i miss mr. rogers in the world...
(in honor of his 80th birthday, march 20, 2008)
so, i was in my teens, seems like...maybe coming in for dinner (that's noon down on the farm!)...i remember sitting on some chair, unlacing my work boots, hungry, like only a farm teen can be...the overwhelming aroma of mom's cooking filling every corner of our home...me, now feeling a sudden laziness, being hypnotized by the gods of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and very thick gravy...i'm staring at the tv...my baby sister, just three years old or so, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, her face just a few inches from the tv...she's answering, out loud, a question mr. rogers has just asked her...yes, out loud she answers and talks to him in her sweet, tiny voice...i am torn between being enchanted by this mystery, touched deeply that this tiny human baby is genuinely visiting with, quite possibly, her closest friend and neighbor out here on the prairie...and, i, alternately, am wanting to, in normal teen cynicism, laugh a sarcastic burst at my sister for being taken in by such a stupid thing! but, thank god, i am quiet for long moments...then, i say, in a raised voice, to my mom who is still in the kitchen cooking, "hey, did you know she's talking to mr. rogers?"..."yes, uh-huh...she does that a lot"...and my baby sister does not even hear us talking...lost in conversation with this gentle, human man...
i miss mr. rogers in the world...i left the farm a couple of years later, certainly not certain of my calling or manhood, as i went to far-away college in far-away state...i believe, though, that the man in the tv invited me to know, just a bit, about being a different kind of man...a different kind of manly man...who knows, really, what influences we carry one from one another? who knows, really, from where our inner self comes? who knows, really, how and when the shifts and nudges of our formation of our self take place and change us forever?
i met one, two, three such men in my formation of man-self...one, when i was about fifteen, a teacher of elementary children, an artist, a kind and, sort of depressive man, who was playful and humorous with religion, drama and talked of existential angst...then, in college, a kind, compassionate, creative man, a minister, who, above all, for me, was the most amazing listener i have ever know...and then, in seminary, a lovely, mustached, bold, yet, quiet man, who terrified me with inspiration of very wild theological concepts and ideas...these men, mirrors, reflected back to me my projections of man-self...
so, some years later, i am a daddy...living on an acreage in indiana, remembering farm life, going to a local farm supply store and buying a warm, flannel shirt-jacket...wearing it for years and years and years, on any chilly day...it became, dubbed by me, my mr rogers jacket, 'cause i seemed to always put in on after my work day, coming home, a little more relaxed, being with my babies...except it wasn't a sweater, like his, or red, like his...it was green and blue and flannel...and now, it is so worn, frayed on the elbows, threads and material slowly disintegrating, hanging in the hallway...and, yet, how it worked...to remind me of manhood...
i saw, one time, my adult son, wear it...and i saw, another time, in his home, that he had his own flannel shirt-jacket...perhaps, a circle of life...
i miss mr. rogers in the world...
