THINGS I HAVE NEVER DONE

I have never walked on the moon

(But I watched Neil Armstrong do it a full half century ago)

For that matter, I have never walked a tightrope across Niagara Falls

(But I watched Nik Wallenda do it on TV)

I have never climbed Mt. Everest

(Though my daughter stood just a mile away, and looked up at it)

I have never jumped out of a perfectly good airplane

(But I have often thought it would be fun to do so; with the aide of a parachute, of course)

I have never eaten more than an ounce of fruit cake, nor drank more than an ounce of buttermilk at one time

(I simply can’t tolerate either one of those loathsome things)

I have never smoked pot, nor used illegal substances

(Though I once sat in a room where someone was puffing on the former, and the “aroma” was enough to last me a lifetime)

And last, but certainly not least, (and something which only occurred to me tonight), I have… never danced in public

(My wife and I have vowed to put it on our proverbial bucket list)

WE REMEMBER MOLLY

The date was January 12, 2010.

Exactly ten years ago today.

The place was the island of Hispaniola; comprised of the countries of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

The person was a young lady by the name of Molly Mackenzie Hightower.

I never knew Molly, but she was a distant cousin of mine. She had recently graduated with a double major, spoke French, and volunteered as a physical therapist in a Catholic disabled children’s orphanage in Haiti.

Although I never knew Molly, the world has been given some entre into her life as the result of an internet blog she maintained. I have also been privileged to interact with her uncle, a Catholic priest, and her father and brother. The photos of my dear cousin and those precious orphans are compelling. She was one of those people you meet a few times in a lifetime; who literally seem to shine from within.

Even in the photographs an ethereal glow lights up her face.

Molly happened to be in her dormitory when the earthquake did its worst work on that impoverished island. While her family and friends hoped against hope that she would be rescued, it was not to be. She was found several days later midst the rubble of the dormitory. It can be said that she gave the last full measure of devotion for the children whom she had grown to love.

Sometimes we find ourselves taking people like Molly for granted. They sense a “call” to a work overseas which 99.9 percent of people would shun; in favor of some well-paying professional position in the states. They toil for little or no pay. They work long hours; often without praise or affirmation.

On their occasional sabbaticals home, they attempt to explain to anyone who might listen what they have done, what they have seen; their triumphs and their defeats. And more often, than not they are met with a smile, or a nod, or a quizzical look; rather than a few empathetic words based on any real understanding of the work and the challenge of the mission.

I would have loved to have been granted a few brief moments with my cousin, Molly.

Time to assure her of the importance of her work, time to commensurate with her about the joy which distills from the opportunity to touch lives, time to talk about our mutual ancestors, and the possibility that they, too, were at one time given the privilege of impacting this or that person, whom God set in their pathway.

As strange as it may seem, I miss Molly; a dear relative whom I never had the privilege of meeting. And yet, I feel I know her. And I’m all too aware that the staff and patients of her beloved orphanage miss her in such an inestimable and profound way.

I think we will never understand why such lights among us are seemingly taken before their time; when they are in the midst of accomplishing such a life-changing work, or rather, lives-changing work, since this dear saint, and so many like her have impacted a myriad of the unfortunate and underprivileged; whose only recompense for services rendered was a bright smile, a hug or a few unaided steps.

They look very much like you or I, and shun the limelight. Yet I think these are the saints among us; (though any allusion to sainthood would, no doubt, be greeted by them with revelry and blushing).

People like Molly, though their lives were shortened, and though they have so often done their best work in the worst places this planet affords, managed to cut some indelible marks into the fabric of life and time.

And their love and works remain.

And they are not forgotten.

And the power and momentum of all they ever did, and hoped to do continues, and has not abated.

For lives were irrevocably touched

…and changed.

And there are those among us who have, because of them, stepped forward to fill the vacant space which they have left behind.

The world is better for people like Molly, who having walked and moved and served among us

…remain as unseen witnesses to a continuing need, and the power of one life to change the world as we know it;

…at least the world as they knew it.

*Molly’s blog can be found on the following internet site:

https://mollyinhaiti.blogspot.com

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I didn’t grow up watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” but then again, its inception was in 1968, a year after I graduated from high school; (so the likelihood that I would have devoted much time to the program was almost nil).

In the last few moments I did a Google search, and discovered that the television show aired for a grand total of (drum roll) 33 years, and only went off the air in 2001; a fateful year for this country, and two years before his passing.

It occurs to me that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was on television for the same amount of time that Jesus lived, and moved and breathed on the earth. I have never heard anyone expound on this bit of information. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But then, I don’t believe in coincidences.

Oh, I remember seeing snippets of Fred Rogers’ program, and honestly, it did little or nothing for me at the time. Obviously, the show was geared towards little children; the humor, the skits, the puppets, the guests. And “Bro. Fred’s” voice and mannerisms always struck me as a bit effeminate.

Speaking of the foregoing prefix before his name, many people were unaware that Mr. Rogers was actually Rev. Rogers. For you see, Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and to my knowledge, he possessed a calling unlike any other; before or since. Interestingly enough, he had been specially commissioned by his church to host “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” for the little boys and girls of America.

I have written about Mr. Rogers in the past, having previously read a poignant story of which he was the subject. And come to think about it, I only have “given him the time of day” the past couple of years; (a full decade and a half after his death).

Pt. 2

As I have inferred, I love a particular story I read about Mr. Rogers. I am including that story here.

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

Pt. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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. 6

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. 7

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

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A MR. ROGERS STORY

By Allison Carter, USA Today


In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

MY MONKEY & ME

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 may have 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.
***************

*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 a message of thanks for her family having given Bobo 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.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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TWO SPARROWS

There are a multitude of things people do to increase their chance for success; many of which have more to do with superstition than ambition.

Of course, in terms of the negative, we are all familiar with the admonition not to walk into the path of a black cat, and avoid walking under ladders or breaking mirrors. And then on the proactive side, there are those who consult a Ouija board, fortune teller or daily horoscope.

I have often thought how foolish it is to invest trust in a few ‘prophetic’ words which may have been dreamed up by some fat guy at a kitchen table, and submitted to a newspaper for publication. From my way of thinking the so-called “signs of the zodiac” are, after all, such a crock, as if the entirety of earth’s population can be divided into neat little cookie-cutter groups, and the date on which we were born has anything at all to do with our destinies. As someone once said, “It’s not the stars which ought to be worshipped, but rather the God who made them.”

In the past week, we just stepped from one decade to another, and we find ourselves in the year 2020. (Sounds like a TV series or eye exam, doesn’t it)? And as one year gives way to another, it is common, at least in the South, to eat black-eyed peas, pork and corn bread on New Year’s Eve. Someone came up with the theory that doing so would guarantee the consumer success in the forthcoming year, and the certainty of being alive to celebrate the next New Year’s Eve. However, given the promise of Hebrews 9:27, (go on, look it up) I’m prone to believe that a number of people who eat this stuff won’t be with us a year from now.

Pt. 2

As a man who has always been prone to think for himself, rather than simply buying into such notions which I have previously enumerated, I have rejected all of the above. Why, there have been times I have tested my so-called ‘fate’ and purposely walked under a ladder, or walked into the path of a black cat. Not only so, but I avoid eating the standard fare on New Year’s Eve, in favor of something more tasty, and I wouldn’t read a horoscope if someone offered me a hundred dollars.

However, something happened this past New Year’s Eve which got me thinking.

To be sure, this particular something got my attention big time, and encouraged me no end, and from my way of thinking served as a promise for the entire year to come.

For you see, as I was looking out my living room window, I noticed a tiny creature, the likes of which I hadn’t seen in years; at least not in my front yard. A sparrow. It was simply hopping around pecking at the ground, and without so much as a care in the world. And just hours after the ball dropped in Times Square, I peered out my living room window again, and noticed two sparrows in the act of doing much the same thing.

And I could not help but think of the words of our Savior in the New Testament.

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So, don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. (Matthew 10:29-31)

And whereas, I cannot buy into horoscopes and superstitions, the presence of those sparrows in my yard, and the two thousand year old words of our Savior are portents of God’s love for me, and His promises to meet my needs, and to inscribe the next 365 unwritten pages of my life’s volume, and to do it better than I ever could without His abiding presence in my life.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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BUDDY RETURNS

                                                               

As I laid down for a nap yesterday, and my feet settled against a pillow at the foot of my bed, I experienced a moment of insight which had escaped me for just short of a decade and a half.

My little Buddy used to lay on a pillow at the foot of my bed, as we retired for the night, and she did so on a recurring basis over the course of ten years. And as has been the case since the dawn of creation, among man and beast, alike, there came a day when she prepared to meet her Maker.

Strange, about a week before that memorable day, I was holding her in my arms, and she began to shiver. Upon reflection, I wondered if she was experiencing some sort of premonition of what lay just ahead of her.

My precious pooch had not been eating well, and as unusual as it may sound, the last morsel of food she ate was a sliver of chocolate. I know. There is the admonition that you not feed your dog chocolate. But I had always given her a wee bit of the sugary stuff when I chose to eat it. And it never seemed to harm her, nor any of my other dogs, in the slightest.

And then came that last all-too memorable night.

It had only been ten years since the little Shih Tzu wandered up into our yard. At the time she could not have been a year old. Not long after her death, I surmised she had succumbed to liver failure, the result of years of steroidal medication; prescribed for severe allergies, and which prevented her from scratching her eyes out.

Pt. 2

Buddy only began displaying the most overt symptoms of her fast-approaching demise after we retired that night. She began hyperventilating, and after she’d done this for a few minutes, her breathing slowed perceptively. And this pattern continued for the next six or eight hours.

And though it was excruciating to watch, I could not put her on her doggie bed, or transfer her to another room in the house. Couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t. I had stood beside her this far, and she me, and I would see her through this almost intolerable night. Of course, I realized she was not long for this world, and I did my best to soothe her fears, and help her make the passage from this life to the next.

And of course, I experienced little or no sleep that night, and I somehow acclimated to Buddy’s laborious breathing; knowing that she was on the threshold of the proverbial rainbow bridge. And as the first rays of the morning sun played on the fringes of the light blue curtain which graced my bedroom window, I looked into the eyes of my dear little pooch, and understood how close she was. And then I noticed the pasty pallor of her little tongue. And I knew she was close. And indeed, minutes later she pitter patted across the flower-strewn, well-traveled old bridge.

I have previously written about several ethereal manifestations I experienced over the next couple or three weeks, including the sudden appearance and almost immediate disappearance of a small white pooch during one of my nightly neighborhood strolls.

Pt. 3

A couple or three nights after my little Buddy passed from here to there, I was attempting to sleep when I sensed the presence of something beside me. However, it was so much more than a sensation since this ethereal being, though invisible, had assumed weight, and I felt it, (or should I say “her”) lying hard against my right shoulder.

And then… respiration. Breathing such as a small furry critter might manifest. Neither extremely fast, nor extremely slow.

However, if you have not yet forgotten it, I began this writing with an allusion to an insightful moment which has only occurred to me a decade and a half after my little Buddy’s passing.

You recall that when I laid down for my nap yesterday ‘it’ just occurred to me. The respiration of that little unseen phantom which laid hard against my right shoulder that night was sure and steady. My precious little friend no longer labored for breath. She was fine and dandy now, and bereft of the malady which took her from me, and that far too soon.

And I have often mused that if any of God’s creatures, great or small, deserved the opportunity to come back and reassure the one who loved her best on the earth, and found the wherewithal to do so, well, I am convinced that Buddy did. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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