LOOKING FOR THAT ONE

I was watching a movie today about a military doctor who was assigned a patient with severe dental and lip deformities, as a result of an automobile accident.



This surgeon took extraordinary measures to assist his patient, and spent multiplied hours planning the initial, and subsequent operations.  Never in his surgical career had he felt such empathy for a patient.  Never in his life had he devoted such caring effort or taken his responsibility so much to heart.



And though the young woman was gruesome to behold, and though her injuries were the worst he’d ever witnessed, he painstakingly went about his task.  And for those several months and years he assumed a duel role; that of a physician and prophet.  For he could virtually see the finished work before him.  He could see the invisible, as though it was visible.  And this energized him during periods of his own disappointment, and his patient’s disbelief.



The young woman often lashed out at him, wavering between despondency, anxiety, discouragement and outright rage.  Sometimes his patient’s immaturity surprised the doctor, and he could only shake his head.  But nothing deterred him from his task, and over many months, and years he performed surgery after surgery, and with each operation his dream took shape.  And with each operation his young client seemed more confident about the ultimate result.



The surgeon was doing the kind of breakthrough, innovative work that had never been attempted, and his associates and friends were often skeptical of the final outcome.  More than once someone accused the doctor of playing God.  And though their remarks were critical in tone, the physician chose to regard them as compliments.



And what of the young lady, the recipient of all his skill and labor.  Her facial deformities became less obvious, less hideous to those who beheld her.  And with time, the results of her unfortunate accident were almost imperceptible, until all that was left was a slight scar on the edge of her recreated lips.



And her joy and the corresponding joy of her surgeon overflowed and seemed to fill up the world around them.  She was whole again.  Her shame was vanquished.  She no longer hid her face from approaching strangers, and her new-found smile seemed to light up the whole world.



And our young patient determined to give back something of what she had received, and she began to impact one here, and bless one there.  And I think I forgot to tell you.  Before her injury, our little heroine had been a nurse.  And she returned to her duties with more vigor and more enthusiasm than she had ever felt before.  For having once been a patient, she could empathize far beyond theoretical.  Dream had taken on reality.  Fog had taken on flesh. And as Paul Harvey used to say, there was a “rest of the story,” because the doctor ultimately proposed to the patient, and they were married!



I’ve been thinking a lot about that “playing God” analogy, and at first glance it’s a repugnant characterization, since there’s One God and we’re not Him.  But that old adage, “Some people have to have a God with flesh on” rings true.  Why, just today, I received a call from an anxious client, a client who has left her childhood faith behind, and who disavows any further use for God.  But I ministered to her, nevertheless.  And I like to think that she was comforted and sensed a bit of God in me.



We have been given a rare opportunity; an opportunity to play both prophet and God; (and I say this with all respect and submission to the only One and True God).



There are those in our midst who will never excel nor attempt to do so.  There are those in our company who will make the cemetery richer; for the local cemetery is among the richest pieces of ground on earth.  It is filled with all the unexplored and unfulfilled dreams of thousands of God’s creations; lying dormant, never to find fruition.



My message to you today is to look for that one; that one person among many who displays the kind of unexplored, just under the surface potential to be singular, to be great, to be used of Our Lord.  Look for that man or woman who can be shaped, molded, impacted; for that one who, though sick, or sad, or even selfish has a pliable and contrite spirit, and who is marginally, and increasingly ready to assume their God-given place on the earth.



Inscribed on the Statue of Liberty is a verse: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teaming shore.  Send these, the homeless tempest tossed to me.  I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”  (Emma Lazarus)



Our mission is to people like that.  The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless.  And we have a lamp to light their pathway.  And we offer them a golden door; a door that leads to freedom. 



But many will refuse our comfort, and many will drift away.  But if we can touch just one at a time.  If we can make a difference in one life at a time.  We may not be able to change the world, but we may be able to change the world of one person.



Pour your efforts into all; everyone who seeks ministry, who seeks help, who pleads for deliverance.  Do this.  Do this.



But look for that one; that one who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That one who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands, and bids you mold them into something lovely.  Look for that one.  Give your best efforts to that one.



For you are both a physician and a prophet.  So reminiscent of that doctor who bestowed his best labor on the little patient; earlier in this story.  God bids you pour healing salve in their wounds.  He gives you dreams in the night on their behalf and provokes you to see the invisible and impossible.  You are both a physician and a prophet.



Someone, a Very Dear Someone, once looked intently at me and said, “You must have seen something in me.”  And I responded, “Indeed I did.”  Another Precious Someone once mused, “You almost sent me away.” And I replied, “I’m so glad I didn’t.”



Who can know how God may choose to multiply our efforts through these precious souls who wait for us to touch, impact and mentor them?



Look for that One, that One who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That One who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands and bids you mold them into Something lovely. 



Look for that One.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A MOMENTARY EXPERIENCE ON AN ELEVATOR IN GLASGOW

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, my short-term acquaintance mused,

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of a minute, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

MRS. OLESON (WAS) ALIVE AND WELL AND (WAS) LIVING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

From my perspective, Katherine MacGregor of “Little House on the Prairie” is one of the two or three greatest supporting actors of all time; (including, of course, Don Knotts of “The Andy Griffith Show” fame).

“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)

Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…

I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.

I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.

And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.

“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!

I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.

Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.

(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).

And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”

And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the two or three follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.

After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,

“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”

And of course, I thought,

“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has insisted on writing and mailing these copious and extensive letters, not I.”

I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.

“Mrs. Oleson” was alive and well and was living in southern California.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN FOR YOU

I pedal

I pedal a lot

I pedal in the wee hours of the morning

And during the course of almost 4 years, and over 12,000 miles of pedaling the same 10 mile course, I’ve “run into” some pretty strange scenarios; (in addition to several calamitous falls).

A woman standing next to the highway, in the shrubbery of a bank, holding a small terrier, and singing the most eerie tune that’s ever been sung. (Needless to say, I kept pedaling).

Speaking of four-footed beasts of the canine variety, a miniature, emaciated Doberman tied to a lamppost next to the highway. It goes without saying, I cannot leave her there, but take her home, feed her, and quickly dispatch the precious pooch to a no-kill shelter.

A young man, perhaps 6’ tall, 170 lbs., walking along the sidewalk towards me, as I am preparing to cross a four lane thoroughfare. I look to my right. I see him. I look to the left. No traffic. I look to the right, and he has vanished from my sight. Did I mention there is an 8’ wall on his left, and a well-lit highway on his right?

A young man with a cane standing at a busy intersection. Approaching him he asks if I can direct him to a particular part of town. Johnny (for that is his name) tells me that he has been walking for five (5) hours; having been released earlier that evening from the county jail. Making a calculated decision I suggest he keep walking. I will finish pedaling home, retrieve my car, and drive him the remaining couple of miles to his home. (That I am writing this story and have suffered no harm or alarm speaks for itself).

And then tonight''

Perhaps the most bizarre scenario of all

I have just crossed over one of several four lane highways which exist on my measured pathway, and mounted the next sidewalk; for I only pedal on sidewalks. Safer, don’t ya know? (Ironic, I suppose, given this strange series of stories).

I hear it before I see it. Some muted, unidentified protestations. I turn my gaze in a diagonal direction. And oddly enough, as it seems now, on the exact same corner where I encountered ‘Jailhouse Johnny’ are a large black SUV, and a late model semi-truck cab. Parked at a traffic light, I notice the driver of the SUV is standing just behind his vehicle, while the driver of the larger truck is engaged in a struggle with what appears to be an adult female.

I think none of us know exactly how we will respond to a seeming emergency until it “drops from the sky” and figuratively exclaims, “Here I am.” Oh, we can imagine what we’d do, but “the proof is (definitely) in the pudding.”

I do not hesitate

It occurred to me at that moment that I was willing to do whatever I had to do to rescue the apparent “damsel in distress.” At the moment, at least, I had no consideration whatever of the presence of firearms, or taking on two ‘bad boys’ at a time, (or the fact that I am approaching 70 years of age).

I immediately begin peddling my speedy (well, not so much) bike towards what appears to be the scene of a crime. As I pedal I attempt to “get the mark” of the situation unraveling before me. It seems a woman is being dragged into the driver’s side of the cab, as if the offender intends to take her against her will.

Twenty feet from the truck now, and the young (or not so much) lady is being pulled (or clamoring) over the legs of the driver and into a jump or bench seat to his right.

Ten feet from my goal now, and the driver’s door slams shut. I peer into the poorly lit cab and it seems the driver and potential detainee are still, and awaiting the decision of the other vehicle. The man walks to the driver’s side of his car, gets in, makes a 90 degree turn, and the semi-cab follows suite. I watch the two vehicles as they accelerate, and eventually disappear out of sight.

As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ (re. the novel, ‘Jane Eyre’) was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?"

I reach into my pocket and consider the possibility of dialing 911. And yet. Wasn’t the woman ‘cool, calm and collected’ as the door slammed shut in my face? And didn’t the driver of the other vehicle casually stroll to his car, as though nothing was amiss?

I consider an alternative possibility

Perhaps the three individuals knew one another. Perhaps the driver of the first vehicle stopped at the light to allow the woman to ride in the second. Perhaps she and the pilot of the second were a bit ‘tanked’ and simply engaging in some raucous revelry. And rather than using the passenger door, she chose to enroll herself in the cab the hard way.

I delay. I debate. I deliberate. (All those ‘D’ words).

I desist

Approximately three minutes elapse and I hear it before I see it.

(Rather familiar, don’t you think)?

A sheriff’s department cruiser comes sailing down the highway at break-neck speed, its red and blue lights flashing, and its siren screaming.

I can only surmise, having witnessed the unusual scenario unfolding before him or her, a witness retrieved his or her phone and made the call.

My brother is, himself, a long haul truck driver, and I often give him a ring as he is on his way to Miami and I am completing my ‘O-dark-thirty’ trek. This morning my routine was the same, though the story I shared with him was anything but routine.

Wayne, being a man of few words, generally allows me to do most of the talking. However, having heard my fateful tale, he responded with,

“Maybe you should ride in the daylight, rather than the dark!”

I responded with,

“Very wise advice. Maybe you’re right!”

There’s a scene in the movie, “The Karate Kid” in which ‘Daniel-son’ interacts with an Okinawan bully.

Our hero speaks.

“Hey man. I’m not looking for trouble!”

To which the local thug responds,

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

I can relate

As a freshman in high school I learned an old Irish prayer. It seems rather fitting here:

"From ghoulies, and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."

And “one more for the road.”

Since I wrote the foregoing description of several scenarios to which I have been exposed during my morning bike treks over the years, I have been forced to relinquish my recurring ‘spin’ in favor of putting one foot in front of the other. (But that is a whole ‘nother story).

At any rate, as I was putting in my ‘morning 2’ (as in two miles) today, and had turned off Highway 540 onto Spirit Lake Road, (an apt name) and was walking down the parallel sidewalk, I happened on a rather bewildering sight.

And while the entire situation fell together in the space of eight or ten seconds, and due to the darkness I was not able to discern what the individual was initially ‘up to,’ a tall, slender male (or female) suddenly bounded across the front yard, and ran in a serpentine pattern towards a nearby bush.

Arriving at the moderately tall bush, my ‘momentary friend’ crouched down behind it, and while squatting there continued to hold my gaze. And very much like a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, he (or she) continued to squat “right there in front of God and everybody,” as I passed within twenty paces or him (or her).

And while at 225 pounds I “cut a mean figure,” and while the metal cane which I held was capable of inflicting significant damage, I admit to looking over my right shoulder ‘til I’d left the ethereal him (or her) far behind.

Given the abject wierdness of the moment, I was tempted to utter a few words; in hopes of staving off the possibility of an unlikely attack. In retrospect I might have done well to shout, “Ready or not, here I come” (or) “Dost thou think that yonder bush covereth thee sufficiently? No, yon phantom. It does not” (or) “Do you realize how utterly stupid you look squatting behind that bush?”

At this stage, I cannot be sure why I held my peace. But I think I may have done so to forestall the most likely possible response…

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THINGS I HAVE NEVER DONE

I have never walked on the moon

(But I watched Neil Armstrong do it a full half century ago)

For that matter, I have never walked a tightrope across Niagara Falls

(But I watched Nik Wallenda do it on TV)

I have never climbed Mt. Everest

(Though my daughter stood just a mile away, and looked up at it)

I have never jumped out of a perfectly good airplane

(But I have often thought it would be fun to do so; with the aide of a parachute, of course)

I have never eaten more than an ounce of fruit cake, nor drank more than an ounce of buttermilk at one time

(I simply can’t tolerate either one of those loathsome things)

I have never smoked pot, nor used illegal substances

(Though I once sat in a room where someone was puffing on the former, and the “aroma” was enough to last me a lifetime)

And last, but certainly not least, (and something which only occurred to me tonight), I have… never danced in public

(My wife and I have vowed to put it on our proverbial bucket list)

WE REMEMBER MOLLY

The date was January 12, 2010.

Exactly ten years ago today.

The place was the island of Hispaniola; comprised of the countries of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

The person was a young lady by the name of Molly Mackenzie Hightower.

I never knew Molly, but she was a distant cousin of mine. She had recently graduated with a double major, spoke French, and volunteered as a physical therapist in a Catholic disabled children’s orphanage in Haiti.

Although I never knew Molly, the world has been given some entre into her life as the result of an internet blog she maintained. I have also been privileged to interact with her uncle, a Catholic priest, and her father and brother. The photos of my dear cousin and those precious orphans are compelling. She was one of those people you meet a few times in a lifetime; who literally seem to shine from within.

Even in the photographs an ethereal glow lights up her face.

Molly happened to be in her dormitory when the earthquake did its worst work on that impoverished island. While her family and friends hoped against hope that she would be rescued, it was not to be. She was found several days later midst the rubble of the dormitory. It can be said that she gave the last full measure of devotion for the children whom she had grown to love.

Sometimes we find ourselves taking people like Molly for granted. They sense a “call” to a work overseas which 99.9 percent of people would shun; in favor of some well-paying professional position in the states. They toil for little or no pay. They work long hours; often without praise or affirmation.

On their occasional sabbaticals home, they attempt to explain to anyone who might listen what they have done, what they have seen; their triumphs and their defeats. And more often, than not they are met with a smile, or a nod, or a quizzical look; rather than a few empathetic words based on any real understanding of the work and the challenge of the mission.

I would have loved to have been granted a few brief moments with my cousin, Molly.

Time to assure her of the importance of her work, time to commensurate with her about the joy which distills from the opportunity to touch lives, time to talk about our mutual ancestors, and the possibility that they, too, were at one time given the privilege of impacting this or that person, whom God set in their pathway.

As strange as it may seem, I miss Molly; a dear relative whom I never had the privilege of meeting. And yet, I feel I know her. And I’m all too aware that the staff and patients of her beloved orphanage miss her in such an inestimable and profound way.

I think we will never understand why such lights among us are seemingly taken before their time; when they are in the midst of accomplishing such a life-changing work, or rather, lives-changing work, since this dear saint, and so many like her have impacted a myriad of the unfortunate and underprivileged; whose only recompense for services rendered was a bright smile, a hug or a few unaided steps.

They look very much like you or I, and shun the limelight. Yet I think these are the saints among us; (though any allusion to sainthood would, no doubt, be greeted by them with revelry and blushing).

People like Molly, though their lives were shortened, and though they have so often done their best work in the worst places this planet affords, managed to cut some indelible marks into the fabric of life and time.

And their love and works remain.

And they are not forgotten.

And the power and momentum of all they ever did, and hoped to do continues, and has not abated.

For lives were irrevocably touched

…and changed.

And there are those among us who have, because of them, stepped forward to fill the vacant space which they have left behind.

The world is better for people like Molly, who having walked and moved and served among us

…remain as unseen witnesses to a continuing need, and the power of one life to change the world as we know it;

…at least the world as they knew it.

*Molly’s blog can be found on the following internet site:

https://mollyinhaiti.blogspot.com

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I didn’t grow up watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” but then again, its inception was in 1968, a year after I graduated from high school; (so the likelihood that I would have devoted much time to the program was almost nil).

In the last few moments I did a Google search, and discovered that the television show aired for a grand total of (drum roll) 33 years, and only went off the air in 2001; a fateful year for this country, and two years before his passing.

It occurs to me that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was on television for the same amount of time that Jesus lived, and moved and breathed on the earth. I have never heard anyone expound on this bit of information. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But then, I don’t believe in coincidences.

Oh, I remember seeing snippets of Fred Rogers’ program, and honestly, it did little or nothing for me at the time. Obviously, the show was geared towards little children; the humor, the skits, the puppets, the guests. And “Bro. Fred’s” voice and mannerisms always struck me as a bit effeminate.

Speaking of the foregoing prefix before his name, many people were unaware that Mr. Rogers was actually Rev. Rogers. For you see, Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and to my knowledge, he possessed a calling unlike any other; before or since. Interestingly enough, he had been specially commissioned by his church to host “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” for the little boys and girls of America.

I have written about Mr. Rogers in the past, having previously read a poignant story of which he was the subject. And come to think about it, I only have “given him the time of day” the past couple of years; (a full decade and a half after his death).

Pt. 2

As I have inferred, I love a particular story I read about Mr. Rogers. I am including that story here.

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

Pt. 3

There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Pt. 4

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Pt. 5

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

Pt. 6

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 7

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A MR. ROGERS STORY

By Allison Carter, USA Today


In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

MY MONKEY & ME

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I may have shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed “thousand piece puzzle.”

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow, I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.
***************

*Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. (not sure the time of year), but when we came home, we never saw him again. 

I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(and in regard to a message of thanks for her family having given Bobo love and care…)


“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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