 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. If I'd been smart, I would have met Shirley Temple Black in Prague August 20, 1968. I was finishing up several exhilarating days in the ancient capital of the Kingdom of Bohemia during the waning hours of what was called "Prague Spring." These were the glorious days when Alexander, local henchman of the USSR, played Tennessee Williams, cat on a hot tin roof. On the most memorable day of all, just before his arrest, Dubcek went onto the great balcony of Hradcany Castle and made the graceful, long-suffering people believe that liberty was at hand... and they screamed their support, their belief, their hope that deliverance was nigh. I shouted, too, tears in my eyes (as they are now) that better days were coming, and soon. But the subjugated nations of the Soviet dominated Warsaw Pact had other ideas, which among so many consequences would have given me a place in Ambassador-designate Shirley Temple Black's motorcade out of Prague to safety. Thus was the great square before the castle, just a day ago alive with flowers, sprayed with bullets. Where I had cheered, there were now bodies. Where I had exulted with fervent patriots, liberty their passion, there was puddled blood and the acrid smell of death. By that point if I'd had a lick of sense, I should have been en route home, or at the very least to Vienna compliments of the U.S. embassy. But I was instead alone on the last train out of Prague, trapped at the Austrian border, what "information" there was lurid, frightening, a whiff away from panic. Thus I never met Shirley Temple or personally witnessed the radiant smile that helped us survive the most difficult of times, uplifting then, eternal now. How had this most "girl next door" managed to charm and inspire us so, to our everlasting gratitude and awe? Golden girl in the Golden State in the Golden Age of the movies. One thing distinguished Shirley Temple from the moment of her birth in Santa Monica, California, April 23,1928 and that is the fact that everything connected with this entirely normal event was entirely normal and so things remained, even at the dizzying height of her celebrity. She was the daughter of Gertrude Amelia Temple (nee' Krieger), a housemaker and George Francis Temple, a modest bank employee. The family was of English, German, and Dutch ancestry. She had two brothers, George Francis, Jr. and John Stanley. Like so many star-struck mothers, Shirley's encouraged her infant daughter's singing, dancing, and acting talents, and in September 1931 enrolled her in Mrs. Meglin's Dance School in Los Angeles for fifty-cents a week. About this time, her mother began styling Shirley's hair like that of silent fiIm star Mary Pickford. Ultimately this "do" evolved into the celebrated 56 curls that were the quintessence of "cute" and which in turn evolved into a multi-million dollar empire on which the smiles never set. In 1932, this sunny, blissful child ,"bathed in love" as she said, was discovered by a movie agent and chosen to appear in "Baby Burlesks" , a series of sexually suggestive shorts in which children played all the roles parodying film stars.The 4- and 5-year olds wore fancy adult costumes which ended at the waist. Below the waist, they wore diapers with over-sized safety pins. It was smut in top hat and satin garter, coming perilously close to ending the career of America's Little Princess before it even got started. Shirley Temple plays Mae West, indeed! (Years later in her autobiography "Child Star", Temple reported that when any of the two dozen or so children cast in "Baby Burlesks" misbehaved, they were locked in a windowless sound box with only a block of ice on which to sit. Her laconic conclusion? "So far as I can tell, the black box did no lasting damage to my psyche." Nice. More revealing was her final comment on this unsettling matter, "Its lesson of life was profound and unforgettable.Time is money. Wasted time means wasted money means trouble." This was exactly what the studios wanted their "stars" to believe, say, and do... Shirley Temple, pre-schooler, was their kind of gal, and they were right. Shirley never let them down.) 1934, Hollywood "Stands Up And Cheers." It is easy to forget just how grim and frightening 1934 really was. So much had been toppled and devastated by the Great Depression. The old verities, now twelve for a penny, were challenged everywhere, scoffed at, derided, no longer venerated, no longer the white hope of an expectant world. There was a lot more to fear than fear itself as every ism -- Nazism, Fascism, Communism et al -- made its strenuous, plausible play for world domination. What did the Great Republic offer in response? "People in the Depression wanted something to cheer them up, and they fell in love with a dog, Rin Tin Tin, and a little girl", Mrs. Temple Black often said in her unadorned way as if these few words were sufficient to explain her astonishing success. But more explanation is necessary. Not since Joan of Arc (1412-1431) had a great nation staked its future on a girl, much less one barely out of rompers like Shirley Temple. St. Joan, Pucelle de France, went forward with the sacred Oriflamme in her hand and the certainty of God's favor. By contrast, Shirley conquered the world with the famous ringlets, an unbeatable smile, and the warmest possible embrace for... everyone! And this begins to explain what happened next to her, to the nation, and to a world that loved her at once, whatever their race, creed, sex, age, national origin or anything else. Nothing like it had ever happened before... and it made people everywhere feel good; made them feel happy now and optimistic about what was to come, no matter how gloomy the current situation. She brought hope, and hope was what we all needed, and urgently... One year, 8 films, just 6 years old. For all that they prattle on about creativity and art, the titans of Hollywood would give their eye teeth for a film model guaranteed to coin money over and over again. In 1934 Temple became the Most Important Star by providing it. The model, first seen in "Stand Up and Cheer, had predictable, interchangeable parts that produced predictable riches. A feisty young girl caught in a jam, no parents apparent, adventures galore, all ending in hugs and kisses on the deck of the good ship Lollipop where the minions under 20th Century Fox head Darryl F. Zanuck shouted "Mazel Tov!", and tap danced around the lovable moppet who had given them all a "happy landing on a chocolate bar." Once proven, the Hollywood Magic Machine worked overtime to provide suitable properties for their ultra bankable asset. Nineteen writers known as the Shirley Temple Story Development team created 11 original stories and some adaptations of the classics for her. They made hay with a will while the sun shined. It was good for everyone, not least the titans themselves whose studios just managed to avoid bankruptcy by standing on her girlish shoulders; one smash hit after another, each one a more perfect rendering of the golden model than the one before. Everyone, but everyone went to the movies to see her in action. Here's what President Franklin D. Roosevelt had to say about his main competitor for America's attention, the child who was far more photographed than he was. "It is a splendid thing that for just fifteen cents an American can go to a movie and look at the smiling face of a baby and forget his troubles." Rarely has envy produced a more graceful compliment. It was completely deserved. Needless to say, every element of a Shirley Temple film was analyzed and analyzed again. What should she wear, what should she say, to whom should she say it, how should she talk, sing, tap dance... each calculated decision contributing to her image of naturalness, naivete and tomboyishness. The most controversial of these decisions involved the simple matter of Shirley holding hands with Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, a helluva hoofer who happened to be Black. After prolonged discussion, loving everyone triumphed over loving some. Their effervescent dance steps in the 4 films they made together dazzled audiences everywhere and helped move segregated America in the right direction. All good things... Sadly this marvelous situation couldn't last, was in fact being undermined by Shirley herself ever single day. Winsome child stars, you see, make the fatal mistake to grow up... and they are never as cute and cuddly when they are loutish teen-agers as they had been. Bad habits materialize (Shirley became a chain smoker) and adolescent sulking makes bad box office. Thus, as her age went up, her appeal went down until, after one wake-up call after another, Shirley Temple tossed in the sponge and announced her retirement. She was just 22. Now what? What happened next defied logic, at least big studio logic.Unlike others of her ilk Shirley didn't fall apart thanks to drugs and arrogance. Instead she remained what she had always been been. For her the shibboleths of Main Street Middle America were always her bedrock beliefs and guiding lights. What you saw was utterly and completely who she was. And so what she did was what we all do... get married (at 16) and divorced (4 years later)... only to find love and happiness for fifty-four years with San Francisco Bay area businessman, Charles Alden Black, a man who claimed he never saw any of her films. She had three children (one with John Agar, Jr., two with Black), and they had the usual problems. She went back to work; some projects succeeded, some didn't. There was no mystery, no enigma, no hidden secrets waiting to be revealed in supermarket check out lines. Instead there was decency, patriotism, kindness, courtesy, good humor and most of all love, tolerance, and acceptance, each an attribute which helped make her the effective diplomat she became, for her embassy to the Czech Republic and its playwright president Vaclav Havel, was no sinecure. She wouldn't have taken the job if it had been, for she always valued and extolled the importance of hard work and did more than her share. She might so easily have turned out so very different... Envoi. I didn't have to think twice about the music for this article. It was "On the Good Ship Lollipop", Shirley Temple's signature song. Music by Richard A. Whiting, lyrics by Sidney Clare, it was published in 1934, then used in "Bright Eyes." Over 500,000 copies of the sheet music were sold and on any given night in that year of worry and anxiety, families gathered 'round the piano to find uplift in its lively beat and happy lyrics. Thus she shed her grace on we. Wherever she was going, she wanted us all to go... and I, for one, am glad and grateful I did. Go to any search engine now and remember how this pint-sized ball of purposeful endeavor and never-say-die determination made you smile. No one ever did it better.
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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Have you ever spent a run of uncomfortable minutes craving sugar? Have you looked high and low, in cupboard and out, trying to remember where you last enjoyed the succulence of sugar, the succulence you crave right now? Of course you have. We have all done it. This is an article about a man named Robert Hennell I (1741-1811) who, with his extended family, created some of the finest silver during the Golden Age, which lasted from about 1720 to 1820. One of the things which kept the Hennells busy was creating beautiful objects that held precious sugar. This morning, just before noon, there was a bang on the front door. It was the arrival of a Hennell sugar basket, and I couldn't have been happier, because this little gem, which is 15.6x9.2 cm, 159g, is a relic from the great days when sugar was an imperial product... the future of its plantations the very stuff of the highest level of diplomacy. Ambitious people left the comforts of particularly England and France hopeful that they could squeeze great wealth under circumstances where most of them were unhappy and indeed miserable. The sugar islands were a metaphor for what man would do to achieve wealth. Nothing about the sugar islands came naturally to the Europeans, who found themselves becoming savage, and doing unthinkable deeds, all in justification of what they had to do to grow sugar. We remember the names of these sugar islands today: Martinique, Guadeloupe, Hispanola, Cuba, Barbados, Jamaica, Grenada, and more. Because the owners of these islands and plantations had nothing to do at night but drink, fornicate, write memoirs, and post maudlin letters, we know quite a lot about how people lived in the sugar lands. We know the value they attached to every granule of the white gold called sugar. The plantations were often large, always staffed with black slaves, and sometimes prisoners sent out from Europe, who came to associate sweetness with prison-like conditions... and craved it anyway. Every Frenchman, every Dutchman, every Englishman, could tell you to the very day how long they would have to serve before they had earned enough money to leave and live at home the way they always wanted to do. The sugar islands were the very metaphor for escape. The inhabitants all lived in the future, only the future; they eschewed the past and disdained the present. Everyone, yes everyone, wanted to go to what they fondly called home, eager to leave the sultry nights and the tawdry affairs which constituted existence in some of the most important economic territories on Earth. For make no mistake about it, the sugar islands were hell paved with gold. No sugar! Imagine if you will your daily coffee with no sugar. Imagine there is no sugar in your favorite tarts, cookies. Imagine that your cakes have no sugar, not even one granule. Imagine that you wake up and suffer the violent pangs of desire because you do not have the sweetness of sugar readily at hand. There can be no candy, no confection, no sugary potations of any kind. You are confronted with a terrible dilemma because you are dependent on a product that diplomats at the highest level argue about. One of the most glaring instances of this power of sugar comes in the French and Indian war of 1754. In the beginning of this war, the French had stormed ahead with great successes... their sugar supply seemingly confirmed. Then they stumbled, and the English recovered, to the point where the French were faced with a terrible alternative... they could continue a war which was bankrupting them, or give up the sugar islands which they craved. The terms of this sweetest of wars were stark. Give up the vast expanses of the Canadas, or give up Martinique and Guadeloupe, the sugary jewels in the sweet crown. M. de Voltaire (1694-1778) was a man with an opinion, usually sarcastic, on everything. No subject eluded his slashing pen, and everything that he touched was tailor made for insult and obloquy. During the course of his long career, he commented on the Canadas over and over again, each time more sardonic and disdainful. His most famous quote on the subject is: "You know that these two nations are at war about a few acres of snow somewhere around Canada, and that they are spending on this beautiful war more than all Canada is worth." The French took his point. The Canadas, all the Canadas, went to England, and to a great future within a great empire. The French characteristically chose comfort, and their sweet tooth over an empire which they threw away, following the pointed phrase by M. de Voltaire. Martinique and Guadeloupe were now French, whilst every Canadian since has damned him for his selfish impertinence. M. de Volatire didn't care; he was flippantly irresponsible, tossing away a continent for the sake of a splendid line. Secretly, of course, all writers would hope for such puissance and such nonchalant brilliance... nevermind whether it's true or not. It is what sustains us. A hack writer could never write such a line. It takes a truly selfish, twisted genius to do so. Superbe! The victorious English, of course, kept just enough of the sugar islands to sustain every sweet tooth of the nobility, and a gentry which now could not imagine life without sugar, and had extra money to spend on the often glamorous sugar boxes and baskets which were now de rigueur in every fashionable home in Belgravia and beyond. And so these happy days, were sweet indeed for England. On the other hand, the French of course continued their spendthrift ways, for you see, once you want sugar, you want it and want it yet again. England controlled the sugar trade now; the French got sugar and emptied their pockets to get it. "Apres moi le deluge" It was not just the king who thought so, it was the whole nation itself, which insisted upon the expensive delicious over the sensible. From such people, Robert Hennell I made a great fortune. One aspect of his success needs to be clarified. Most silversmiths made sugar boxes, whose keys were attached to the chatelaine's belt. Sugar was so precious it was locked away in expensive boxes with at least two sets of keys. The chatelaine, or sometimes the butler, kept all such keys about her. Sugar was so precious that not even the smallest grain could be left unaccounted for. It was simply too important. Thus, in novels of the period, one finds the chatelaine currying favor with the young master by giving him a spoonful of sugar, just like in Mary Poppins. But Robert Hennell I crafted delectable silver baskets, where there was no top and no keys. This innovation was for rich people only, for only the very rich could afford the luxury of missing a spoonful of sugar or more. Thus, as you can see above, there is no lid... there are no keys... just noblesse oblige. The absence of a lid forced visitors to recognize how very rich you were. It was a sign... it simply didn't matter if the servants pilfered the sugar or not. Your host was so rich, so very rich, that he could afford to dazzle you. And so he did. Robert Hennel I At all times, when one discusses English silver of the 18th Century, one must recognize one of our civilization's great moments of design, execution, presentation, invention, and that indefinable something that suggests you're dealing with a master. Make no mistake about it – Robert Hennel I was a master. He started in London in 1763. It was an exciting time to be a silversmith. You were surrounded by people of wealth... the nouveau riche who had it, and the talented silversmiths who catered to their every wish. In every field of endeavor, London reigned supreme. It was more than just a few relatively high nobles to cater to; their was a flourishing gentry, and a nobility awash with cash and desire to spend it to best effect. For such people, people like Robert Hennel I were tailor made. Hennell was a smart man, a self-made man, a man who knew how to take a bit of metal, which is all that silver is after all, and turn it into magic. On this basis Hennell rose, like so many of his enterprising colleagues. And so, as the monied classes rose, and desired the thrill and excitement of arriving, Hennell rose with them. However he had a great advantage over most silversmiths of the time... his immediate family and descendants were prodigious... and so one pillar after another of the House of Hennell emerged... Robert II, Robert III, and Robert IV, their influence going deep from Georgian to Victorian. His secret was his genetic genius for producing boys... boys with an aptitude for silver. And so I have added this lovely little thing to The Lant Collection. Carefully engraved, its design of vegetation is precisely what one needs to see on a wintry day in Cambridge. Sadly, the England of 1783, where this piece was crafted, was not so happy. The great American colonies were gone. A new nation conceived and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal was being crafted in London at the same time Robert Hennell I was working on this piece. But it is not true that every man is equal, for most people do not have this lovely piece to shine strong. What a tragedy for them... how lucky for those of us who do. Musical note I have chosen for the musical note to this article a bouncy little number called "Sugar, Sugar" (1969), by the Archies. "I just can't believe the loveliness of loving you." Now sugar has a way of doing that to you. What would we ever do without it? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9nE2spOw_o About the author Dr. Jeffrey Lant has written over 61 books and 1,000's of articles. He makes history interesting, indeed fascinating. He has a way of taking you into the universe he is writing about, and that is why people worldwide love reading his prose. Be sure to sign up now for our list so that you are kept up to date on Dr. Lant and all his various fields of intellect and interest. Kiss me once, kiss me twice. It has been a long, long time. In the blizzard of 2017, some thoughts.2/20/2017  I don't know why just the right song seems so often to pop out of nowhere. I mean I hadn't thought of Satchmo (Louis Armstrong 1901-1971) for a good long time. Why then does it feels so absolutely normal, indeed predictable, as the first flakes of our first Nor'easter fell, the grand notes of Satchmo rising at the appropriate time for any snowstorm in the world.
I am standing at the window in my office, The Blue Room, staring out into the wintry scene now developing. There are still tufts of grass that snow has not yet covered, and though there is not at this moment enough snow to justify their presence, the snow plows are here in force with their glaring noises, and air of pomposity. This is the beginning of the blizzard which the avid weather girls now cover, for it is now the day for the cute jeune fille. For now it is mandatory to deliver weather with sex appeal. They know nothing about weather except what they are told to read from a page. Their job is to make minimum mistakes and look like they are going to a cocktail party even though the time is 6 am. In days gone by I would at this time of the morning (just about 9 am) be dressed in my adorable yellow all weather outfit, the outfit which when wet smells of dog. I had just enough time before school to make exuberant snow angels. My brother complained as his snow was not always neat as mine always was. I always had first dibs on the pure snow and never failed to make the boisterous model. The incidental fact that this irritated my brother was an extra benefit not to be underrated. The snow is falling faster now but cannot beat the wild range of remembrances of snow days gone by. It seems to me my life was divided into just two days: winter with its promise of the bountious snow and ice skating on the local pond; summer with scorching temperature and pink bodies soon burnt to the consistency of French toast. Seen one snow day, seen them all, you might say, but you would be wrong, because each day of snow creates a different montage. They may look the same, but there are no two flakes in the universe that ever are the same. My mother served as Grand Marshal of the snow parade. She knew where everything was to be found. "Yes, Jeffrey, check the hall closet under the green blanket". No request when it came to snow was too insignificant to produce the desired effect. A lot of bubble gum could return a sled to service. How many mothers, particularly those of the millennium, could do as much? She was young and vibrant then. Winter suited her, and Jack Frost nipped at her cheeks and created a thing of joy and beauty. Although she had a job out of the house, she was always there to provide the breakfast she knew we would need. For once out of the house we were energy machines, paying no attention to anything but the snow which piled up outside our back door. "Mind the ice!" The trek to school -- for we walked everyday except the worst -- revealed new landscapes. Familiar objects were no longer familiar, but radically changed. The snow provided us with a whole new vista; one that we must touch, not just see. Otherwise, we wouldn't believe. And so the tracks of my mother's children went one way and another, thereby proving we were great explorers, not put off by the millions of pounds of snow falling from the unremitting gray sky. We defied it. Neighbors we might not see for weeks at a time, we would take time to see as the snow fell and the blizzard blew. We all wanted to know what the old folks were doing (for any one above our tender age was certainly old no matter how young they might have been). These neighbors came out even as the first snow fell, so that they could clear the path the falling snow would obliterate in just minutes. These folks would have to rely now on shovels and patience. Sometimes my mother would say "Knock on Mrs. Jenkins' door. Make sure she has heat and she is alright." In such ways my mother demonstrated what the word "community" really meant. Does anyone stop today to find out whether Mrs. Jenkins is comfortable at 88 and frail? Probably not. If she is lucky, someone from Community Services may take a moment to look in, but more often the line is busy. "If this is a life threatening emergency call 911." I think Mrs. Jenkins preferred the red-cheeked banshees who sharply tapped the glass and rapped rat-tat-tat, smiling the broadest smile. She would have been delighted to invite us all in for cocoa with little marshmallows, which every marshmallow connoisseur knows are manifestly superior to their bloated bretheren. I see a hearty traveler on the sidewalk walking diligently, no doubt to his perch in the great University which scoffs at the very idea of Nor'easters. After all, it has lived through centuries of snow and ice and wicked contours which soon become nothing but mud and housewives shouting with asparity, "Wipe your feet!" It is a wonder to me, after so many years, and so many deserts of mud, especially those creating themselves particularly for my birthdays, that these housewives did not become murderous. A kind of patience, restraint, even sainthood was expected. It was the hallmark of the lady of the house that she did not, as a matter of course, take a rifle off the wall and blow the encyclopedia salesman to kingdom come. We knew they were capable of it; their restraint, therefore, was heroic. As we neared the school, I sometimes thought of my paternal grandfather, Walter. He was the dark horse of the family. A contractor, he helped build the local schoolhouse... grand in a full display of continental brick work. You see my grandfather, Germanic to the core, liked things that last. And so today, when he is hardly even a memory to anyone, that brick schoolhouse he built stands solid, as good today as on its inauguration. Yes, he was a dark horse. His metier was doing, not talking, and I admire that trait today more than I can say. I think another word is owed to Grampy. He would sit in my grandmother's kitchen each day... his chair never touched, much less sat in by anybody else. Each day after four would see him in his special chair. It was not patriarchal. It was made of aluminum, with a seat easily cleaned. This chair was as important as the Pope's, and was the scene of far more judgments rendered ex cathedra. Brief, laconic, rendered with a certainty that must be God-like... Grampy dictated the course of world events. There was nothing shy about his delivery. There was nothing shy about where he stood. And if he liked you, you got a double portion of his favorite potation. I often tried to advise his guests that one such drink was enough, but they never believed me until it was too late. I would arrive in this scene of unadulterated family about the time my uncles appeared (for sometimes they worked for my grandfather and sometimes they did not); no one ever questioned my right to be present; no one hesitated to make some deflating comment if they thought that perhaps I was gaining an unfair advantage. Of course I was, and I dished back just as good as I got, probably even better. The snow continues to fall. The weather girls are making one silly comment after another. Do we really need to know the temperature in Springfield, Massachusetts, or how many tree branches have fallen off in Arlington? So much information, so little that's important. I prefer my grandfather's way of handling it. He'd listen, he'd grunt, and everyone knew precisely what that grunt meant. No one outside this careful circle ever learned how to interpret what to us was so clear and manifest. I had one more trek to make, "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." The snow might abide... the drifts might grow... 'til my trusty bicycle was forced into the middle of the roads... dangerous as the sun fell low on the horizon. I was going home, and though I didn't necessarily know it everyday, it sometimes did occur to me that all the to'ing and fro'ing, all the high flying and the low flying, were nothing compared to a single word just four letters long, "home". It is a pity that I learned this lesson so late in life. Perhaps we all must be significantly detached before we see what we had, what we have lost and can never regain. And so, in my mind's eye I see myself and think on this, my 70th birthday, how fortunate I have been. I have kept more promises and traveled more miles than most. "You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you." It has all been a long, long time. Musical note It is hard not to be seized by the wintry scene playing out before me. It is the cause of so many reflections. But when you add Satchmo to the mix, it is overwhelming indeed. That is why I have chosen "It's Been a Long, Long Time" as the music for this article. Written by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn, it was released in 1945. You cannot get through it without the insistant tug of memory, because that after all is the important thing... the thing that defines you... and you must not resist it. www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8VOABg1a5k About the author Dr. Jeffrey Lant Over the past 50 years and more, Dr. Jeffrey Lant has written 61 books and thousands of articles on a wide variety of topics. He is the greatest lyric writer of his age. Don't just read the books and articles, enter into their flow, for they will touch your heart if you allow yourself to have a heart. To see Dr. Lant's complete ouevre, go to www.drjeffreylant.com. You will be reminded of just how powerful the English language can be. |
AuthorDr. Jeffrey Lant, Harvard educated, started writing for publication at age 5. Since then, he has published over 1,000 articles and 63 books, and counting. Archives
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