I'LL REMEMBER YOU

4485

I drove up to Dollar Tree this morning, as I needed to pick up some greeting cards. (Just prior to each new month, I check my computer files for all my family, and friends who have upcoming birthdays, and anniversaries).

 

Having finished shopping, including a couple of unplanned purchases, (such as cheesecake and paper plates), I took my place in a long line preparing to check out. Just then, another cashier stepped behind another checkout lane, and announced it was open.

 

With this, a young man, apparently Filipino or Indonesian, encouraged me to go first, and the two of us took our places in that particular checkout lane.

 

As the cashier began to scan my greeting cards, and other items, I turned to the young fella, and said,

 

"So, you let the old guy go first."

 

Of course, he smiled.

 

I continued.

 

"You know, one day you'll be as old as me, and I'll be long gone."

 

And with this, the young stranger said something which was so much like the sort of thing I have been known to say in similar circumstances.

 

"Well, when I reach your age, I'll remember this day, and I won't forget you."

 

You would have to know me, but his unexpected assurance, (as John Wesley might have said), "warmed my heart."

 

(Yeah, it did)

 

I'm a big advocate of leaving something behind, whether it be ancestry resources, or family photos, or something a bit more intangible, such as kind words, or the spiritual impact we exercise on another human being.

 

And, of course, my momentary friend's words indicated that I had unwittingly left one more thing behind; (his memory of our interaction in the checkout lane at Dollar Tree in January of 2025). And, in essence, he had given me the gift of being remembered, and living on, as it were, long past my mortal homegoing.

 

And now, I thanked the young man.

 

"I appreciate your kind words. They mean so much to me."

 

(and)

 

"I'm Bill. Remember old Bill."

 

(and)

 

"What's your name?"

 

He spoke for the final time.

 

"I'm Lee."

 

As the cashier handed me the bag containing my purchases, I smiled, and said,

"Thank you, Lee. Thank you so much."

 

I'm doubtful I will ever see my young friend again, but I am confident he will remember our momentary interaction; long after I have gone on to my reward.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

(The foregoing remembrance occurred and was written on January 20, 2025, Inauguration Day of the 47^th President of the United States of America, as well as Martin Luther King Day)

MY MONKEY & ME

 4484

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 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.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD 

*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 my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey 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.”

(Kim Frye)

“I and two other guys, all around 15 in approx. 1970 out of Bartow hired on for the Summer at that Caladium Farm w/ Mr. Frye, pulling weeds and cutting bulbs. There was a mischievous Spider Monkey (actually a squirrel monkey) there and if I recollect correctly, a sort of tropical forest or the sorts, back behind the Main Shed. Also if correct, there was a fairly old Lady who dipped snuff and had worked there for many years who could out do us youngsters. I think her son was there too.

(Stephen McWhorter)

THE TIME TRAVELING PASSENGER LINER

 4483

The passenger steamer SS Warrimoo was quietly knifing its way through the waters of the mid-Pacific on its way from Vancouver to Australia. The navigator had just finished working out a star fix and brought Captain John DS. Phillips, the result.

 

The Warrimoo's position was LAT 0º 31' N and LONG 179 30' W. The date was 31 December 1899. "Know what this means?" First Mate Payton broke in, "We're only a few miles from the intersection of the Equator and the International Date Line". Captain Phillips was prankish enough to take full advantage of the opportunity for achieving the navigational freak of a lifetime.

He called his navigators to the bridge to check & double check the ship's position. He changed course slightly so as to bear directly on his mark. Then he adjusted the engine speed.

The calm weather & clear night worked in his favor. At mid-night the SS Warrimoo lay on the Equator at exactly the point where it crossed the International Date Line! The consequences of this bizarre position were many:

The forward part (bow) of the ship was in the Southern Hemisphere & in the middle of summer.
The rear (stern) was in the Northern Hemisphere & in the middle of winter.

The date in the aft part of the ship was 31 December 1899.
In the bow (forward) part it was 1 January 1900.

This ship was therefore not only in:
Two different days,
Two different months,
Two different years,
Two different seasons

But in two different centuries - all at the same time!

(Author Unknown)

AN ENCOUNTER WITH GRETEL

 4482

I pedal five miles a day five days a week. As a rule, I go out at 4 or 5am. (“O Dark City”). Over the past few years, I have written numerous stories about my experiences on my morning treks. And I can tell you, I have experienced some pretty amazing and unexpected things.

Without going into detail here (since I have previously done so) counting the following story, I have alluded to five such situations which occurred on the same city block; just a few hundred yards from my home.

This morning, as I was completing my five mile trek, I noticed a figure approaching me on the sidewalk. (I only ride on the sidewalk). As the person got closer, I realized the individual was a young lady of perhaps 30. As we neared one another, I pushed my bike light down towards the concrete, quit pedaling, and pushed my bike along with my left foot.

“Gretel” seemed unsure on which side of the sidewalk she would continue to walk, but finally chose the left side. As a result, I moved to my left, as well. Thirty feet, twenty feet and…

“Hello.”

I replied in kind.

“Hello.”

And now, I noticed she would throw her right foot out forward, and 45 degrees to the right side, and she would take a smaller forward step with her left foot. I immediately surmised Gretel was inebriated.

Now, as I passed her, she said,

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

And now, I thought to myself…

“She doesn’t sound drunk.”

(and)

“Perhaps she is simply disabled.”

And as before, I replied in kind.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

I had pedaled another ten feet when I heard the young lady say,

“I wonder if I could ask you a question?”

I looked behind me, and saw that she had stopped walking, and was looking in my direction.

Now, I surmised Gretel was going to ask me for money.

At this point I had a decision to make. Would I turn my bike around, and pedal back to her, or would I continue pedaling?

I chose the second of the two options, and I arrived home five minutes later.

I have regretted my choice.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

STAY ENCOURAGED

 4481

I was a member of the U.S. Air Force at the time, and my wife and I were attending a large church in Tampa.

And as is the case with many evangelical churches, Pastor Matheny occasionally brought in guest speakers. However, this time around the guest evangelist was, to say the least, different than all the rest who proceeded him.

Other than his Mississippi accent, Rev. Brown possessed one particular trait which separated him from every other evangelist with whom I’d been acquainted in my (at that time) 20+ years of life on this planet. (And to be sure, I’ve never seen that trait recreated in the almost half century since).

Now and then, as the good reverend reached a point in his sermon which he thought worthy of a figurative exclamation mark, he would throw out his right leg at a 45 degree angle. I suppose this occurred all of six or eight times during the course of every 45 minute message, and which he faithfully performed throughout the one week series of revival meetings.

The last night of his meetings finally arrived, and as his final sermon concluded, the audience was invited to ‘q up’ and wish the evangelist ‘God speed;’ as he prepared to travel to his next engagement. And although I have stood behind numerous pulpits and counseled thousands, I still possess a bit of introvertism I seem to bring to certain situations. However, this was obviously not one of them, since I had especially enjoyed the evangelist’ messages, and his strange little mannerism struck me both humorous and unique.

As the line ebbed, and I brought up the rear, I reached out to shake the good preacher’s hand, and he reciprocated. And looking me directly in the eye, Rev. Brown said something no one had said to me before, (nor since).

…“Stay Encouraged.”

I have previously written about those people whom you meet once in a lifetime, but whose impact lingers for as long.

The little waitress in California named Jamie who bore an uncanny resemblance to the television character, “Anne of Green Gables,” and whose photo my wife and I procured before departing the premises.

Bob, a mental patient in the same facility as my daughter, who sadly informed me that “nobody comes to see me here. Not my daddy, not my mama, not my family” (and) “Would you hug me?” (Which I proceeded to do right there in front of God and everybody).

Gary, a college student and summer hiker on the Appalachian Trail, whom my dad invited to share our North Carolina campsite, and with whom we wiled away the hours prior to retiring for the night.

The unidentified woman who approached me and a couple of other National Guardsmen, as we stepped out of a local McDonald’s in the Homestead area of Florida; after the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. Our M-16’s hung from our shoulders, ‘Jane’ (as in Jane Doe) stepped up to me, wrapped her arms firmly around me, and exclaimed, “You guys don’t know how much we appreciate you being here for us,” and quickly stepped away.

I cannot begin to guess what became of Rev. Brown, (nor for that matter, Jamie, Bob, Gary or Jane) and yet I am the better for, as brief as our passing was, having known them.

God knows how many times I have reflected upon those two words which the evangelist bequeathed to me, how I have found succor in them, and which I have countless times offered to others in my various and sundry roles as Counselor, Professor, Minister and Friend.

There’s a wonderful verse in my favorite book of scripture which has as its core a similar implication.

“But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another.” (Hebrews 3:13)

We live in difficult times; times in which many of us are bowed down with doubt, discouragement and despair. I like to believe that I have exercised my role of encourager well, and that I have offered my clients, students, parishioners and friends much the same thing someone once offered me.

Life is too brief and too fraught with pain to withhold the healing balm of our words and actions.

Stay Encouraged.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

TEAR OFF THE LABEL. Pts. 1-3

4480

Pt. 1

Rev. Tim Hill, a well known evangelical minister, once shared a message in which he presented a poignant illustration of a childhood memory.

I will allow him to tell the story (paraphrased)

My family didn't have much when I was a child. We just got by. And, as you might imagine, when it came time for Christmas, my seven siblings and I got just one gift.

My mother, in particular, was very practical. (Considering my parent's income, she had to be). As a result, each of us received "sensible" gifts for our birthdays and Christmas.

I was eight or nine when the holidays rolled around that year, and on Christmas day, my parents lined us up in the living room; from the oldest to the youngest.

Now, mama walked down the line, and handed each one of us a custom wrapped gift; each one a duplicate of the previous one.

Stripping off the red and gold wrapping paper, my brothers, sisters and I found ourselves holding... matching pillows.

(I kid you not).

And now, without exception, each and every one of us smiled the biggest smiles we'd smiled in a long time.

You see, we were used to sleeping on old hand me down pillows.

The pillows we held in our hands were large, comfortable, clean, and white, and covered with pillow cases bearing illustrations of sun flowers.

Pt. 2

We had all been laying our heads on old, worn out pillows for years, and we were thrilled to get something soft and clean. Tonka trucks and baby dolls, (depending on our respective gender), was the last thing on our minds that day.

I simply could not wait to lay my head down on my prized possession that Christmas night.

And after dining on a simple meal of turkey, and dressing, and green beans, and corn on the cob, mama kissed us, and shooed us off to our bedrooms.

I had already laid my pillow exactly where I would plop my head down that evening. And without further adieu, I eased my head down on my beautiful "rectangular cloud" and pulled my old gray cover up around my neck.

Oh, how good that new Christmas pillow felt!

However, as I moved my head, I felt something rough rub against my neck. Suddenly, I wasn't all that comfortable.

Making sure my door was closed, I turned on my bedside lamp, and examined my pillow. It was then I saw it. A three by two inch label. I began to read it.

"All new cotton pillow case, and pillow. Sterile chicken feathers."

And then, my gaze shifted downwards, and I read the last line of print...

"Under penalty of law, do NOT remove this label."

Now, I read those nine words a second time, and I thought,

"What? Are you kidding me?"

(and)

"I've never even heard of the Pillow Label Police!"

(But, I could just see a couple of the men in blue wearing specially designed badges, engraved with those three words, knocking on our front door)!

It was then that I summoned up the courage to... tear the label off the pillow! Noone was going to tell me I had to lay my head against that rough label for the next several years!

And with this, I stuffed the label down beneath whatever happened to be in my trash basket at the time.

Pt. 3

Which leads me to the implication of Rev. Hill's message...

Tear Off the Label!!!

As a counselor I have met with multiplied thousands of men, women, boys and girls over the years. And I can tell you, one of the most egregious characteristics I have encountered is the presence of "labels" in their lives, and the genesis of these labels was, more often than not, during their formative years.

Some were told they were too stupid to amount to anything.

Others were told they were too ugly, and would never find someone to love them.

Some were teased about a physical characteristic.

Others were tormented about a speech impediment.

And then, there are those who have managed to label themselves, and have accused themselves, and mischaracterized themselves all their lives.

Well, my friends. It's time to tear off the labels!!!

I love a line in the Victorian novel, "Jane Eyre"...

"Your wounds are sad to behold, but you are NOT your wounds."

We must not allow our wounds to characterize us!

Whoever said "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me" didn't have a clue what they were saying.

It behooves us as believers to throw off the verbal and psychological shackles which have kept us bound for far too long. And we simply can't do this by accident. Only wrecks happen by accident. It has to be done on purpose. It is a whole new mindset.

Our Lord has said, "I have loved you with an everlasting love."

And when someone asked Him how much He loved us, He spread His arms out to His side, and received those ghastly wounds in His hands, and shouted,

"THIS much!"

Tear off those labels which have characterized you for far too long, my friend! The only "Label Policeman" is our soul's natural enemy, and he is a defeated foe! Our Lord has loved you with an everlasting love, and He has given you a new label.

"Declared worthy and ever loved of the Father. Property of the King of kings and Lord of lords. Sons and Daughters of the Most High God!"

by Bill McDonald, PhD

DR. STANLEY'S PRAYER CLOSET

 4479

I was watching a video of the legacy service for Dr. Charles Stanley yesterday. The new pastor, Anthony George, had stepped to the pulpit and was sharing a few stories about his and Dr. Stanley's relationship with one another over the course of several decades.

 

It seems Rev. George had been hired as the associate pastor during the 1980's. There was a wide range in their ages, as he was about 40 at the time, and Dr. Stanley had turned 80. Before much time had elapsed, Anthony realized that he was much more a personal assistant to the lead pastor than his actual title conveyed.

 

There were times when the divorced and evidently lonely Dr. Stanley would ask his associate pastor to come over for pizza, and they would settle down with a movie like, "Patton." (You might surmise correctly that this writer was a bit surprised by that particular choice in movies as "Patton" is replete with some pretty strong language).

 

One story stood out from among the rest for its abject humor. Rev. George was still new on the job when Dr. Stanley said,

 

"Anthony, let me introduce you to my prayer closet."

 

The good understudy promptly followed Rev. Stanley to a 10x10 room in a nondescript hallway. Opening the door, the two men stepped in, and the pastor closed the door, and proceeded to turn out the overhead light. Blackness permeated their surroundings, and the younger man wondered what would happen next.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a bit, enough light permeated the threshold beneath the door to provide the assistant a clue, and now he watched closely.

 

"Dr. Stanley dropped to his knees. I followed his lead and dropped to my knees. Now, he got down on all fours. ('Pretty agile for a man of 80,' I thought). And now, now he prostrated himself on the carpet. I did the same."

 

Several hundred men, women and children seemed captivated by his story. I know I was.

 

"I was new at this 'prayer closet' thing, and I figured I would just do and say what Dr. Stanley did and said. Suddenly, my mentor 'let out' with a 'Yes, Lord!' I echoed his words. 'Yes, Lord!'"

 

By now Rev. George's listeners were laughing.

 

"And then silence permeated the dark prayer room. It seems the good pastor thought of prayer as a conversation between him and God; as if they both had something to say. And then, just as suddenly as before Dr. Stanley seemed to muse,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

"I promptly responded with,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

The laughter grew louder.

 

"And then only silence for several minutes 'til the 'Yes, Lord's' and 'Hmmm's' began again. I can tell you that Dr. Stanley was a prayer warrior, and though my prayer room experience with him wasn't the most comfortable thing I'd ever done, I was blessed to have him as my friend and mentor for several decades."

 Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

 

LOSING A PRESIDENT

 4478

I missed one day of school during my entire 1963-1964 school year. As the day dawned clear and a bit cool, I wasn’t feeling well, and I asked my mother if she would allow me to stay home. It seemed a shame to ruin my perfect attendance, but my mom realized I wasn’t a “sluff-off,” (as we referred to a slacker) and she nodded her approval. (By this time, re. last chapter, we were on better “footing” again.)

I happened to be watching television about the lunch hour, comfortably situated in our family’s business office, sitting in my mother’s typing chair, and with my feet propped up on her desk.

Suddenly, there was a news break; something which rarely happened in those days. In recent years, we may see two or three so-called “news breaks” a day on networks like CNN or MS-NBC, but fifty years ago the old television cameras had to be warmed up prior to a coming on the air with a live broadcast. Thus, (as I recall) on this particular day a photo of Walter Cronkite was posted on the screen with live audio feed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Walter Cronkite. I’m coming to you with what appears to have been a shooting in Dallas, Texas. We’re in the process of validating the following information, but it appears President Kennedy has been shot by an unknown assailant in the City of Dallas. There are also reports that Governor Connelly of Texas was also hit as their vehicle drove past the Texas School Book Depository. We will be joining you in a live, extended report momentarily.” 

After a few minutes, live footage of the world famous newsman flickered on the screen. The veteran anchor was obviously anxious, and he stumbled over a few of his words. And every half minute or so, he pulled his glasses off his face and spoke directly into the camera. Cronkite repeated his previous remarks a couple of times with minor variations. It was definite now. The president had been gravely wounded, and his limo had just arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital.

The minutes ticked by and sometime after 1PM Eastern Time, old Walter confirmed what, based on the news reports, Americans expected to hear.

“It has been substantiated now,” and taking off his glasses, and looking up at the clock on the wall, “President Kennedy died,” his voice faltered, and tears appeared in his eyes, …“President Kennedy died at approximately 1PM, CT.”

The date was November 22, 1963, not unlike an equally traumatic day which transpired two decades earlier, “A Day that will live in Infamy.”

Over the next 72 hours, America witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald arrested and accused of the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, we watched fascinated as our beautiful, cultured first lady stepped off Air Force One, her beloved husband’s blood obscuring the natural color of her legs, we watched the accused assassin  gunned down on live television, the funeral of our beloved president was televised, and while millions lingered in a state of shock, his mortal remains were interred on a hillside in Arlington National Cemetery.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4477

Pt. 1

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. 2

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. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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