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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).
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.
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.
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?’”
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.
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 6th cousins. No wonder they look alike.
By William McDonald, PhD
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