‘Aisle be seeing you in all the old familiar places.’ Thoughts on efficiency, radishes, and unlikely friendships that enrich lives.

Posted on April 22, 2013 by — No Comments ↓

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author’s program note. If you’re English or an aging subject in one of the great Dominions beyond the seas; if you’re, that is, one of the now fast dwindling number of World War II veterans, civil or military, from whatever piece of Earth on which the sun never set; if you are one of those who knows in your heart that Winston Churchill was right when he talked about the “finest hour” because you were there and lived it… then one song rendered by one singer who became in time an icon of England and its grit, tenacity, and grace under pressure is like a faucet for the involuntary tear. You hear it, you sing it, you are touched by it all over again… and the tears come… all over again.

The song was “I’ll be seeing you”; music by Sammy Fain, lyrics by Irving Kahal. It was first recorded by (now Dame) Vera Lynn in 1938, as if the principals somehow were preparing for the mayhem and sadness just around the corner. It was lovely, wistful, haunting and, of course, recorded by an avalanche of talented singers who felt the magic, but could never enhance the original.

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places/ That this heart of mine embraces all day through.”

Find it in any search engine in its pristine form and enjoy it thoroughly as your young and dance mad grandparents did… and before I’ve used its unforgettable tune and bitter sweet lyrics for an entirely different purpose!

Efficiency.

I don’t like admitting it, but I am a very busy fellow. What’s more, I was long ago programmed to set worthy goals; set meaningful objectives; and never stop achieving them. Frankly, I cannot imagine another kind of life, much less a life of sloth and excuse making. What’s more at 66 I am just too old and obstinate to change. Thus, you will always find me “doing something”, never bored.

In fact when the subject of boredom raises its ugly head, I instantly recall a marginal note penned by Her Majesty Queen Mary (once an impecunious and superbly efficient princess of Teck). In an unauthorized biography of this most industrious of sovereigns its incautious, uninformed author accused her of episodes of boredom, of all things.

The Queen’s trenchant, unanswerable comment, arresting in her copper plate hand, was stark, “The Queen is never bored!” Neither am I. And both for the same reason: there is just too much of interest and importance always awaiting those with a zest for education, amelioration, and improvement.

Choices

This doesn’t mean, don’t you know, that I do anything at hand, treating the small and insignificant with the same importance and resolution as the cosmic and Earth-changing. No indeed. Rather, I have developed an acute realization about what is truly significant and must be done by my own fair hand… and what must be done by others, and not just any others either, but by people who can do the delegated tasks (nearly) as well as I can, “nearly” because my grandmother, a paragon of unerring Prairie common sense, was always quick to proclaim “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” And so she did…

But I do not.

The key to efficiently and the well lived life is a determined and committed delegation. And so over the years as wealth and resolution made possible, I have shucked off tasks which were all necessary but which each in its way was impeding progress and the early realization of insistent goals deemed more valuable and critical.

And so bit by bit I gave up washing clothes (even folding them and putting them away); driving a car (I always thought a limousine so much the superior mode of transportation, not least because I rest easy during metropolitan grid lock, emerging equable and good natured, even jaunty from the comfortable state room on wheels en route to everywhere my inclinations and schemes necessitate, which could be anywhere at all.)

I gave up, too, trips to post office, bank, cleaners, all the must-have services we rely upon, services that are voracious in eating up time and emotional stability, delivering in my crowded urban area parking tickets and frequent demonstrations of rage and ungentlemanlike behavior. But I had a secret weapon and his name was Aime Joseph. Meeting him was one of the miracles of my life; a literal godsend and like all miracles it came when least expected… and most needed.

Mr. Joseph, as he is well known about Cambridge, was an ordinary taxi driver. which meant he was beset with such characteristic and unpleasant problems as abusive (even armed and dangerous) customers; a dismaying hackney system which was elaborately and expensively stacked against him, cut-throat competition and the feeling that the hurrier he worked, the behinder he got.

Then fate served us both, for when I hailed a cab outside the Sheraton- Commander Hotel, I got far more than another opportunity to show-off my practiced ability to shoe-horn myself into manifestly inadequate space. This therefore was a day of revolution, for we both got Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, a way out and up indeed.

As things developed, his side of an increasingly happy arrangement turned into a black sleek limousine comme il faut, whilst mine meant I never had to think of where we were going, how to get there and the damage purportedly licensed and “responsible” drivers were doing to my (limited) good nature.

The drill.

Mr. Joseph calls me three minutes before he arrives chez moi; I make it a point never to keep him waiting overly long. As soon as he sees me in the lobby, he opens the door and we are on our way, my entire focus on what must be achieved with maximum efficiency, so much so that one very rainy day in Harvard Square, I opened a packet of important documents from my bank without considering the belligerent weather.

Mr. Joseph, unnoticed by me, had the broad golf umbrella opened over my wind swept graying locks. I was oblivious. Others did see, however, and one admiring wag of discernment shouted, “Where can I get someone like that?” Wherever one finds life rearranged by kismet, I would have said had I been paying attention. But that’s the point… I didn’t have to.

Another bright idea.

And so things waxed and waxed again… my subtly flavored asparagus cooked just so (though not the first time); a new cleaners found (half the price of the old); and the unforgettable evening Mr. Joseph and his sympatica wife Mercedes were the first people I called after a particularly nasty fall which opened a deep gash to my right temple. (I was adamant that he should not say ‘Wow’ while bathing the wound in alcohol. I also told him patients were opposed to care givers whispering about them in the kitchen. I told them to sit down and enjoy a fine bottle of my Veuve Clicquot instead. They did not demur and were louder (and less ominous) in their commentaries on my bloody head and bones no one but God has seen before.

Under the circumstances it was then I made the fateful suggestion that he go to Shaw’s Market in Porter Square… and that I’d call him there with what I wanted. And almost immediately we discovered the frustrations which can emerge when a man of precise words and equally precise directions tries to get his explicit wishes across to the conscientious, responsible helper eager to get the thing and only the very thing desired. And that is where the radish enters, for admit it, since you first saw the title, you’ve wondered.

Radish (Raphanus sativus) is an edible root vegetable of the Brassicacae family that was domesticated in Europe in pre-Roman times. I like a good sharp radish every once in a while… and so one particular day, me on my land line, Mr. Joseph on his cell, I asked him to pick up a bunch and was greeted with… incomprehension. “What is a radish?”, he asked. What indeed? Now try explaining it to a Haitian whose creole may be perfect but whose English is not; the best of a hundred attempts:

“It’s a friggin’ little red thing that is in the produce department, bunched and tied with a rubber band.”

Exasperated, I finally got the produce manager on the phone and the radishes were finally placed in the cart, a symbol of what happens to you when you don’t listen to your grannie and attempt to improve upon the folk wisdom of ages. But I haven’t given up yet. During a recent visit to Shaw’s (for, yes, I am going in person again) I placed a post it note where Mr. Joseph but no one else could find it… I expect it to facilitate the delivery of my radishes. I also taught Mr. Joseph a bit of Vera Lynn’s masterpiece, “Aisle be seeing you in all the old familiar places,” the aisle in question being number 1, where I learned just how difficult it is to achieve the perfect life when two people are entirely focused on making it happen. That’s what’s called a paradox and that’s why I go to the store with Mr. Joseph nowadays… where I’ll be seeing you.

About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of 15 print books, 3 ebooks, and over one thousand articles on a variety of topics. Republished with author’s permission by William Buck <a href=”http://123Webcast.com”>http://123Webcast.com</a>. Check out Shoe-In Money -> http://www.123Webcast.com/?rd=nd8YB6bu



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