I'LL BE RIGHT BACK

Several years ago, my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, the mother of Ellen (degenerate) Degeneres’ former girlfriend, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE SERVED AND THEY WHO SERVE

I recently viewed an excellent, ‘star-studded’ movie, “The Butler.” It was loosely based on the life of a long-time White House butler by the name of Eugene Allen; a black man who served in that position for 34 years.

In the movie the somewhat composite character, “Cecil Gaines,” serves throughout the course of eight presidential administrations; beginning with Truman and ending with Reagan. 

And we, as it were, stand in the shadows and watch as Cecil hands out cookies to visiting children, dusts the bookshelves in the Oval Office, shines the shoes of various members of the First Family, and serves at state dinners. 

Perhaps it goes without saying, but Eugene, (aka Cecil) began his White House career during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, and as the scenes and dialogue of the movie play out, there are a myriad of allusions to the racial tension and innuendo of that time period. In one poignant scene our butler makes President Reagan aware of a 40 percent pay differential which then existed between the wages of the white and black staff. And, (at least as the movie portrays it) their conversation represents the catalyst by which African-American employees of the White House began to receive more equitable pay.

Ultimately, Cecil makes this same president aware of his plans to retire which leads Nancy R., (aka Jane Fonda) to, in short order, locate his whereabouts, and ask a leading question.

“Cecil, you will be at the state dinner for Chancellor Kohl of Germany, will you not?”

To which her humble servant responds,

“Well, yes, Mrs. Reagan. I serve at all the state dinners.”

The conversation continues.

“No, Cecil. I’m not talking about serving. I’m talking about being served. President Reagan and I would like you and your wife to be our guests that night.”

The butler could hardly believe his ears.

“Me? My wife? Mrs. Reagan, I don’t know what to say!”

Nancy smiled.

“Just say, ‘yes’ and make plans to join us, Cecil. God knows, you deserve it. And buy your wife a fancy dress. I guarantee this will be ‘the highlight of your twilight,’ my dear man.”

As the movie nears its conclusion, Cecil, (portrayed by Forest Whitaker) and “Gloria,” his wife, (portrayed by Oprah Winfrey) find themselves seated opposite the Reagan’s, and the Kohl’s at a long table decorated with the finest dinnerware; and attended by black waiters in tuxedo’s. 

I hasten to add that while the movie, “The Butler” was guilty of numerous errors, and fabrications, the inclusion of the real life, Eugene Allen and his wife, Helene at Chancellor Kohl’s state dinner was not one of them. For you see, this particular scene is based upon fact.

As we linger off camera, we behold the extravagance of the entire affair. A multiplicity of guests of rank and honor. A comparatively smaller number of the most proficient of White House butlers. 

The servers and them who are served.

One of Cecil’s understudies, (and his close friend) bends to whisper in his ear,

“More champagne, Mr. Gaines?”

To which the chief butler responds,

“Shut up, with that ‘Mr. Gaines’ stuff.”

And as our humble hero ponders the solemnity of the occasion, and considers those with whom he has (momentarily) been blessed to “rub shoulders,” he reflects,

“It was different sitting
at the table instead of serving it.
…Real different.
I could see the two faces
the butlers wore to survive.
And I knew I'd lived my life
with those same two faces.

Gloria looked so happy,
but I didn't feel the same way.
I guess I wished we were there
for real …instead of for show.”

Two faces

Speaking of ‘two faces…’ 

The served and them who serve.

In a previous story I alluded to having administered a DNA test to my mother, only one week before she left us; the results which have only just now been made available to me.

As I scrolled through the results of the test, my eyes fixed on one minute bit of information.

While the large majority, 98.2 percent, of my mother’s ancestors, hailed from Great Britain and Western Europe, 1.8 percent originated …in Sub-Saharan Africa, and more specifically, Western Africa; from whence multiplied millions of hapless and helpless men and women, boys and girls began their unwilling journey to the Americas, and the forced labor, oppression and humiliation which awaited them there. (Interestingly enough, the State of Mississippi still observed 'The One Drop Rule' into the 70’s; in which anyone who had the slightest trace of African-American heritage was classified as such. And even more interesting, at least in terms of an implication of how I might have been classified, is that while I was involved in my military training, I lived and served for a short time in Mississippi).

Two faces

Eugene Allen, the real life character upon which “The Butler” was based, found himself, during his lifetime, among them who served. It was only after he was, unexpectedly, provided the opportunity to “sit with royalty” that he was afforded the privilege of being served; (which, subsequently, cast his servers in a light to which he had never before been privy).

Two faces

I, on the other hand, have lived out my entire lifetime as a member of a racial group who, perhaps, think of themselves as they who “sit at the table.” Granted, as an adolescent I witnessed the cessation of “separate, but equal,” public schools, segregated transportation, and white and black water fountains, restrooms and restaurants.

My siblings and I grew up as members of what might have, at that time, be characterized as the upper middle class. At least we had a maid, a beloved old, (or so it seemed to me at the time) black woman named, Etta Ponder.

I have, admittedly, “sat at the table.”

The served, and them who serve.

My friends, I can tell you that the realization that one of my distant grandfathers or grandmothers was African-American, and endured the rigors and humiliation of a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, and delivered into the bonds of slavery has cast a new light on the privileged position I have thus far enjoyed.

And as a result, I have experienced something rather akin to the unique circumstance of which our humble server was afforded; as he sat among ranks of the served.

However, I think the diametrical opposite played itself out here.

For you see, I, if only in my imagination, and for the briefest of moments, found myself among the ranks of them who serve.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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OLD TOM

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay. 

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

… And they hope for the night.

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

“And So It Goes”

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.  

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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HERITAGE

My father was an amateur genealogist, which is to say he wasn’t paid for his research; (but in every other sense of the word, I would have referred to him as a professional). Henry McDonald began and ended his family research well before the advent of the internet; spending countless hours in numerous historical libraries across the southeast United States.

Even as I type these words, I am sitting just feet away from a room which houses a large bookcase full to the brim with my unpublished works, as well as several versions of thick family research binders which my father compiled during the 5^th and 6^th decades of his life on this planet.

My dad often mused that he hoped I would write a book about his great great Grandfather Isham McDonald; a Scottish immigrant who fought for this fledgling nation during the Revolutionary War. However, just as often as he mused it, I reminded him that we had all of two paragraphs of historical information about our ancient foreign grandfather, and that if I wrote a book, it would be largely fictional in nature.  Well, he couldn’t countenance such blasphemy.

But perhaps I did him one better.

You see, my father left behind eight or ten hours of audio tapes on which he told stories of his childhood and military life. A few years after his passing, I not only transferred his voice to a hard drive, but have transcribed every word of it into written form.

I’m proud of my dad, and I’m glad I had a part in keeping his memory alive for those of us who cherish him, and his progeny who never had the privilege of knowing him.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ONE OF THOSE DAYS. ONE OF THOSE YEARS

Have you ever had “one of those days?” I think we all have. Today was “one of those days” for my wife and me, (as well as our little Queenie).

It all began when we decided to drive over to what I believe to be one of the longest boardwalks in Florida; near a secluded little town, about ten miles away, called “Homeland.”

Hoping into our 2015 Nissan Altima, we first drove to the post office. After Jean pulled into a parking space, I proceeded to open the passenger door, and as I stepped out the door, (and in her eagerness to go with me), our little twelve pound Shih Tzu… fell out on the pavement! Thankfully, I managed to break her fall with my left hand, and everything still seemed to be intact. But as I placed her back on the seat, her right paw came down on my inside elbow, and left two nasty red scratches.

Having walked into the post office, and retrieved our mail, I walked back out to the car, got in, and we drove to “Dollar General” to pick up a couple pair of sunglasses; a pair for me, and a pair for my wife. Walking into the store, I made my way to (what I thought was) the sunglasses rack.

Oddly enough, there were only a few pair of sunglasses, but a large number of reading glasses. As I inferred, the selection of sunglasses was very limited. There was one style for men and one style for women. Picking up one of each, I walked to the cash register, placed $17.19 in the cashier’s hand, and made my way back to our automobile.

(Or at least I thought it was our automobile. After all, it was the right color).

Pt. 2

Reaching for the passenger door handle, I found myself looking into the eyes of a man whom I had never seen in my life. I think my cheeks must have taken on the color of new fire engine. And after offering him a “Gomer Pyle” kinda wave, I noticed our car in the adjoining space.

Having finally stepped into the right vehicle, I handed my wife her pair of sunglasses.

And she immediately exclaimed,

“These are reading glasses!”

…which caused me to examine the pair I had in my hand. And “sure enough,” in the lower third of each frame was a half inch by half inch magnification inlay.

By now, it was apparent that this was, indeed, gonna be “one of those days. We mutually decided that I would return the sunglasses on a subsequent visit.

And we were off again.

The remainder of our trip to the local boardwalk “went swimmingly” until… we reached our intended destination. As we turned off the main road, and drove down a little lane upon which there are three entrances/exits to boardwalk, we noticed several county maintenance trucks, as many maintenance men as there were trucks, and… yellow tape strung between the side rails.

Pt. 3

Have you ever had “one of those days?” This was definitely “one of those days.” But, of course, it almost goes without saying, 2020 has been “one of those years.”

The Corona Virus has impacted the entire world, and whatever one may think of the pandemic, its terrible impact on our nation’s economy, and its significant physiological and psychological influence on our citizens cannot be denied.

And, of course, 2020 has brought with it protests, riots, looting, burning, arson, and sheer anarchy. And I think from the very conception of this nation, we have never seen a year like it.

One of those days and one of those years.

My favorite scriptural passage of all time is found in the Book of Hebrews.

“We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched by the feeling of our infirmities. But He was in all ways tempted like we are, yet without sin.

“Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)

It is comforting that the great “I AM” has already been there before us, and it is encouraging that nothing with which we will ever contend catches God unawares.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE VELVETEEN RABBIT (Excerpt - Becoming Real)

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" 

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." 

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. 

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." 

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

In the last five minutes of the last class of the last course in my Master's Degree program in Counseling our teacher chose to leave us with this quotation from, "The Velveteen Rabbit" and spoke of the importance of becoming real, and that 'realness' often requires quite some time and not a little suffering.

GOING HOME

Pt. 1

My wife and I were watching an English movie on NetFlix the other night. I forget the name of it, but it involved an elderly husband and wife, and the latter of the two was contending with a diagnosis of Stage 4 inoperable cancer. And although “Marge” was given the option of additional radiation treatments, she was told that this would only prolong “the evitable.”

And as you might expect, as the movie progresses, the disease does the same, and Marge finds herself walking the only sure and certain pathway common to every man, woman and child who has ever, and will ever live on this tiny blue marble.

In one poignant scene “Harry” and Marge are lying together in bed. By now Marge is in the last throes of the little time still remaining to her. And as she leans her head into the crook of Harry’s neck and shoulder, my wife says exactly the same thing I find myself thinking at the moment.

“You know, that will be us one day.”

Uhhhh! What a thunderously poignant consideration!

I stood by the gurney upon which my father lay after he had been transported, unresponsive, to the hospital, and I heard my mother say, “Henry, you can finally meet the mother you never knew.” I was at my mother’s bedside when she passed away a few years later. I will spare you the details, but I vividly recall that day long experience.


Pt. 2

Of course, over the course of the last couple of decades, as my parents and parent’s in law “shuffled off this mortar coil,” I have been all too aware that one generation precedes another, and, in turn, one generation follows another. And given that dynamic, I have often thought about the questions and subsequent answers which we find in scripture.

In Job 14:14 we read, “If a man die, will he live again?”

(The answer)?

“It is appointed unto man once to die, and after that the judgement.” (Hebrews 9:27)

Obviously, the implication of the last four words of the previous verse is that we will all be alive on the other side of this life, and we will all, in turn, stand before our Maker.

And as a believer, I have absolutely no fear of death, and what comes afterwards, since I have entrusted my soul to a faithful Savior, and I am convinced that He has a wonderful home for me in which I will dwell, and where I will be privileged to look into His lovely face forever.

However, I think it’s the “getting there” which is, as they say, “the rub.” I never thought about the process of dying when I was a child, or adolescent or young adult. I just didn’t. Sure, a couple of my classmates died during high school, and several during my young adult years. But I was too busy living to spend much time contemplating the brevity of life.

However, at this stage of my life, I am looking into a proverbial sunset. And not unlike a literal one, it is though the western horizon is lit with the oranges and reds, and gradually deepening shadows so reminiscent of that portion of the day.


Pt. 3

My wife served as a visiting hospice nurse for several years, and has, as you might imagine, been in the presence of death numerous times, and watched many of her patients take their last breath, and go on to their eternal reward; (or the lack thereof).

As her husband, only one of her patients is truly memorable, since, of course, I never accompanied her when she did home visits.

However, “as I was going about my business” one day, I received a call from Jean, and she asked if I would mind singing a song to one of her patients. “Jonathan” was apparently a Christian, and, no doubt, my wife had told him that her husband would be glad to sing to him.

Of course, I acquiesced. How could I do otherwise? And, while I don’t recall greeting the man, nor telling him, “goodbye,” when I was done, I held the phone close to my lips, and proceeded to sing, “Amazing Grace” to this deserving soul.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now I’m found

Was blind, but now I see”

My wife told me later that as I sang this ageless hymn, “Mr. Johnson’s” feeble little arms gradually lifted from the bed on which he lay, and it seemed he mouthed the words along with me.

When it comes to this subject, I have often made the statement,

“We all get our turn.”

And, indeed, we will. But when it comes to those months, or weeks, or days or moments in which we will find ourselves in the real-life roles of Harry and Marge, the movie characters of whom I previously wrote, I think we can trust our risen Lord to help us, as we navigate the final pathway of life.

I recently tended a sparrow with a broken wing which had fallen from its nest. And I could not help but think of the statement of our Lord in Mathew Chapter 10. And it comforts me that if God is aware of the falling of some of the smallest of His creations, He is all too aware of the passing of His noblest creation.

I believe, and I am sure that He will give His angels charge over you and me, as we bid ‘farewell” to this life, and we say ‘hello’ to the next.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ARMCHAIR MOUNTAINEERS

I posted a photo of Mt. Everest on my Facebook page which my daughter took in Nepal last year. As a result, one of my social media friends commented, and we began a running dialogue about my interest in the sport of mountaineering.

And when La-Ray wondered why I didn’t climb Everest myself, I replied,

“Well, honestly, I'm more of an ‘armchair mountaineer.’ If one is to do it seriously, he has to have monetary sponsors, since the time element which goes into climbing mountains would naturally make a vocation of the sport.

“It would require acclimating to the smaller peaks first, and building up to a mountain like Everest. It is a very expensive line of work since between a mountain guide, and the Sherpas who carry all the gear, and the price the country charges to climb it, the cost is upwards of $50,000 for one go at it.

“And many people don't realize that climbing a mountain like Everest takes about 2 weeks, since a series of camps are set up as you climb ever closer to the summit. And when it comes to statistics, most astounding of all… 1 out of 6 people who attempt to summit Everest… don’t come back down.

“I think I will probably just keep reading books about it.”

However, after I wrote the previous response, it occurred to me that we, as believers, have all been called to climb mountains, and that each and every one of us are, at one time or another, called to climb a figurative Mt. Everest.

And I think in the course of our Christian journey, our Lord is gracious to allow us to experience, and acclimate to the smaller peaks first; before He sets a really high one in our pathway.

And it is easy to become disillusioned, and come close to giving up. I mean, we have all been there. Things may fall together very smoothly for weeks, months, and even years, and then, “Boom” we are in the midst of a proverbial storm. The circumstances of life can, at times, be devastating, and we find ourselves surrounded by mountains which we can neither walk around, nor tunnel through.


Pt. 2

As I write these words, I am reminded of the little volume called, “Pilgrim’s Progress.”

Near the end of the book, we find a character named, “Christian” in the midst of climbing up a steep mountain. However, his attempt to reach the summit is hampered by a weight which he carries on his back. And since the book is an allegory, it is not a stretch to realize that the weight represents sin, and pride, and unforgiveness, and bitterness, and any number of other things which aren’t good for those of us who claim to love and serve the Lord.

And as Christian continues to climb, and his ascent slows to a virtual crawl, the baggage falls from his back, and bounces down the steep terrain. Suddenly, he is free, and his journey is no longer impeded by the unnecessary weight. Now he is able to make sure and steady progress. So reminiscent of Hebrews Chapter 12.

“Let us strip off everything which hinders us, and let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us.”

“Pilgrim’s Progress” has much to teach us. In the course of our proverbial mountain treks of life, we need to shed the unnecessary weight which hinders us, and always remember how He has helped us in the past.

I love that oh so encouraging verse in First Corinthians.

“No temptation has taken you, but such is common to mankind. But God is faithful, and will not allow you to be tempted above what you are able. And will with the temptation also provide you a way of escape.”

The view from the top of a mountain like Everest is utterly amazing, but our journey to the top is fraught with danger, and no little despair, and disillusionment.

And while when it comes to the literal Mt. Everest most of us will remain “armchair mountaineers,” there are no armchair mountaineers when it comes to the Kingdom of God. Each and every believer will, at some time or the other, be called to climb his own emotional or spiritual Mt. Everest.



Thankfully, the One who during His life on earth climbed, as it were, a higher mountain than Everest, and whose cross graced the summit of Golgotha has gone before us, and He will guide us safely to the end of our journey.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE OLD SCHOOL BELL

Fifty, perhaps sixty years ago my grandmother gave me an old school bell like Laura Ingalls Wilder might have used to summon her students back into the classroom after recess. I’m sure I once knew where she got the bell, but, if so, I have long since forgotten.

I loved and treasured that bell for decades, and often picked it up, and admired its weathered steel lower, and its walnut toned handle. And it was impossible to examine it without also giving it a little “ding a ling” in order to recreate the same peal of vibrant sound by which some teacher’s students, now long since gone, were summoned in the 19^th century.

I have been thinking a great deal about that bell lately. You see, I have no idea where it is at this moment. I mean I have racked my brain to recall where it is, or to whom I gave it. And I honestly don’t have a clue. And I am the poorer for it.

I almost feel like I have betrayed my grandmother since she obviously valued it, and expected to pass it on to her oldest grandchild, and subsequently did so. Of course, I am all too aware that it still exists. It certainly has not spontaneously dematerialized from the earth.

I have often thought about some of my own things which have passed through my hands through the years.

A New York City policeman’s badge. A large red flint arrowhead, a medicine vial containing my tonsils, (yes, my tonsils), an old report card featuring my favorite teacher’s handwritten scrawl on the back.

And I have often wondered where the stuff of past generations resides today.

The cane upon which my great grandfather leans in an old black and white photograph. A broach which once adorned the neck of a great aunt. The CSA uniform of a long since departed uncle; who fought in that great conflagration which was the American Civil War.



Where ever my grandmother’s bell happens to be, I hope its owner has some grasp of its rich history, and every now and then gives it a little “ding a ling.”

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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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

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. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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. 6

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

Bottom 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

If you wish to copy, share or save, please include the credit line, above

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.