THE HAMMERS AND ANVILS OF MY LIFE

 4495

Pt. 1

In recent weeks, I have been handing out New Testaments to store clerks, bag boys, and others I meet along the highways and byways of life. (And, interestingly enough, given the 75 or 100 I have distributed thus far, every single one of the recipients have accepted these sacred volumes, and thanked me for them).

As I prepare to hand these volumes out, I always say something like,

"I have a little gift for you."

(or)

"Let me leave this little book with you."

My favorite little preface, however, is a bit more elaborate.

"Let me leave you a copy of a small volume my first grade teacher gave me... 70 years ago."

And, as you might imagine with this their eyes widen a bit.

Now, I pull the New Testament from my pocket, and lay it down; with the untitled back of the book "looking" at him or her; (in the unlikely possibility he or she might refuse it, if they see the title).

Pt. 2

Speaking of 70 years ago, and the decade which transpired thereafter, I have often reflected on my grade school, junior high, and high school teachers; (all of whom by now have, as far as I know, gone on to their reward).

Mrs. Sampson, my first and second grade teacher. (It was common in those days for the teacher to follow the class, to which he or she was assigned, for two years). I don't recall just how it came about, but she suggested that I perform the part of The Wizard; (the first two words in the four word title by which that famous book, play, and movie is known).

I will always remember having portrayed the fiery incarnation of the Wizard in which my cheeks were smeared with rouge. As I walked out onto the stage, the small incarnation of my current self was greeted with laughter. I will always recall my embarrassment, as I realized the audience found something humorous about my otherwise horrific manifestation of the little pretender.

And then, there was dear Mrs. Waters; (who I knew from church before I knew her in the classroom). And though I wasn't the best behaved of all her students, (I melted colorful crayons on the warm radiators which lined the walls, and dipped the pigtails of the girl in front of me into the inkwell on my desk), I seemed to be one of her favorites, nonetheless.

I will always remember Mr. Ball, or at least one experience which occurred in his sixth grade classroom. In January of '61, he pulled a little portable TV to the front center of the room, pulled the rabbit ears up a couple of notches, selected one of the three available channels, and turned a round knob, bottom front.

Our class was afforded the opportunity to view all two hours of the President John F. Kennedy inauguration. I will never forget his, "Ask not what your country can do for you...," (nor have I forgotten the preliminary poem, by Robert Frost). Our national Poet Laureate had written a poem he titled "Dedication" for this prestigious event. However, when the bright sunlight prevented the aging man from reading it, he quoted another poem which he'd relegated to memory, "The Gift Outright."

(Little could we have known at the time that our young president would be assassinated just short of three years later).

Pt. 3

Then, there was my 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Belflower. She made her students aware that she was Runner Up Miss Georgia, 1949. (Interestingly enough, the majority of her students that year were born in 1949). But, in spite of the old fashioned signature clothing, shoes, and hairstyles of that period, having done the math her pupils correctly deducted Mrs. Mary Duncan Belflower was a comparatively young 34 years of age at the time. (She would be just short of the century mark were she still with us today).

I will always remember that poignant line from the Scottish prayer which she taught us.

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

I will never forget a couple of lines she wrote in longhand on the back of one of my report cards.

"Royce has a significant amount of potential. If he invests the time and effort, he may find he likes English literature!"

(She must have been something of a minor prophet since in the last couple of decades, I have written several, (thus far yet), unpublished volumes).

And perhaps the most indelible memory of my entire 12 years in the public school system also included her; (though I only learned the details from my wife a few years ago).

For you see, just weeks after the Kennedy Assassination, an errant driver left the street in front of our school, and ran over eight or ten of our students. Several were seriously injured. One died. I would have been among them, but I managed to step aside; while also pulling a friend out of the path of the automobile.

And as I have inferred, in recent years my wife made me aware that she witnessed Mrs. Belflower running down the hallway towards the scene of the accident. 

And stopping next to her, she asked, 

"What happened? (and) "What did you see?" before disappearing out the hallway door.

Pt. 4

And finally, at least in terms of this story, there was the elderly, unmarried matron named Margaret Clark. By the time I arrived at Summerlin Institute in the mid-60's, she had been teaching in the county schools for a quarter of a century. 

She was a choral teacher par excellence. 

Miss Clark's choral classes consistently earned all Superior ratings at state contests. The highlight of the school year was her students' performances of Handel's "Messiah" during the Christmas season at the local Baptist church. Sadly, our beloved teacher developed cancer, and passed away during my senior year of high school; having been replaced by a much younger version of herself.

Post-script

I would not, could not be, who I am today without their presence in my life. 

How inestimably blessed I have been to have been shaped by these all too impactful, but all too human hammers and anvils.

As I find myself nearing the end of a third of a century of purposely, and desperately following their lead, and run with the proverbial baton which they have passed off to me, may those who I leave behind do the same.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

FOLLOW ME

 4494

Pt. 1

The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care

The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song; which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he attempted to express to his audience.

It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’ permeated the building that morning.

As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had not been privy, ‘til now.

“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Simba rebels in Africa just four years ago.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.

Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.

William McDonald, PhD

Pt. 2

A HERO OF THE FAITH
Originally Posted on March 11, 2014

It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.

J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.

For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”

During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.

When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.

When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.

Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”

My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.

Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)

Pt. 3                       

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,”
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,

"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

“Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,”

"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,

"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
“But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.”

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 4493

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 

I served as a counselor in a local ministry called House of Hope, a residential ministry to women newly released from prison, for about three years.

 

One day a new House Mother reported for duty, and I volunteered to take her duffle bag to her second floor bedroom. However, in doing so, I made a crucial mistake. I threw the bag over my RIGHT shoulder, and began climbing the first flight of stairs; (leaving me without a free hand to hold onto the banister). Step 1, Step 2, Step 3, Step 4.

 

Now, I reached the landing, turned and began to mount the longer flight of stairs. Step 5, Step 6, Step 7, Step 8... And now... I suddenly lost my balance, and dropped the duffle bag; in a futile attempt to grab the banister to arrest my all but certain fall.

 

And now, I felt myself falling backwards. Like a vehicle in reverse. Step 7, Step 6, Step 5. Shoulders, arms, legs, and rumpus bouncing down the unforgiving wooden stairs.

 

My momentum was, by this time, so dynamic that, when I hit the landing, I navigated the 90 degree angle with ease, and continued my short, but unforgettable journey down the staircase.

 

Step 4, Step 3, Step 2, Step 1. And now, I bounced onto the hard wooden floor from whence I came.

 

As I lay there attempting to regain my focus, and ascertain the damage to my body, I heard footsteps. Jana, the House Administrator, ran up to me, and screamed,

 

"Don't get up! Don't get up!"

 

(But, I did).

 

As far as I could tell, no broken bones, and, at least for the moment, no significant pain. (The bruises and somewhat less than moderate pain would become apparent in the next few days). I realized how blessed I was to have avoided paralysis, or death.

 

The new House Mother told me later that she had seen the whole grizzly thing. She said it was the most violent fall she had ever witnessed in her entire life.

 

I learned a very difficult, I mean HARD lesson that day.

 

Throughout my life, I have been prone to accidents, most, sadly, of my own making. (However, as I reflect on it now, at least I have rarely made the same stupid mistake more than once. It seems I find new, more innovative, and more dangerous ways to get myself in trouble)!

 

Somehow, I have reached the grand old age of the lucky double digits (77). God has been gracious... (in spite of my knack for falling down stairs, sailing head first off my bike, running through a glass door, falling off a ladder, finding myself in the middle of a crime scene, nearly being wiped out by a ten ton dragline bucket, flipping my car, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

AN OLD MAN. A NEW EXPERIENCE

 4492

AN OLD MAN. A NEW EXPERIENCE 

I was thinking about a suitable title for the following story, and then it came to me. As fitting a title, I think, as I have given to any of my stories.

For you see, at this writing I am quickly approaching another double digit. And I can only wonder how it is possible that I am on the eve of the big “77”. (I mean, I was just 12 yesterday).

But allow me to provide you some preliminary information.

Recently, my wife and I were visiting with our daughter, “Melanie” in Massachusetts during the Christmas holidays. And it just so happened that one of our sons, “John”, and his wife, “Janet”, a husband-wife cargo delivery truck team, were driving through the area, and they stopped by for a few days.

One morning while John and Janet were with us, (and unbeknownst to me), the latter of the two asked my wife a question, (but did not elaborate at the time).

“Has Bill ever sleep walked?”

To which my wife replied,

“No, not that I am aware of.”

However, the story began to unravel during a late breakfast the same day.

Janet began to tell us a story that I could hardly believe.

Looking at me, she said,

“Last night, well, actually just after daylight, you opened our bedroom door, and walked into the room. Then, you proceeded to walk over to the dresser. After this, you turned back towards the open door. However, as you passed the end of our bed, you stopped and…”

(It is important to understand that this point I had been chewing on half a small blueberry pancake, and I was in the process of swallowing the same).

Janet continued.

“You reached down and grabbed both of my feet; one in each hand!”

Now, I found myself choking on the pancake I had just begun to swallow, and I felt it go down the wrong way!

Grabbing my glass of orange juice, I downed a third of it before attempting to respond.

(Cough, cough) “Say what?”

Now, John spoke.

“I didn’t see you, but I heard you.”

(And I thought, “You certainly had a profound lack of curiosity at a time like that”)!

I looked at Janet again, and shook my head.

“Surely, you jest!”

And my daughter in law assured me she was not joking.

She continued.

“After you held my feet a few seconds, you turned, and walked through the door; leaving it open.”

As you might imagine, I immediately assured Janet that I had never done anything remotely like that in the past.

Now, I reflected on the night before. It is important to note that I had been sleeping in a recliner in the living room, as I do at home. (It all began when I broke my ankle years ago, and could not get comfortable in my bed, as I had worn a heavy plaster cast for six or eight weeks after the surgery).

Be that as it may, I recalled waking up in the same chair in which I laid down a few hours before my new experience, and with absolutely no memory of having wandered into their bedroom. (And suddenly, it occurred to me that had I chosen the door next to the bedroom door, I would have tumbled down a long flight of stairs to the basement)!

Now, I laughed, and asked my daughter in law,

“When I was playing with your feet, did I quote the nursery rhyme,

‘This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home…’”

Janet assured me that I was silent the entire time.

Now, my son laughed, and spoke again.

“If you had tried to get in bed with us, I would have ‘drawn the line’ right there!”

Now, we all laughed out loud!

As you might imagine, I thought about my new experience the remainder of that day, and, for that matter, for days afterward. The story was both humorous and humiliating at the same time!

 

Post-script

Remind me not to buy a summer home on the side of a cliff, or set up a tent next to a four lane highway!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

REQUIEM FOR A UPS TRUCK

 4491

Pt. 1

I drove a package car (delivery truck) for UPS for 20 years. It was the most excruciating, emotionally unrewarding, (but financially rewarding), job I ever worked in my 77 years on this good earth.

I still dream UPS, (and the dream is ALWAYS the same). I find myself driving ole 59299, and the sun is low on the horizon; beaming its last golden rays across the streets, and houses, and trees, and hedges which surround me.

And I am running late

I have three packages which still need to be delivered, and I'm out of time. However, UPS takes a dim view of returning with packages which we left with that morning, and we drivers knew that we knew that we better do our darndest to come back "empty handed" at the end of the day.

I find myself looking at my watch now, and I have to get back to the center with my pickup packages in the next half hour. And so much like the phrase from the English novel and movie "Jane Eyre," I find myself saying to myself, "What to do? What to do?" (or) "Man oh man, am I in a fix! I gotta get myself movin!" (And since when I dream this dream, it seems SO real, and I wake up exhausted, I think UPS owes me almost 30 years back pay)!

Pt. 2

I was pedaling my bike today, and I notice one of those Big Brown Bessies ahead of me. I see the driver get out of his passenger side with a package, and walk to the door of a home. I decide I will chat with him when he returns.

"Hello. This was my route almost 30 years ago!"

The driver smiles, and speaks.

"Oh yeah?"

(and)

"Cool."

We exchange some small talk which includes my perspectives about a driver's pay having doubled since I was with UPS, and I ask a question related to the condition of today's delivery vehicles.

"Do you guys EVER wash your package cars?"

The driver assures me the trucks are NEVER washed now, (whereas we were required to wash our package car every night after the delivery day was over).

I remember sailing along these neighborhood streets while sitting in the driver's seat of ole 59299. I recall jumping up and down the three steps of my truck, and running a myriad of non-descript brown packages to a myriad of non-descript doors. And at that time, I must have thought my excruciating, seemingly non-ending tenure with UPS would last forever. However now, I am an aging former driver not all that far from my eternal "jumping off place."

Bidding my newfound friend in brown "adieu," I walk back around the delivery truck to where I parked my trusty bicycle, and suddenly a stray thought drifts through my mind.

I pause, and began to trace some familiar numbers into the dust which coats the side wall of that UPS vehicle. And I think of the oh so similar Big Brown Bessie I used to drive along these same streets; a delivery truck that has long since been crushed, recycled, and turned into door knobs, soft drink cans, license plates, (and perhaps embedded into the fabric of this very package car, and many of its compatriots).

And now, the man in brown starts his engine, and off he sails down the street. And I smile as I realize those familiar numbers which I have scribbled into the dust which coats this vehicle will grace it for months and months to come.

59299

Requiem for a UPS truck.

Bill McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD Pts. 1-5

 4490

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

SAYING GOODBYE TO COOPER

4489 

The veterinary assistant was apparently running late, as Queenie and I were the only living occupants of the parking lot, my automobile the only inanimate vehicle, (aren’t they all) and the ‘Closed’ sign still hung inside the glass door.

 

 

 

Suddenly, a car slowed, turned into the parking lot, and pulled into an adjoining space. Obviously, not a clinic employee. I found myself looking into the troubled eyes of a middle-aged woman. She smiled a thin smile, and I returned the gesture. Normally, I would not have attempted a conversation, but since I happened to be ‘constitutionalizing’ my precious pooch, and in the proximity of the other vehicle, I said,

 

 

 

“Hi there. I guess the employees are running late. My little Queenie is having a tooth pulled and her teeth cleaned today.”

 

 

 

My momentary friend seemed pre-occupied with her thoughts, but the teary-eyed lady responded with,

 

 

 

“My little ‘Cooper’ is being put to sleep this morning.”

 

 

 

Having lost three previous pooches, her words struck me to the core. And having involuntarily paused for effect, she continued.

 

 

 

 “I’ve only had him a few months, and he was due to be vaccinated for a couple of common diseases. Unfortunately, before I could get him to the clinic, he came down with Parvo. It turns out five other dogs on our street have gotten it, and have since died of it.”

 

 

 

(and)

 

 

 

“Cooper weighed 55 pounds before he came down with the virus. He’s down to 28 pounds, and the vet hasn’t been able to do anything to help him.”

 

 

 

Pt. 2

 

 

 

With this, I peered into the half-opened back window of the automobile. I found myself looking into the mournful eyes of what appeared to be a chocolate lab.

 

 

 

I recently published a little volume entitled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Beloved Dogs,” and one primary implication in the book is the innate intelligence of canines, and their ability to “understand what’s going on.” Perhaps they comprehend much more about the import of human speech than we possibly imagine. I believe the precious pooch in the back seat knew what was about to befall him. He just knew.

 

 

 

I turned my gaze away from the hopeless animal in the back of the old sedan, and without a word, I placed my hand on her left shoulder. (Strange, I almost placed my hand on her forehead, as a sort of blessing, and have done so in the past, but this inclination seemed a bit too forward).

 

 

 

The milk of human compassion. There is just something about touch which conveys an underlying emotion, and cognitive affirmation, like nothing else can do; whether a handshake, a hug, or an arm around the shoulder.

 

 

 

I had ‘been there’ and nothing conjures up the requisite understanding and subsequent response, more so than having been there. And before each of us withdrew our hands to our own persons, I verbally expressed my understanding.

 

 

 

“I can feel your pain. My first pooch crossed the Rainbow Bridge almost 70 years ago.”

 

 

 

My newfound friend seemed surprised. I like to think I look younger than my years. (I guess staying away from mirrors helps perpetuate this myth).

 

 

 

Having done what I could, and since about this time the clinic door was opened to me, I strode through the portal with my twelve pound Shih Tzu in hand.

 

 

 

It has been several years since that experience, but I will always remember those few fleeting moments, and will be thankful I had the opportunity to comfort another human being; who was facing one of the most difficult experiences any of us ever will.

by Bill McDonald, PhD