerance of a great nation which has never stopped needing their humanity and
empathy.
"For it knows, there are no gloomy skies/ When seen through the eyes/ Of those who are blessed by
love/"



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling
business books.
Republished with author's permission by Lance Sumner http://Profit2Riches.com.


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