It's been one of those days again. Apparently England and Wales are closed. Their clown said so. It's snowing here and my poor, trusting crocuses wouldn't take my word for it and now they've probably had it. And somehow my office finds so much to keep me busy at home that my head is spinning, in spite of the fact that I'm the receptionist. THE RECEPTIONIST! I need Fred Rogers. I need comfort. A fuzzy robe. A dessert that's really bad for me. Possibly a glass of some adult beverage. I'd throw a pity party, but there's that social distancing thing and no one would come. So let's channel Fred. He always knew what to do!
I never met him, unfortunately. I did watch his show faithfully every afternoon in the commuter lounge when I was in college. The world is, and always has been, desperately in need of a warm fuzzy father figure just like him, particularly when things get scary. Who else is always kind, always loving, always telling us he likes us just as we are? OK, Jesus, but besides Him? I am not despairing. I don't "do" despair. But I would dearly like to have a hand-knit-sweater-encased shoulder to rest my weary head on for a bit. Then I realize that I'm the grownup and it's my turn to be that to everyone else. Nuts.
But if there's one Fred Rogers possible, there must be others out there in training to take his place. Unflappable, dependable, steady, wise, and caring people. That's what we should all aspire to be. Little Freds. Meanwhile I shall take solace in a glass of sherry (don't knock it until you've tried it), and my fuzzy robe (a present from my younger son this past Christmas ...and doesn't THAT seem like twelve centuries ago?), and the fact that Sir Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespearean sonnet every day on Face Book. Even taken all together it's not Fred Rogers, but for now it will have to do.
I never met him, unfortunately. I did watch his show faithfully every afternoon in the commuter lounge when I was in college. The world is, and always has been, desperately in need of a warm fuzzy father figure just like him, particularly when things get scary. Who else is always kind, always loving, always telling us he likes us just as we are? OK, Jesus, but besides Him? I am not despairing. I don't "do" despair. But I would dearly like to have a hand-knit-sweater-encased shoulder to rest my weary head on for a bit. Then I realize that I'm the grownup and it's my turn to be that to everyone else. Nuts.
But if there's one Fred Rogers possible, there must be others out there in training to take his place. Unflappable, dependable, steady, wise, and caring people. That's what we should all aspire to be. Little Freds. Meanwhile I shall take solace in a glass of sherry (don't knock it until you've tried it), and my fuzzy robe (a present from my younger son this past Christmas ...and doesn't THAT seem like twelve centuries ago?), and the fact that Sir Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespearean sonnet every day on Face Book. Even taken all together it's not Fred Rogers, but for now it will have to do.
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