make this year your best with no regretting lost opportunities

8/13/2019 Make this Year your Best with no regretting lost opportunities.

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Make this Year your Best with no regretting lost opportunities.


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Preface / Introduction

Make sure that you have no regretting lost opportunities. These articles will help.

"Regretting lost opportunities. Did I really do that? A plethora of 'I'm (still) kicking myself'moments."

"On collecting political autographs. Downers Grove, Illinois, 1960, age 13."


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Table of Contents

1. On collecting political autographs. Downers Grove, Illinois, 1960, age 13.2. Regretting lost opportunities. Did I really do that? A plethora of 'I'm (still) kicking myself'moments.


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On collecting political autographs. Downers Grove, Illinois,1960, age 13.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. Her name was Phoebe H. Dutcher, and she occupied the exalted electedoffice of Recorder of Deeds in DuPage County, Illinois circa 1960. As such she was an important

part of the Republican Party apparatus in what was arguably one of the two most important counties(the other being Cook) in the key state of Illinois, the state that (in the event) determined who wouldbecome "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next President of the United States..."

Phoebe and my grandfather Walt Lauing were political pals. Grampie, a blunt, plain-spoken man ofHanoverian provenance was a pillar of the GOP, knew all the wheels therein, had them all visit thehouse he built out of good Midwestern flagstones, about the only thing as tenacious and unyieldingas he was. His habits were exemplary; his word was his bond; and he never watered his liquor forhimself or any man he respected and befriended, especially if that fortunate one was a Republican.

On this basis his construction company prospered... and, bit by bit, he used some of its profits tobuild his network, keep the GOP green and flush, whilst keeping the free-spending socialist

Democrats (tinged mit Communists no less) at bay, especially his arch nemesis Richard J. Daley, hishonor of Chicagoland (mayor 1955- 1976), the master of every political chicanery, including hislegendary talent for voting the dead and voting them often, thereby sending John F. Kennedy to theOval Office; one of the greatest swindles of all time and a matter of unending chagrin and the bluestof language from Grandpapa.

All that was ever required to see Grampie emerge as Hoch Deutsch, Gott Mit Uns was to whisper inhis ear that well and fully hated name; an explosion was guaranteed, and of course knowing themeans of producing it ensured that I, his oldest grandchild and the only one with political interests,would provoke it, but only after I had tormented his ridiculously coddled and slothful cat enoughand needed something to amuse me.

Perhaps he thought the red leather autograph book he gave me in anticipation of a steady stream ofRepublican worthies would give me something to do and save Tommie from torment. It didn't, for Iwas capable even then of multi-tasking as was soon apparent to all, angelic smile and demeanoralways ready for covert action.

Thus did Phoebe H. Dutcher, whom I recall as a jolly soul not above a tasty toddy of mygrandfather's practised invention, visit the house where to visit meant autographing my book. Shewas in fact the first to do so and was promptly followed by Samuel Wittwer (soon-to-beunsuccessful) candidate for the Senate, then Congressman Elmer G. Hoffman, a man of consequencein Downers Grove, the safest of safe seats, a man whose true opinions on the issues confrontingFortress America were as pat, predictable, and pedestrian as a guaranteed lifetime position in

Washington could ensure. His visit to the kitchen of Victoria Burgess Lauing was an event... and ofcourse I had a prominent position and in due course an expansive autograph in my notable album.

Higher... and higher.

By now you may imagine that I loved my autograph book; more and more as each person ofsignificance bent low over it, glad to sign, glad to have their importance recognized and confirmedby my respectful request and awe, for they were all entitled to that This was particularly true with thenext panjandrum who was, we knew, a great man indeed because hardly a day went by when hisname (and photo too) were not found in Grampie's newspaper, the Chicago Tribune.

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dying in office a very real possibility, a fact virtually unknown.

The reasons went for Nixon... but Kennedy had an incomparable asset, his father Joseph P.Kennedy, a man of the deepest pockets and an axe to grind, the ultimate mick on the make. And thistrumped everything...

That's why my mother invited me to sit down at the kitchen table one day after the November 1960election. She hand wrote her letter to Hannah Nixon, the Vice President's mother, while I addressedmy loyal sentiments to him. That started the process that showed me off to the world, the photopictured above running in the Trib, an adamant Republican paper, a strong Nixon advocate. Theyran my story with alacrity and pugnacious loyalty.

My smile was incandescent, Nixon's signed campaign poster on the wall, a signed family portrait inhand, his message warm, honest and personal; the kind of letter almost no politician writes today; asmall measure of our declension as a nation and our rampant political malignities, sharp, toxic,rancorous, all-consuming, pointless.

Had Nixon shown more of this, allowed himself to show more, how different the history of the GreatRepublic would have been... for Kennedy's margin was tiny, his victory the result of Daley's fraudsand Nixon's unwillingness to call him on them, so sparring the Great Republic from shocking

insights into the electoral process.

I have often wondered if Nixon ever regretted this civic-spirited decision. Certainly no Kennedywith Papa Joe at hand would have done that. The Kennedys played politics the old-fashioned way,as the blood sport it was, vengeful, manor houses burnt at midnight, the howls of menacing bansheescarried in the wind, a warning to lesser men; the single word "Remember" their charge for life,branded on every Irish heart, no mercy given, nothing forgiven, nothing forgotten. The presidencywas worth all this and more...

Against this immemorial rage and fierce determination, Nixon hurled his inadequate weapons of fairplay, integrity, the decency of his Quaker heritage; a campaign he refused to get dirty. Oh, yes, andone resounding, upbeat American melody, "Buckle Down, Winsocki". You can find it in any search

engine.

It was the parody of a typical collegiate gridiron tune, go-team-go, rah-rah-rah. Written for the 1941Broadway show "One Step Forward" by Chris Hillman and Bill Wildes the Nixon camp altered thewords to "We can win with Nixon/ If we buckle down." But this wasn't good enough to carry theday, not nearly good enough. Thus did events take their course, for good and ill.

Envoi.

My parents took me to a huge Nixon rally very near election day. The special guest was Mrs. (Pat)Nixon. To warm up the crowd on this typical Illinois fall day, the grayest of atmospheres, helpershanded out sheets with the updated "Buckle down, Winsocki" lyrics. It was sung rapturously by the

partisans, the only time I ever heard the tune and felt the certainty of victory. I recall it all so clearly.No, sometimes it is not a good thing to know the future...




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Regretting lost opportunities. Did I really do that? A plethoraof 'I'm (still) kicking myself' moments.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. In 1937 Frank Capra, one of Hollywood's certifiable magic makers, released"Lost Horizon" based on the1933 novel by James Hilton in which its audience was asked to dream of

a world of peace, serenity and mutual good will and kindness, all emanating from a land calledShangri-La where war's alarums did not penetrate or destroy the greater good and its crucialharmony.

The score by Dmitri Tiomkin was wistful, evocative, uplifting, contemplative, a reminder of whatwas important and what wasn't. It was an appeal to mankind's better angels and a warning toeveryday people everywhere that they must open their eyes to the burgeoning catastrophesshredding comity and community, particularly in 1930s Europe and Asia where Apocalypse wasalready a menacing presence, the fragile values of civilization already challenged and at bay. Gonow to any search engine, find the tune; then let it wash over you, for we today have need of thisawakening, too, and ignore it at our peril.

Clueless, chagrined, confounded.

One day when I was a student at Harvard, I received a telephone call from the office that scheduledguides for visiting celebrities; people who had a few hours to kill before giving a high-profilelecture, say, or addressing a colloquium on their expertise and renowned place in the world. Thesehappened continuously at the World's Greatest University.

Would I be available to spend the day with Frank Capra, squiring him around the campus, showinghim every venerated nook and cranny? No problem. Thus innocently did one of my most abashingevents occur, a real lulu. For you see, I had absolutely no clue as to who Francesco Rosario Capra(1897-1991) actually was; nor (far worse) did I take the trouble to find out. Instead I winged it in the

approved Harvard manner most notably evinced by Alfred E. Newman, "What me worry?"And so I began my notorious career of squandering one stellar opportunity after another, beginningwith the gilded chance to learn from the maestro who bestowed on America such iconic films as "ItHappened One Night" (1934); "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town" (1936); "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington(1939)... and so many others, including "It's a Wonderful Life," (1946) the very essence of theAmerican Christmas.

All I recall of what should have been a red-letter day, tete a tete with history, was how much hetalked with his hands and how charming he was to me. I didn't deserve it... and was desolate when hetold Dick Cavett (born 1936) his unmatched, inimitable stories of Hollywood, (including the fact heburned the first two reels of "Lost Horizon")... yes, he told Cavett...but not me.

Worse.

Sam Spiegel deserved better, too.

My lost opportunity with Mr. Capra took place in Cambridge; the one I am about to tell youoccurred in New York, at the home of Lally Weymouth, whose mother Katherine Graham owned"The Washington Post." Again, my (then) abysmal knowledge about cinema was the proximatecause of my (soon-to-be) overwhelming embarrassment. Here's how it happened...

Ms. Weymouth (born 1943), a Radcliffe alumna, was hosting a fund raising bash for alma mater. AsAssistant to the President, my services were commandeered and never more gratefully given, for the




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event was small and selective, an "A List" of media movers and shakers, headed by Mother Graham(1917-2001).

The chief guest was Mrs. Jacqueline Onassis, and I had as my particular assignment providing theQueen of Camelot with whatever her heart desired. This part of my duty was flawlessly executed as Iwrote in an earlier article on Ms. Onassis which you can find at jeffreylantarticles.com.

Thus I came to spend a handful of precious hours with the most famous woman of the world andhave her (literally) smile upon me. It is hard to remain a detached and equitable observer, scrupulouspurveyor of fact under such circumstances, but here at least I performed my task to my ownsatisfaction, which means perfectly, with alacrity, good humor, intelligence, and a sharp eye. Thiswas not the problem...

"Ask Mr. Spiegel if he'd like a drink."

Hostess Weymouth then pointed to the man I came to know as Samuel P. Spiegel (1901-1985). Hewas sitting all by himself, rumpled and forlorn. Go-fer to the rescue. "Mr. Spiegel, can I get youanything?"

Thus did Nemesis, with consummate civility, prepare her booby trap for... me. "What line of workare you in, Mr. Spiegel?" It was the amiable query which made me cringe then and has made mecringe forever after, for Sam Spiegel, plump, aging, his suit crumpled and creased, was one ofHollywood's titans, the man who compelled the admiration of the world with films like "TheAfrican Queen" (1951), "On the Waterfront" (1954); "The Bridge On the River Kwai" (1957);"Lawrence of Arabia" (1963), and my personal favorite, "Nicholas and Alexandra" (1971), featuringas the empress of all the Russias the most elegant and sophisticated woman in the world, JanetSuzman (born 1939), on whom I had a crush that wouldn't quit. It was her first movie role, and shehandled it with royal aplomb. I know. I watched her over and over again.

"What line of work indeed"?... His laconic response, "I had something to do with the movies."Indeed he did...

Sam Spiegel was born in Galicia, a subject of his imperial and apostolic majesty, Franz Joseph ofAustria-Hungary; he left Europe in 1938 just steps ahead of the goose-stepping jackboots of Hitler'sGermany, his new path literally paved with gold, including a cart load of the little statues namedOscar, items signifying, recognizing merit and the respect of the world's most finnecky anddiscerning of critics, coming together to praise and immortalize the best among them... includingSam Spiegel.

It would have been easy, so ridiculously easy, to pick his cinematic brain for the titbits and tales itheld in such luxurious excess, including an anecdote or two about (now Dame) Janet Suzman, soalluring, so hitherto unattainable.

How easy, how ridiculously easy it would have been for me to ask for the greatest and most

necessary of favors, to call mia inamorata and say, "Janet, you've made such a conquest. Would youmind if he called and took you to lunch? I think you'll like him. By the way, he's got a new book outthat'll interest you. His name is Lant, Jeffrey Lant." On so very little do even life's most momentousevents depend.

To do a thing takes you one direction; not to do that thing takes you another, thereby creating adifferent person, like you of course, but definitely not the same. You wonder about this person,whether he is better off than you are, or not; in what ways different, in what ways the same. Youwant to know, but can hardly imagine and certainly can never know with the desired certainty. OldPolonius would surely say, "Know thyself," but which self is surely mine in a world of constantchoice and endless permutations and combinations? It saddens and infuriates us that we cannot know




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amidst all the daunting possibilities.

And so I fetched some refreshment for Mr. Spiegel, but never asked him to do the simple thingwhich would change me and my life, whether for good or ill I shall never know... but which I shallalways wonder about... fascinated, beguiled, enthralled... and (alas) regretful about all that mighthave been... but wasn't.




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Resource

About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant has published over a dozen books on businessand marketing, several ebooks, and over one thousand online articles including many on one of hisfavorite topics, US politics.

Republished with author's permission by Patrice Porter http://20WaystoProfit.com.

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make this year your best with no regretting lost opportunities

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