YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING OLD WHEN...

 4512

YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING OLD WHEN...

1. You pay for your groceries at Publix in the self checkout, and before you walk out of the store two bag girls ask if you need help getting your buggy out to your car.

2. You are driving your late mother's car, and her disabled tag is still in the side pocket, and you think about parking in a disabled space.

3. Your former clients, friends, and acquaintances begin their sentences with "He was..." and suddenly realize you haven't died yet.

4. The worship leader asks everyone to stand for the song service, and the chair you are seated in seems like a better option.

5. You grow a goatee to cover up the wrinkles on the south side of your face.

6. You use outdated words like "swell," "keen," and "cool."

7. You criticize the "holey" jeans and pants "hanging off the arse" fads, but you appear at Walmart in your pajamas.

8. You were born in the first half of the 20th Century, you knew people who were born in the 19th Century, and the child of a soldier who fought in the Civil War.

9. You learned to type on a manual typewriter.

10. The great grandchildren of adolescents who once attended the boy's group of which you were a leader are now attending the same group.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I WILL BE RIGHT BACK

 4511

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, and, of course, 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 Bill McDonald, PhD

DR. JIM & SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4510

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint. 

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

LIVING MESSAGES

 4509

I once emailed a former university student of mine, after I noticed a somewhat dubious post on social media relating to her supposed impact, or the lack thereof on her pupils.

"I can relate, Doris. Though I have counseled thousands, taught hundreds, and mentored dozens, there have been times when I wondered if I had achieved anything at all.

"Admittedly, there have been those who have let me down altogether, who are mediocre, and are content to remain stuck. However, with the benefit of time, the verbal 'thank you's' and written letters, and the change which has been obvious in the maturing lives of those whom I have impacted has convinced me that, 'well, yes, you have made a difference.'"

I love an adage I once saw at a graduation exercise. 

"My students are living messages to a time that I will never see." 

There is an excellent old Twilight Zone episode in which an aging, retired college professor muses about this same topic; whether his life ever meant all that much to anyone in the scheme of things.

However, somehow, in a way that only happens on television, or in movies, (or in the seat of a proverbial time machine), Professor Jerguson finds himself in that same old classroom once again.

He stands at the front now looking over the same students who populated that first class which he ever taught at Willoughby Men's College. 

Now, one rather handsome young lad stands, and speaks.

"Dr. Jerguson, you remember me? I'm Ralph Simms. I died in one of the multitude of trenches that characterized the War to End All Wars. You were on my mind when I enlisted in the Army. I remembered how you advocated patriotism and our duty to our country. One of my last conscious thoughts, the day I died, was of you."

Now, another sandy-haired fellow stands up.

"You must remember me, professor. I'm Leo Patterson. I realize I didn't make very good grades. But honestly, you taught me more from your words, and demeanor, than I ever learned from your assignments. I went on to pastor a church. Oh, it wasn't a very large church, but the love of God radiated in the lives of my parishioners. I often alluded to you, as I stood in the pulpit of that little sanctuary; just how much you meant to me, and the qualities which you instilled in me!"

And then, another former student stands, one whose features seem so familiar to the old professor.

"Hello Dr. J. I know you remember me. I'm Jimmy Ryan. I was voted 'The Most Likely to Succeed.' Well, I like to think I did. I didn't exactly make a name for myself. But I did what I felt called to do; what I continue to do to this day. You see, I am a teacher like you. I work in an obscure little Indian school on a reservation out west. I have often encouraged, and challenged my students with the concepts and adages which you lent to us so long ago. Not one of us in this classroom today have forgotten you, nor the lessons you taught us. We never can. We never will!"

Doris, you are a giant upon whose shoulders the next generation stands. You are a link in an unbroken chain which stretches backwards into infinity.

One of my counseling interns once spontaneously shared the following words to me... 

"Dr. Bill, I don't want to disappoint you. I'll go for you when you can't go. I'll speak for you when you can no longer speak. I'll reach, teach and keep people in your name when you have gone on to your reward." 

I believe your students are in so many ways, shapes, and forms saying the same thing to you, my dear former student, and friend. Hang in there, Doris, and stay encouraged. 

The end is not yet distinguishable from the beginning. The tale has not yet been told. The truth has not yet been found out. Days that have not yet been lived out, and seasons which have not yet dawned will make everything manifest, and may offer the kind of assurance which is sorely lacking at this present moment in time.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

BEFORE I BECOME SOMEONE'S MEMORY

 4508

Pt. 1

I was just reading from a volume written by an Australian social media friend. Laine lost her husband a few years ago, and understandably, it has taken some amount of time to begin to transcend her loss.

And it occurred to me that one day, someday, someone will also be

…thinking of me in the past tense.

While, as believers, we are on a train leading to a known destination, we have never ridden this particular conveyance before, and the depot to which we journey remains an unknown quality. Nebulous, and apart from the assurance that the One who loved us and gave Himself for us will be there to meet us, there is a certain anxiety for our never having pulled into that singular station before.

We simply have no tape or scale by which it might be measured, the Hereafter, since it has not been the practice of those who have gone before us to return to this mortal coil; (although some have claimed to have experienced momentary visitations).

After my father’s passing, my mother awoke to discover her dear Henry; seating in the bedside rocking chair. He had the brightest smile on his face, though he said nothing. Seconds later, he disappeared. You can imagine what comfort my mother derived from the event. I can relate since I have experienced several miracles during the course of my two thirds of a century on this earth; including the momentary, visible presence of what (or whom) I believe was an angel.

And yet, for all the comfort such experiences provide us, and even for the assurances of scripture, we are left with an opaque reflection of God and heaven.

“We see through a glass darkly… (but then, face to face.)”

Pt. 2

Too many of my classmates “left us before their time.” At least, this seems to be the standard phrase to describe those who were denied a long and full life here.

I think of one young lady, in particular, (though there were others who died in their teens, and more who passed from this earth before reaching the nominal age of departure).

Beth was a dear Christian girl, a year behind me, and in my choral group. She lost her life in a one car accident during her second semester of high school. I have often reflected on the good she might have done and the impact she might have had; were she to have been granted the number of years which have, thus far, been granted to me.

Nevertheless, none of us can stay here, and as I have often quipped to my clients and interns, “We will all get our turn.”

(And indeed, we will).

I am SO absolutely sensitive to the awareness that I will soon become someone else’s memory that I am, on a daily basis, in the process of “leaving something behind.”

For you see, not a day goes by that I fail to write 8 or 10 pages in a journal to which I have assigned a title which includes the word, “diary;” (though, in fact, it is an exhaustive series of blogs and stories). And I ‘save’ these writings to a couple of duplicate hard drives, and file paper copies away in binders.

Following is a portion of the preface I have included at the top of each of the one hundred plus complete volumes of my ‘diary,’ (which I have thus far written).

I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal

… absolutely nothing.

And I have often mused, “Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves.

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, “before you were even a twinkle.”

You deserve it.

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing…

We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak.

While there is still time,

… Leave something of yourself behind.

Pt. 3

There’s a commercial on TV which advertises “The American Association of Retired Persons.” In it we see a rather attractive senior citizen walking down a woodsy pathway.

And then her supposed voice muses,

“I’m sixty. I have a long life ahead of me. Places to go. Things to do.”

And without fail I talk back to my television.

“No, you don’t! You don’t have a long life ahead of you. Lady, look in the mirror. Smell the coffee. You just said you were sixty years old! All things being equal, you’ll be dead in less than twenty years!”

And yet, people her age and my age have been given SUCH a gift. The gift of time and impact. A gift that many younger than us were denied. So like the lines from one of my favorite movies, in which the major character expresses his gratitude to his employees and friends; at a birthday party they have arranged for him.

“I’m going to break precedent, and tell you my ‘one candle wish’…that you would have a life as lucky as mine, where you can wake up one morning, and say, ‘I don’t want anything more.’”

(and)

“Sixty-five years. Don’t they go by in a blink?” (“Meet Joe Black”)

The longer I live, the exceedingly more grateful I continue to be for having experienced such a comparatively long and incomparably rich life on God’s good earth.

And on a daily basis I pray that I may successfully fulfill the remainder of the destiny which God dreamed for me before He spoke the worlds into place, and before

…I become someone else’s memory.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

CURTAIN THE CAT

 4507

"For twenty years, a stray cat lived beneath the stage of a Broadway theater. Actors came and went. Shows opened and closed. She stayed. When COVID shut Broadway down on March 12, 2020, the theater went dark. The cat didn't leave. A security guard checking the building once a week found her sitting in the same seat in the orchestra section every night. Row F, Seat 7. For 487 days."

The Belasco Theatre on West 44th Street has been open since 1907. It is one of Broadway's most storied houses — home to legendary productions, ghost stories, and a reputation for being haunted by the spirit of its founder, David Belasco.

It is also home to a cat.

The stagehands discovered her sometime around 2001 — a small grey tabby living in the trap room beneath the stage. No one knew how she got in. No one tried very hard to get her out. She ate mice. She was quiet. She was theater.

They called her Curtain.

For twenty years, Curtain lived in the building. She watched rehearsals from the wings. She slept on the prop tables. She walked across the stage during tech — always during tech, never during a show, as if she understood the difference. Actors would arrive for a new production and be told: "There's a cat. She's been here longer than you. Don't feed her dairy."

She saw productions come and go. She saw standing ovations and early closings. She saw understudies become stars and stars become memories. She stayed.

On March 12, 2020, Broadway went dark. Every theater. Every show. Every light.

The Belasco was locked. The company was sent home. The sets stayed in place. The ghost light — the single bare bulb left burning on an empty stage, a Broadway tradition — was turned on.

Curtain was inside. No one came to get her. The building manager arranged for a security guard to check the building once a week — walk the house, check the pipes, make sure nothing was flooding or freezing.

On his first check, three days after shutdown, the guard found Curtain. Not backstage. Not in the trap room. Not in the wings.

She was in the house. Sitting in an orchestra seat. Row F, Seat 7. Facing the stage.

She was watching the ghost light.

The guard noted it. He came back the next week. Same seat. Same position. Facing the empty stage.

Week after week. Month after month. For 487 days — the entire duration of the Broadway shutdown — Curtain sat in Row F, Seat 7 and watched a ghost light burn on an empty stage in a silent theater.

The guard started leaving food and water in the seat next to hers. She ate. She drank. She never moved to a different seat.

When he told the building manager, the manager told a stagehand, who told a dresser, who told an actor, who posted about it. The story spread through the Broadway community quietly — not as a viral post, but as a whispered piece of theater lore. The kind of story that gets told in dressing rooms and greenrooms and late-night bars on Restaurant Row.

The cat who wouldn't leave. The cat who sat in the audience every night during the longest dark in Broadway history and waited for the curtain to rise.

On September 14, 2021, Broadway reopened. The Belasco's first production back had its first preview on a Tuesday night. The house was full. The audience was crying before the show started — just from being back.

Curtain was not in Row F. She was backstage. In her spot. In the wings. Watching from the darkness as the stage lights came on for the first time in sixteen months.

A stagehand who had worked the Belasco for eleven years said he saw her in the wings that night — sitting perfectly still, ears forward, watching the stage fill with light and sound and life.

He said she blinked once. Slowly. The way cats do when they are content.

Then she walked back into the trap room and went to sleep.

Curtain is estimated to be at least twenty-three years old now. She is the longest-serving resident of any Broadway theater. She has survived renovations, productions, a pandemic, and the silence that follows when the lights go out and everyone leaves.

She is still there.

Row F, Seat 7 is unofficially retired. No ticket is sold for it on any production at the Belasco. If you ask the box office why, they'll say it's a sight-line issue.

The stagehands know the truth. It's not a sight-line issue.

It's Curtain's seat.

And she earned it by sitting in it every night for 487 days when no one else would.

(from a social media post)

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4506

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