The Promised Land Read online

  THE PROMISED LAND

  by J.A.WILLOUGHBY

  “A huge fleet comprised of thousands of large naval and other seaworthy vessels from almost every nation on earth laid in wait off the coasts of the United States of America. The ships were stationary, poised and ready, positioned miles out to sea but still within plain view of every major port city, along every coastal waterway on all three sides of the great North American land mass.”

  Sylvia Lambert looked past the digital display panel on the podium and directed her gaze to the center of the university auditorium. The words she had spoken were simultaneously displayed on the movie screen behind her. Most of the capacity crowd knew them by heart. She addressed the audience with a graciousness and dignity reserved for royalty and visiting dignitaries.

  “Those words are the opening paragraph attributed to one of the most celebrated and revered pieces of journalism the world has ever known. That writing known as The Promised Land - a resurrected title of note, as we all know by now - was also the name of last article written in the last days of the Last Emanation, when our country was known as The United States of America.”

  The auditorium broke out in sporadic applause around the large room. Sylvia Lambert held up her hands in an attempt to quiet the enthusiastic crowd of parents, students of all ages, academicians, local and state politicians and the town’s business leaders.

  “Please! Please, hold your applause!” Her attention was suddenly and obviously drawn to stage right. She took a step in that direction for a better look and nodded to someone behind the curtain, who was obscured from the audience’s view. Sylvia covered her mouth and laughed giddily as she made her way back to the center of the stage. After several attempts at stifling the laughter, she eventually managed to regain her composure.

  “We have a lot to cover tonight and our esteemed guest has just asked me to tell you that he is up way past his bedtime already!” she said laughing in spurts throughout the discourse.

  The audience broke out in amused hearty laughter and unabated applause which continued for almost a solid thirty seconds despite her gesticulated plea otherwise. Eventually, she continued with an appreciative, enthusiastically kind and knowledgeable audience.

  “Judging by your response, our very special guest tonight needs no introduction!” she said with a broad smile beaming across her face. The auditorium was filled with applause yet again, along with shouts and whistles. She continued, speaking over the affectionate din.

  “But not to list the achievements, awards and accolades he has accomplished and received over the course of his lifetime would be a discredit to his dedication and service to our community, on a planetary scale – and less deservedly, by his own admission of humility, to him, on a personal level.”

  More applause followed. In a few moments, a montage of old images and home movie videos appeared on the screen behind her. The audience’s chatter was immediately nullified as prerecorded music swelled and played in sync with the video as Sylvia provided the voice-over with a scripted narration.

  “Born into poverty in the middle part of the last century, tonight’s guest speaker attended public school and graduated high school in this, his hometown. Days after graduation the urge to see the country had a firm grasp on him and he set out on the road, his thumb pointing the way to where he wanted to go. That direction was “everywhere”. He provided for himself, as he worked his way across the country, through a series of odd jobs until he came full circle back here, to the east coast. The journey took three years. And it was one that he never forgot - nor did it forget him.”

  Sylvia Lambert turned to look at the screen behind her. The music changed its cadence to a more upbeat rhythm and the images on the screen took on that of snapshots of landscapes, people, city scenes and a teenaged boy. She pointed to the image of the young man on the large screen now being watched intently by every member of the capacity crowd.

  “Those experiences shaped that young man’s mind and whetted his insatiable appetite for all that went on around him. He found the words to tell the story of his cross-country trek in the form of his first book, The Promised Land, a self-published novel based on his encounters. It is still in print after all these years and has become a sort of Call of the Wild, from an earlier time, for a new generation of readers and adventurous citizens.”

  The giant screen behind Sylvia transitioned again to a still image of a slightly older version of the teenaged boy. This time he was shaking hands with a government leader from a foreign country, holding an award medallion, both men smiling broadly. Many more similar photos presented themselves in a slide show with the same recipient of the awards growing older in each one, standing with famous world leaders and celebrities. The list of the deceased recognizable, high-profile presenters and famous persons’ lives spanned more than a century. After the sequence of images had ended, the screen faded to black, the music swelled and diminished in volume to a pleasant harmonious chord played with full symphonic orchestration. Sylvia continued speaking as the music faded, the audience now focusing attentively on her every word, her voice now quieting and serious.

  “Our guest almost instinctively knew where to be at just the right time and place. In a much older era it would have been said that he had “a nose for news”. He certainly did. In his lifetime, he has traveled to every continent on the planet. In his youth, he has lived deep in the jungles, alone in the desert, high in the mountains and along the unexplored rivers among primitive peoples. He has covered thirty-two war zones, received fifteen Presidential Citations, as well as dozens of meritorious awards from foreign governments. He’s been awarded five Pulitzer Prizes in literature, two Nobel Peace prizes, and has one hundred and nine books in print, fifty-seven of which were made into motion pictures or broadcast network specials. He personally funds an annual one million dollar scholastic need-based award program given to those high school students who demonstrate the desire of “curiosity, ambition and positive adventurism,” who are not necessarily looking to secure a secondary education.”

  Younger voices cheered with that last announcement.

  “…and last, but certainly not least, he was the only non-astronaut and private citizen to participate in the first joint manned expedition to Mars!” The audiences’ exhilaration was now slowly building to a near-deafening roar.

  Sylvia Lambert took an exaggerated deep breath and stepped momentarily back from the podium and loudly exclaimed, “I sure hope I didn’t miss anything, like a Boy Scout merit badge or something of that nature!” She giggled and shook her head.

  She knew the roar and applause of the audience was not going to subside. The introduction of accomplishments, unbelievable as it was, was real and exceeded any that could be bestowed upon and living person the world had ever known. But the titles were not over, yet. Sylvia needed to scream into her microphone headset to be heard for the last and arguably the most recognized feat this amazing man had achieved to date. And for this one, all he had to do was just – be.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow citizens, honored guests, distinguished colleagues…it is my distinct and most honorable pleasure to now introduce to you the last living citizen of the former United States of America, and native and favorite son of River Crest, Pennsylvania, at one hundred twenty-seven years of age, Mister…Stewart…Adler!”

  The hometown crowd remained on its feet cheering and applauding for close to three minutes after the man walked out from behind the curtain and took his place center stage as his live image was fed to the large screen for all to see equally. He nodded and grinned gracefully many times, shook his head even more as he looked over the auditorium from top to bottom, front to back and side to side, taking it all in, and then leaned over to ki
ss Sylvia Lambert on the forehead, after taking both her hands in his.

  Despite his years, Stewart Adler was a well-preserved, lean and fit looking man of average height, appearing to be in his mid-eighties, rather than a centenarian, with a head full of thick, gray-white hair, a healthy-looking glow of a tan, and only every-so-slightly slumped at the shoulders; more than one hundred years of gravity playing a big part in that, to be sure.

  Although it was true that most people lived longer now, coming from the previous generation of Americans, his age was unprecedented. And his reasons for his longevity were as numerous as the questions that were asked about it. Most seasoned interviewers didn’t even bother asking about it anymore, as his responses about it were as pat, curt, cute and comical each time with every pass. It was a subject that he obviously wished to avoid and was respected as such. Since he was so revered for his accomplishments, his age just took on a sideline of commentary among the most young and inexperienced of journalists.

  “It is what it is. Let’s move on – before I get any older,” was always his patent expression of polite rudeness. And most professionals did because they knew that most people at his age didn’t want to be reminded of it. A misplaced professional courtesy re-emerged in journalism? Discretion? A lost lesson re-learned, perhaps? An official-looking portrait of a younger Stewart Adler flashed up on the screen and remained there, a vague, obligatory, uncomfortable-looking smile on his face.

  Stewart Adler took his place at the podium and the audience respectfully seated themselves almost immediately. He turned once briefly to look at the image on the screen and exhibited a vaguely appreciative smile, much like the one in the photograph, shaking his head ever-so-slightly, but in an approving manner. Sylvia Lambert approached the podium and spoke.

  “After all that Mr. Adler has accomplished it would seem that there is nothing left to bestow upon him-except maybe one more title to add to his ever-growing and deserved list of prefixes and suffixes.”

  The audience chuckled.

  “This one surely doesn’t have the significance or impact of ‘Nobel Prize winner’ or ‘astronaut’ but one that we hope that he will still have room for in this heart of hearts,” said Sylvia most earnestly.

  A young university student hurriedly walked out on stage and handed Sylvia a thin wooden box and walked back off as quickly as she had entered. Sylvia opened the box, pulled out a document from inside and began to read.

  “To all who read these letters: Be it known that the President, Faculty, Trustees and Regents of Montour University, River Crest, Pennsylvania, by virtue of authority granted by the New States of America, have conferred upon Stewart Adler, the Honorary Degrees of Doctor of Literature and Doctor of History, Honoris Causa, together with all the honors, rights, privileges and responsibilities thereunto appertaining!”

  The crowded room came to its feet and burst into applause as Stewart accepted the document and Sylvia Lambert placed the orange, purple and silver collar around his neck. His face slowly took on a humble and reserved smile, as though the award was the first and only one he had ever received in his life. He exhibited a look of genuine modesty and humility that was confirmed by his body language as his head dropped slightly, casting his eyes toward the document as if he were taking it all in it at once, rather than just being handed a piece of paper. It meant something to him. It meant a lot to him, the deportment he exhibited needed no video enlargement – it was projected all the way to the back of the auditorium. He turned to Sylvia and kissed her on the forehead, pointed to the people in the wings and gestured appreciatively to the invited dignitaries and school officials in the front row. Stewart Adler then spoke.

  “Thank you, thank you. Thank you!” he said still looking at the award he was clutching in his hand. “This means so much to me. So much…” His voice trailed off as he tried to control his emotions. The audience quieted as he held up his hand.

  “As was displayed there on the screen, I have received many awards. And I have appreciated them all. But this one…this one, is about education. This one is…” He paused to regain his composure and continued his thought with a deep sense of gratitude embedded in his tone.

  “As many of you know, I never went to college. I never had the money or the desire. I had this crazy idea that I would to get my education from just experiencing the world around me. Well…,” he said amusedly as he put on a pair of glasses.

  The audience responded favorably with an affirmative but appropriately brief applause. Stewart Adler pulled a rolled up stack of papers from an inside jacket pocket, laid it on the podium and began to read.

  “’Genesis, growth, time of troubles, universal state, and disintegration.’ British historian Arnold J. Toynbee published a twelve volume work in 1961 called A Study of History. Those five words are what he deemed to be the stages that all civilizations go through before they ultimately break down. Toynbee argued that civilizations are not brought down by loss of control over their environment or loss of control over the human environment. He also added that attacks from the outside were not necessarily responsible for a society’s collapse. But rather it was the societies themselves that fail to solve new problems. Instead of creating new solutions to new problems, they overdevelop the structures for solving old ones.”

  He paused to take a sip of water and look around the room.

  “As was mentioned here in the video presentation, I have had many different kinds of jobs. One of them was working as a carpenter and it was one of my favorite jobs because it involved making new things: buildings, sidewalks, cabinets, walls, roofs. What we did not do was build something and install it on an unstable surface. It would not have maintained its integrity, the customer would have called us back and we would have to repair it over and over again, using our own resources trying to shore it up.”

  He paused to look once more, ‘reading’ his audience.

  “What Mr. Toynbee is referring to is much akin to building on a cracked foundation. Or painting over layers of wallpaper. Or physicians prescribing one pill to counter the side effects of another. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not rational thinking. It’s expensive in the long run. And it doesn’t work. The United States of America, my birthplace, my country found that out the hard way. Yes, it took many hundreds of years for the foundation to crack, but it still cracked. And they built on top of it over and over again. And what they built is no longer standing.”

  The auditorium was as quiet as a church during a prayer. Stewart Adler got the distinct feeling that he was an old statue at which people were staring, reading a plaque underneath his feet, taking in a history lesson. And the lesson was one that had been taught in schools for decades. They didn’t need to hear it recited again. He needed a change of pace.

  “But I am still standing because I have a good foundation. And that foundation was formed right here in River Crest!” he said with some added uncharacteristic bravado that he delivered much like a politician’s rhetoric at a campaign event. The quiet group clapped loudly then settled back into their listening mode.

  “What did the ships do?” yelled a small voice. Everyone turned their heads to see a boy of about eight sitting in the middle of the center section of the balcony, with a man and a woman on either side of him giving him admonishing looks.

  “What was that, young man? Did you have a question?” asked Stewart, holding his hand to his right ear. The man and woman on either side of the boy were shushing him but the boy was impetuous and persisted.

  “I said, ‘what did the ships do’? The ones that surrounded the United States at the beginning of your story? Did they shoot their cannons at you? What happened!?” he shouted straining the seams of his youthful patience, an almost non-existent commodity in a boy of single digit years.

  Stewart smiled. He knew this was the change of pace he needed. And the fact that it was a young, curious boy, as he himself was once a long time ago, made him instantly rethink his delivery of historic information for the even
ing’s presentation. The boy may not have yet been taught about his country, The New States of America’s, pre-history. With that realization and insight, Stewart Adler did what he did best. He did what made him one of the most gifted and accepted writers of his, or anyone’s, day. He stepped outside himself and saw the whole of the moment, the broader context that was happening right then.

  The question was an innocent one but Stewart Adler heard it as more than a question. He heard its voice coming from a place high above and detached from the masses, its wants and needs beckoning from afar and shouting to be heard, its request a thirst for knowledge. And even he had trouble hearing the voice, as he was very distant from its source: its youthful makeup, quiet but forceful, unbridled enthusiasm and naïve prodding versus his aged body reluctantly relinquishing all those qualities and leaving him with only a memory that they were once there, a reminder that all things pass.

  In that dichotomy of a moment, he saw the Future asking the Past what it did wrong. The voice of the Future didn’t want to make the same mistakes. It had learned its lesson. In some journalistic circles Stewart Adler had been dubbed the “grandfather of a new nation.” It wasn’t a title that he held dear to his heart or even liked at all, for that matter. But it fit this moment like a glove. It was time to bounce this young child on his knee one last time.

  “Ah, yes, the ships…” The newly honored Dr. Stewart paced back and forth across the stage, thinking. “No, I didn’t say what happened with them did I? I am glad you reminded me of them.”

  A lighthearted murmur ran through the audience.

  “Did they shoot their guns at me? I can’t tell you that. It would give away the ending of the story! What is your name, young man?”

  “Stuart. Same as yours. Just spelled different.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice? My compliments to your parents’ choice of monikers, young Stuart. Is that them beside you?”

  The boy nodded.