Fred Rogers

I was introduced to him by Bob Dog.  I was shown the ropes backstage by Batman.

Technically, it was the fellow who played Bob Dog on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood who introduced us. As he was the father of one of my college acquaintances, it was the result of an early type of networking.  The television station for which Mr. Rogers worked would offer one month internships, usually in the winter, for students interested in television production.  Since I was interested in everything in those days, and since Mr. Rogers was on my college's board of trustees and was present on campus from time to time, Mr. Dog saw to it that I had a place at the same dinner table with him. When I had the occasion artfully to bring it up in conversation, I told Mr. Rogers of my interest in the internship.  He smiled in that unaffected manner familiar to anyone who ever watched his show, and gave me a name to call.  I did and, during that January, found myself touring the PBS studio and having my duties described to me by a production assistant who would, shortly thereafter, leave for Hollywood to become an actor.  He did rather well for himself, as it turns out, even being nominated for an Academy Award.

But the star in those days was Mr. Rogers, albeit the most self-effacing and unassuming star ever to grace the cathode rays.  During my four weeks on the show, doing everything from moving furniture and puppets to operating the "picture picture", I dabbled in every aspect of television production that the union would permit.  I also learned a number of things about Mr. Rogers, namely:

- he was an ordained Presbyterian minister [he had even been a classmate of my cousin's!]
- his cardigan sweaters had been knitted by his mother
- he was a licensed pilot
- he wore sneakers because they were less noisy on set than hard shoes
- the sneakers, at least in my day, were actually Sperry Topsiders, not Keds as is often reported
- he didn't smoke or drink and was a vegetarian
- he was without pretense and was the same in "real life" as he was on screen

I also learned, one day when I clumsily dropped the model of his neighborhood in a rather loud, disrupting, and damaging crash, that he had a favorite swear word.

Born in 1928, Fred Rogers displayed something that's rather lost these days; a determination that is marked by patience, not petulance.  During seminary, when he was immersed in the call to make holy scripture relevant in an era when it was becoming rendered distant by overwrought piety, he chanced to watch television for the first time at his parents' house.  He was appalled.  [Imagine what he would make of just one, casual evening in this century watching "reality" shows on basic cable.] He thought, surely, there was a way to make television watchable and educational.

Starting as production assistant at NBC in New York and then as a puppeteer on WQED in Pittsburgh, Rogers learned what was to be his trade from those who had served in television since its nascent period.  Recognizing a good thing when they saw it, the powers-that-be in the Presbyterian Church suggested that he forgo pulpit work and continue to pursue possibilities in the cool medium.

Beginning with the Canadian Broadcasting Company as an on-air personality, Rogers would eventually be called back to Pittsburgh to further develop the show he started on the CBC.  It would eventually morph into what a couple of generations recognize as Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.  By 1968, the show was syndicated and began public broadcasting's long and successful experiment with children's entertainment and education.

By the time Rogers retired in 2000, he had filmed 895 episodes.  They are still being shown today. Rogers died in 2003.

While some clergy have sought to use television in its broadest manner, attempting to represent prayer and devotion as a sort of metaphysical lottery laced with appeals for donations, Rogers kept true to his simple message and method of practical, worldly education.  I suppose this is why it's his sweater and not some evangelist's hairpiece that's on display in the Smithsonian.

There may, too, be a lesson in his singular ministry for those of us charting Christianity's new and rather different course for this century.  A singular and simple mission, rendered in quiet charm, and addressing the world as one's neighborhood, may just be the foundation for continued proclamation.

No updates until Monday or so, as I'm to bury my parents this weekend.  They were fine people who lived good lives, so I expect a joyous occasion.

Goats Searching for Salt on a Vertical Wall

Personally, I Prefer a Cluttered Mind

People are wasting valuable thinking time on mediation and mindfulness and should stop trying to clear their heads, an Oxford University academic has claimed.

The Dark Night of the Soul

Understanding the ‘dark night of the soul’ The feeling of spiritual emptiness, or being abandoned by God, is natural in the process of growing closer to Christ

Archaeological News

Archaeology’s victims of war

Soccer Just Became Entertaining. That's a First.

FIFA Officials Arrested Over Alleged $150M Bribery Scheme

Best Tweet ever:

BREAKING: Swiss Police confirm that, when arrested, all seven FIFA officials threw themselves on the ground and pretended to be injured.

— Ross O'Carroll-Kelly (@RossOCK) May 27, 2015

Best Two Things I Ever Learned: 1. To Type and 2. To Swim [Not at the Same Time]

Swimmer's Death in Florida Brings New Attention to Rip Current Dangers

As I noted a few years back:

When I read of "good swimmers" drowning in the ocean, I’m not all that surprised. Even people who know how to swim have usually learned in a swimming pool. Pools have no tides, no rips. Pools have no undertow, no current, and no swells. Pools don’t have waves.

The ocean makes everyone who doesn't respect it into a novice. The ocean pulls, tugs, throws, rolls, and beats. Swimming in the ocean is as complete a physical activity as one may encounter. The ocean is alive with uncontrollable force, it is nature at its most raw; and it can make anyone who doesn’t respect it into another victim.

Arboreal News

Museum's stolen bonsai tree recovered, but severely pruned

Memorial Day

(Photo courtesy of Timothy Field Beard)

Memorial Day in Roxbury means at least a couple of things, from the fun of our very particular town parade to the quiet witness of small American flags sprinkled throughout the three cemeteries.  Below is the collect for today:

Lord God Almighty, who have made all peoples of the earth for your glory, to serve you in freedom and peace: Grant to the people of our country a zeal for justice and the strength of forbearance, that we may use our liberty in accordance with your gracious will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Sometimes the old poetry teacher in me comes out, too.  Below, A.E. Housman's "Here Dead We Lie":
 
Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

[For Jeff and Scott, who were young; and for those of the 1/4th Marines who fought the good fight and kept the faith.  You were the best of us. "Whatever It Takes."]

Archaeological News

New Evidence May Solve Mystery of America's Huge Ancient City

Maybe Because It's the Last Vestige of Our Agrarian Society

Why Children Are Abandoning Baseball

European football is decadent and dull [I know, I played the silly game in Europe] and lacrosse is a questionable cultural appropriation; neither game is poetic.

More than any other game, baseball, with its absence of a clock timing down the minutes of play, resembles life.  With its moments of quietness, apparent inactivity, and sudden action requiring both a physical and mental response, baseball mimics the rhythm of our days.  I once knew a Marine colonel who was convinced it was the best game for preparing the brain for the realities of battle.

Then again, how about those Cavs, huh?

God's Grandeur

Scientists Sample the Ocean and Find Tiny Additions to the Tree of Life

Another Proud Day for Buckeyes

Ohio man goes on drunken rampage at Disney resort, steals golf cart, crashes into pier and nearly drowns: cops

If True, My Uncle Would Have Lived to 440

A beer a day is 110-year-old Nebraska man's secret to a long life

Is “Religion” Most to Blame for the World’s Violence?

Not even close.

Well, This is Interesting

Liberation theology, of which not much has been heard for two decades, is back in the news. But what is not being mentioned is its origins. It was not invented by Latin American Catholics. It was developed by the KGB. The man who is now the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, Patriarch Kirill, secretly worked for the KGB under the code name “Mikhailov” and spent four decades promoting liberation theology, which we at the top of the Eastern European intelligence community nicknamed Christianized Marxism.

This doesn't surprise me.  The only "true" liberation theologian I ever knew was from a wealthy family who, when we were in seminary, would refuse to do any work that would "soil" his hands.  That included cleaning up after himself in the dining hall.

He worked in one parish as an assistant and, when his father died, inherited the money, left the church, and has done nothing with spiritual liberation since.  I doubt that he re-distributed his own wealth, either.

The Strange Story of Bob Dylan’s Triumphant First Letterman Performance

Tonight Bob Dylan will return to The Late Show for the first time since 1993 and bid farewell to the retiring David Letterman as the host's final musical guest. It's a big occasion to be sure, but the performance almost certainly won’t match Dylan's first Letterman appearance as the best, or, considering how it came about, strangest set that the musician has delivered within earshot of Dave's desk. The three-song gig also, arguably, still holds a spot as Dylan's premier televised performance.

Right, She's the Problem on a Motor Vehicle with No Seat Belts

An eight-year-old girl in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Que. was told she's no longer allowed to read books on the school bus because it poses a risk to the safety of other students.

As some of those who read this weblog know, both of my parents died a mere sixteen weeks apart.  I won't bore you with details, but I am finding it difficult to manage my jobs and related duties without having to give up things that draw me away from the time and energy necessary to fulfill my paid, or court-assigned [as in the role of executor], responsibilities.

So, save for some stray links to articles I stumble across, there will not be any original updates to The Coracle until such time as the Burial Office is read for my parents, their committal is complete, and their estate closer to being organized for settlement.

While I cannot predict how long this may take, I hope that the bulk of these duties will be complete over the next fortnight and that I can return to my less practical hobbies such as this weblog, my continuing quest to surf the North Shore, and the five or six Hawaiian surfboards I have to make for family members.