A MR. ROGERS STORY

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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.

 

 

YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOUR MOTHER

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Well, in essence you really are. You see, females are born with ALL the eggs they will ever have. As a result, the egg from which you were created was already present in your mother's womb when she was a fetus.

But another surprising fact to which I have already inferred in the previous paragraph...

Not only was the egg from which you were created present in your mother's womb when she was a fetus, but both your mother AND you were present in your grandmother's womb.

Granted, the previous information omits the part your father played in your creation, but at least much of the essence of who you are is as old as your mother.

(I will turn 94 next year).

Bill McDonald, PhD

THE FOUR MUSKETEERS

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They linger in the back of my mind, and more times than not, they make their way to the front. And I am reminded of the poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.”

And they will neither go quietly, nor will they go gently.

And I never tire of their recurring ‘visits’ and I never protest their presence. For they were such a larger presence in my life than the three dozen days a year which we spent together.

For you see, CWO Samuel Simpson, SFC Bob Hoehne, and SFC Bob Bass, and I served together in the reserve forces of this great nation. We were more than soldiers. We were more than associates. We were true friends.

Sam and “Bob #1” (for lack of a better designation here) were members of my section. The former was my “big boss.” The latter was my “little boss.” But in spite of rank, (I was a Staff Sergeant, and the lowliest man on the proverbial totem pole), we treated one another as peers, and we made no distinction between us.

And then, there was “Bob #2” (Bob Bass). While he was a member of a different section, he “showed up” in our office, (or, if we were doing field maneuvers, in our tent) a couple of times each weekend, and we all thoroughly enjoyed “shooting the bull” with him.

Sam and Bob #1 were all business when there was business to be done, but they knew how to have fun when there was fun to be had; more so the latter of the two, than the former, I think.

Bob was a Yankee, and hailed from New Jersey. He sometimes spoke of “going down the shore” (to the shore) as a young man. And as I have inferred, previously, he possessed (or was possessed by) a sense of humor. Once, when going through the morning chow line, he told the server, “I’d like a grit. Give me one grit.”

And I remember someone once asked Sam where he was from, and he said, “South America.” (and) “You know. Alabama… It’s in the South, and it’s in America.”

Pt. 2

On one particular “road march” (convoy) the rain began. And “we’re not talking” some average little Florida downpour; (which starts and ends almost before it began). No, this was a real “frog choker.” This drencher to end all drenchers began shortly after our guard unit left the armory, and continued as our twenty or more jeeps, blazers, and deuce and a halves pulled into the main gate at the Avon Park Bombing Range.

As we rolled into our field area, it was somewhat like the first paragraph from that old volume, “Jane Eyre.”

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning. The cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.”

And similarly, like Jane Eyre, “I was glad of it.”

Once we pulled into the camp, six of us, including Sam, Bob#1, Bob# 2, and I, retreated to the driest available location; a cargo trailer. Apparently, there was very little cargo in it, or if so, only a small tent and poles lay on the floor.

And so, we found ourselves “snug as a bug in a rug,” and quite filling up the drop-down benches which lined each side of the trailer; while the rain continued its unmerciful deluge round about us. Thankfully, the green canvass which lined the wooden structure was “high and dry,” and no leak intruded on our revelry.

My military friends and I spent the next couple of hours talking about a myriad of miscellaneous and sundry things; none of which I recall now. But strangely enough, (to me, at least) as I write these words, it is with tears I remember that day.

It was a personally singular day that came and went, and will never return. But, for whatever reason, it is indelibly etched into my memory.

And I can only wonder if anyone else who sat in that little cargo trailer recalls that little interlude which served to postpone our Uncle Sam’s agenda; if only for a few memorable moments.

Pt. 3

CWO Simpson and SFC Hoehne retired from the guard in the early 90’s, and were transferred to the inactive reserve. I soon followed. To my knowledge, SFC Bass served a bit longer, and finally did the same. But since “The Four Musketeers” lived within ten miles of one another, we maintained contact; (unfortunately, more sporadic, than regular in nature, and more so by phone and email, than “tete a tete”).

However, I recall once doing lunch with the guys at a local seafood restaurant. Another time Sam and I shared a meal in his adopted hometown of L.A., as he referred to it. (To be sure, Lake Alfred, not the larger, better known city in California). And sometime during the next several years, I remember speaking to Bob #1 about an upcoming physical exam for UPS. Could he loan me one of his blood pressure pills? Yes, indeed, he could, would, (and he did). As a result, I passed my physical with “flying colors.”

Strange, as I write the foregoing lines, it occurs to me. SFC Hoehne experienced a fatal heart attack in 2002. I read his obituary in the newspaper, (and had to look 3x to be sure my eyes weren’t failing me). By that time, he was already in repose in the Florida National Cemetery.

Sergeant First Class Bass, and I shared a common interest. We were both writers. But whereas, he wrote and published a book about the steamboats of early Florida, I wrote books about religious topics, (and I had, at that time, not managed to publish anything). I spoke to Bob a couple of times about his book, and the process whereby he managed to publish it.

Shortly after the first Bob went on to his reward, the second Bob and I happened to “bump into each other” at a gun show at the “Orange Dome;” (in that wonderful city which hosted Cypress Gardens). Of course, we greeted one another, and reminisced a bit about our dearly departed friend.

And while Sergeant Bob Bass moved, and lived and breathed among us for another decade, I never stood in the presence of this good man again. (And I regret it).

Chief Warrant Officer Simpson left us a couple years later, and has been gone well over half a decade.

And I, alone, am I am left to tell the tale. I miss my friends, and I am poorer for their absence.

(Staff Sergeant William McDonald, PhD, U.S. Army, Retired)

YOU BETTER LET HIM RIDE WITH ME!!!

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Jerry Clower once told a joke about a preacher who lived in the Appalachian Mountains, and who drove far too fast. His friends worried a great deal about the old man. One day a young man named Joe who knew the pastor was behind him on a narrow mountain road, and he recognized the minister's beat up old sedan. The preacher was going far to fast, and the narrower the road the faster he drove. Suddenly, much to Joe's horror, Pastor Brown's car went off the side of the mountain, rolled ten times, and came to rest next to a stream a hundred feet below. Joe screeched to a stop, jumped out of his car, and ran down the mountainside. Now the old man's car burst into flames! However, thankfully the pastor climbed out the driver's window just in time, and just before the entire automobile was consumed by fire. Joe screamed, "Preacher, Preacher, are you alright?" To which the preacher replied in a deep sanctimonious kind of voice, "Well, yes, thank you. The Lord is riding with me!" To which Joe responded, "Well, you better let Him ride with me before you kill Him!"

 

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

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It was mid-afternoon, and Jean and I were on our way home from church, (or some other place long since forgotten.) She was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat larger and heavier vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or more, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

I could plainly see a man and woman in the front seat, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. I will never forget those precious little human beings as they sat there, eyes wide open, peering helplessly out the window, as our car swiftly approached them. Less than 50 feet separated our two vehicles, and Jean proceeded to lock up the brakes.

An accident was inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome occurs because the brain is processing more information than usual in a miniscule amount of time.).

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) And though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared, since foolishly we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of our passenger window. (As a result of that event, I can easily relate to the G-forces astronauts endure as they reach maximum acceleration).

But our wild ride was only beginning. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which paralleled the side of a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us.

As we ended our unexpected journey, I saw the little car as it turned left into the opposite lane of the four lane highway. The man didn’t even have the courtesy to stop and inquire about our well-being. The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop, especially since he had pulled in front of us, and caused a near fatal accident.

However, while this traumatic event was in the process of happening to us, another car pulled up to the stop sign. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that the driver watched in awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

Only God. Only God. Nothing less than an abject miracle. The two occupants of our car and the four occupants of the other car might easily have died that day. And the spot which Jean fills in the audience tonight would be vacant, or filled by another, and I would be just as invisible now, and you would not be listening to the sound of my voice, nor been exposed to my obvious charm, or handsome face.

And I have no doubt He gave His angels charge over us that day, and when we needed a miracle, well, He gave us one. And I have no doubt, any one of you could step behind this podium and share something equally wonderful and amazing that our Lord has done in your own lives.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

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Prior to his passing, I used to enjoy listening to the George Klein radio program on Elvis Radio. 

Elvis and George attended high school together, and the latter went on to serve as his best friend during the decades which would follow. George was a member of what became known as "The Memphis Mafia," a group of former school friends, and musicians who might be described by the slightly negative term, "Hangers On."

Just yesterday, I was listening to a rerun of one of the late George Klein radio segments.

In this particular segment, Klein was interviewing another friend of Elvis, (the very much still with us) Tony Orlando. It seems Mr. Orlando was taking a much needed sabbatical in late 1977, and that Frank Sinatra had offered him the use of his 33rd floor penthouse suite in New York City. 

As he tells it, on the afternoon of August 16th of that year Tony experienced a premonition involving Elvis Presley. It was such a dark and ominous feeling, and an emotion which he had never known before. Elvis was in trouble. 

The singer quickly called the Crooner of all crooners who had lent him the apartment, and shared his concerns for "The King of Rock and Roll;" from which he procured Elvis' phone number.

By now, it was 6pm and Orlando dialed the number; again and again. No one answered. He finally gave up at 9pm, and decided on a different course of action.

Now, Orlando quickly dressed, walked out the penthouse door, got on the elevator, and stepped out into the busy traffic of 51st Street. From here, he walked two blocks, and through the massive doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Stepping up to a massive rack of candles, he grabbed one, lit it, and found a place to kneel. He began to pray fervently for Elvis, Priscilla and Lisa Marie. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Orlando rose to his feet, and walked back to the hotel from whence he came.

Having just returned to Sinatra's penthouse suite, the phone rang. "Teddy Campbell," his agent, was on the line. 

"Tony, have you heard the news?"

(and)

"Elvis is DEAD!"

Orlando suddenly felt weak in the knees, and had to sit down. His friend, and perhaps the best known vocalist and actor of all time was gone.

As the interview with George Klein came to a conclusion, Tony Orlando says,

"We all have been allotted just so many days, and only God knows our beginning and our end. It was simply time for Elvis to join the One who knew him before he took his first breath, and gave him life."

Post-Script

Every time I listen to a rerun of this program which I have shared with you, and listen to this story, I am tempted to add my own post-script since I believe Tony Orlando's account is slightly incomplete.

For you see, while Mr. Orlando's statement is true as far as it goes, I am convinced that some people go on to their reward... years earlier than the original number of days, and months, and years they were allotted; simply due to their own bad choices. (I have known some).

Elvis joins the ranks of other notable figures, such as Whitney Houston, Karen Carpenter and Matthew Perry; along with multiplied millions of lesser known men and women throughout the ages.

Elvis had to be the most talented individual of our generation. However, I think he was as flawed as the rest of us.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE KENTUCKY COLONEL

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It was almost half a century ago, but it could have just as easily been yesterday.

I was a student at the (then) Southeastern Bible College, (now Southeastern University). As an off-campus, commuting student I was required to attend chapel services 2-3 times a week.

The guest speaker at one of the morning services was none other than Colonel Harland Sanders; founder and CEO of the world famous Kentucky Fried Chicken Corporation.

As might be expected, “The Colonel” was dressed in his equally world famous white suit, and “Southern plantation” tie. As he was introduced by the president of our school, he slowly strode to the podium, and proceeded to share the history of his enterprise, beginning with his adornment of chicken cadavers with various herbs and spices, in an attempt to determine just the right combination, for just the right taste. The man in white went on to detail how a single rural location duplicated itself, and how over the course of several years his brand of fried chicken became the best known, and most loved product of its kind in the world.

Three things about the “Kentucky Colonel” impressed me the most, or at least, have remained with me the longest.

His quiet and peaceful demeanor. (Even with a microphone, and sitting within a few rows of the front of the auditorium, I had to listen carefully to his words).

His “I’m really no different than you are” sort of presentation. He knew his roots, and they were humbler than most any member of the student body.

But more importantly, this man knew who he was, and to Whom he belonged. The Colonel acknowledged his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and gave Him the glory for how far He had brought him.

And though that old Southern gentleman has long since gone on to his reward, and while poor facsimiles of the Colonel have lately appeared on KFC commercials, of all the chapel services I attended at my beloved school, I think I will always remember, and cherish the one to which I have alluded the most.

by Bill McDonald, PhD