Jeff—Saturday
I’m not a stream of consciousness sort of writer. Talker yes, writer no. But since it’s
approaching the witching hour, and I have yet to write anything for tomorrow’s
blog, I’ve decided to risk it, and let the stream take me wherever it chooses. Hopefully, not anywhere near tragic mudslides
once again threatening California, flooding in the heartland, or another Nor’Easter
out this way.
Thank God there’s no such thing as climate change.
Speaking of thanking God, I’ve got a big thank you out there
for some good news I just received about a dear friend. Sometimes the good guys (that’s gender
neutral) do get a break. YAY!!
I’m slowly getting back to typing—it’s almost five weeks
since my rotator cuff shoulder surgery—and so far so good (puh puh puh). I’d like to say my typing is of the sort
likely to yield a new book, but alas it’s tied into an IRS audit, and
preparations to moderate a panel at CrimeFest in mid-May, just before my return
to Mykonos.
Sadly, I had to miss Left Coast Crime this year—it’s going
on in Reno as I type this—but my doctor said a definitive NO on traveling so
soon after surgery. Oh, well, hoist a
few rounds for me, my friends, you’re sorely missed by Barbara and me.
Another thing I sorely miss is Fred Rogers.
It’s the 50th anniversary year for Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, having debuted nationally on February
19, 1968 on WTAE public television in my hometown of Pittsburgh (actually, it
originated locally in 1963, with roots back to 1953). He was a fixture on local TV, though I was a
bit too old for his target audience. Later, after I’d moved away and had
children, my kids fit his demographic perfectly, and from time to time I’d
watch with them, reminiscing about how I remembered him from earlier days.
Like one of his trademark cardigan sweaters, Fred Rogers
became more comfortable with wear. His
ever-calm demeanor brought his seminal message of love and understanding to
bear on bitter issues others feared addressing, and he did so in a way that
made you feel good about yourself for sharing the world with someone like Fred
Rogers.
In the mid-1980s, I was walking home from my law office on
Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, when for some unfathomable reason I felt compelled to
stop outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Anyone who knew me would have assumed I
meant to go into the building just south of it, Saks Fifth Avenue. But they would have been wrong.
I felt drawn to leave the hustle and bustle of the day and street,
and go inside. Permit me to pause and offer my compliments to the Cathedral’s
architects for having created a structure that achieves its purpose of luring
in the heathen.
As I stood inside the sanctuary I noticed a man sitting alone
a few rows from the back, staring straight ahead. Even from behind I recognized Fred Rogers
instantly from his distinctive head, neck, and shoulders. I sat at the very back, not wanting to disturb
him, and we each sat quietly thinking whatever we were. I left before he and we never spoke, but I
felt as if I’d gained a spiritual soul mate in that time we’d shared together in
Saint Pat’s.
I know that sounds hokey—at best—but in this world of
suppressed hopes, bartered faith, and a paucity of good examples for our
children and grandchildren, I feel blessed to have that personal memory of a
simple good man (gender neutral again—Fred would have wanted it that way). He
passed away in 1997.
And oh yes, my father’s name was Fred, and he too was good
man. Also from Pittsburgh.
As for thoughts about Greece, I’d prefer not to think about
that situation. Between Turkey holding
two Greek soldiers hostage and making claims to Greek islands, Greece’s Prime
Minister in a brouhaha over the use of the name “Macedonia” by its neighbor to
the north (FYROM) while pressing corruption charges against his immediate
predecessor Prime Ministers from rival political parties, worsening economic
situations closing in on many, and continuing horrors faced by refugees—one set
himself on fire today in the Moria Relocation Center on the island of Lesvos
(the focus of my latest book, An Aegean
April)—it’s enough to make one lose heart.
Thankfully, things are all wonderful back here in America.
I think it’s time to get out of this stream and make myself
a hot chocolate.
God Bless, and March for Life.
—Jeff
