Rounding 60

Monday, March 19, 2012

Fred Rogers -- From A Mom's Simple Hello To My Sons' Documentary: A Tale of Two Generations

Update
My sons' documentary, Mr. Rogers and Me, about Fred Rogers (Mr. Rogers Neighborhood) on PBS, was featured in the Sunday New York Times, March 18, 2012--Arts and Leisure section. You might want to take a look.
The documentary is scheduled to air on most PBS stations after March 20, 2012. DVDs of the film are available on the film's website ( see Rounding 60, May 10, 2010 blog entry below for link ).

Backstory Summary

For years, I summered in Nantucket next to Fred and, over time, we became friends. My son Ben asked me if I would invite Fred and Joanne Rogers over for his birthday ( always celebrated in Nantucket ). Conscious of respecting Fred's private time on the island , I hesitated-- but did ask. That's the beginning of Ben's documentary--their brief meeting on a couple of occasions and the impact it had on his life.
The film is co-directed by both sons, Chris Wagner ( 20 years in TV/video editing ) and Ben Wagner ( 15 years @ MTV management ).

I could never have imagined when I first decided to summer in scruffy, rugged, isolated Madaket nearly 20 years ago the place it would hold in my heart. It is the place where I've waited out near hurricanes behind boarded picture windows; where I housed my children and grandchildren ( newborn in a bassinet made from a dresser drawer ). It is the spit of land where I mourned my mother's death watching the sun set over Madaket Bay trying to find her in the wind as I walked relentlessly along Smith's Point. I couldn't have imagined that my love for this island, for my children, and my friendship with Fred--would result in the opportunity for this creative project.

One final thought:
Sometimes I think that what mothers do for their children is set the stage, offer the tools... and whisper into small ears:

"I think you can do anything, you know."

Mary Catherine Bolster

More Below........

Re-published entry--
MONDAY, MAY 10, 2010

Fred Rogers and A Simple Hello

New York

I have been going to Nantucket for nearly twenty years. In the early years, I stayed near the town center on Nantucket Bay in a waterfront townhouse with the clink,clink,clink of halyards hitting steel masts in the night air. Most days, I would ride my bike to the closest beach and spend the day there loving the solitude. I explored other parts of the island by bike and car.

It soon became apparent that the best, most remote part of the island was Madaket where fisherman had constructed cottages a century ago with sturdy fireplaces and thick planked floors.

Beginning in 1999, I rented a little cottage facing Madaket Bay, home of piping plovers, oystercatchers, and moored boats bobbing silently in the breeze outside my window.

Next door was Fred Rogers' house, a funny mishmash of a house that his father had built years ago.

One afternoon, I went down to the bay armed with binoculars to spot the amazing birds on the tip of the island, a small book of May Sarton's poems and my journal. Coming toward me on the beach was a tallish, thin man with his bathing suit on, a pale orange bath towel draped over his shoulders. It was Fred Rogers out for his daily swim.

I looked up at him from under the brim of my floppy sunhat and smiled. " Hello, there. Enjoy your swim. "

"Thank you." He smiled, paused. "May I ask --are you are a writer?"

" I ...I guess I am," I stammered. "I have done advertising copy and published a couple of professional journal articles."

"I see. That's wonderful. May I introduce myself? I'm Fred Rogers."

"Nice to meet you. I am Mary Catherine Bolster." I stood up to shake his hand.

"Well, Mrs. Bolster, it is so nice to know you."

" I just want you to know something, Mr. Rogers."

"Fred."

"Fred, I want you to know how important you were to my children's lives when they were little boys. I can still see them sitting in front of the little 15 inch, black and white screen, watching you and King Friday and all of those wonderful characters you brought to life."

We talked for awhile about poetry, religion and the search for meaning. About life as a journey. About seeking meaning in literature and poetry. I told him about my pilgrimage to Spain, trekking the medieval 500 mile path to the tomb of St. James in Santiago.

As he walked away, I was struck with his depth and lack of pretense, and how totally he seemed to be the same man, the same persona, as the one I had watched so many years ago with my sons.

Later that same week, I tucked a copy of Patricia Hamel's book, Virgin Time, in his mailbox with a note: Hope you enjoy this. I mentioned her book about seeking meaning when we spoke. Best, MC.

My cell phone rang soon after. " Mary Catherine? This is Fred Rogers. I just called to thank you for the wonderful book, and see if you would like to come over and have some tea with Joanne and me?"

That was the beginning of my acquaintance with Fred, and his wife Joanne, and my memories of sitting on the back deck of the Crooked House drinking tea in the afternoon or having dinner at the modest dining table off of the kitchen.

All my family and friends were excited about Fred living next door to my little cottage. One by one, I introduced them to Fred. Beginning with my son, Ben.

It so happens that Ben's birthday is in early September. He asked to meet Mr. Rogers when he and his girlfriend came to stay with me.

"Do you think he'd come over for my birthday?"

"I'll ask him."

Fred did come over for Ben's birthday. He walked around the corner of the cottage in his yellow windbreaker and said: "Where's the birthday boy?"

Ben beamed with appreciation.

Each year until Fred died, Ben ( sometimes solo, sometimes with girlfriends ) would come to visit me, and I would invite the Rogers' to his birthday--and Fred and, sometimes, Joanne or sometimes their houseguests, would come, too.

One year, Ben and I were invited to Fred's house, Ben played guitar for Fred.Fred took snapshots of all of us ( which he sent to me later with a lovely note. ) Then, he took us on a tour of the house . In his tiny studio, he sat down at his Roland keyboard and began playing "Neighborhood" songs. I listened as Ben told Fred about his career at MTV and Fred talked a bit about his take on pop culture. I watched my son lean in to this man's words, his gestures.

Fred had such a gift for making a difference with the available moment. After 9/11, Ben did a benefit concert for the victims' families which Fred knew about. The night of the benefit, I got a voicemail on my cell. " Mary Catherine, this is Fred Rogers. I know Ben is performing tonight for the victims, and I called the place but no one answered. Would you please tell him that I hope it goes well?"

After Fred died, there was a tiny, inconsolable hole in my heart. I guess I thought there would be endless summers of tea and birthdays overlooking the bay. I wrote Joanne a long note and realized (as I believe we do when something wonderful is suddenly, permanently taken away from us ) that my life was changed by this man's generosity and humility--and I would miss him terribly.

Soon after Fred's death, Ben decided to do a documentary about him. It was, I suppose it was a way for him to get his arms around Fred's death, and perhaps other things known only to Ben. He enlisted the help of his brother, Chris ( full time film editor and father of 3 kids under 6 ), as co-director in the project. Ben writes, directs, produces. Chris films, edits and directs.

The film was finally finished recently after all night edit sessions and years of work .

So, Ben and Chris sent it out to all manner of film festivals--Tribeca, Sundance--with no idea of the outcome.

And here's the thing: They did it. Mister Rogers and Me will premiere at the Nantucket Film Festival that runs from June 17-21, 2010. ( mrrogersandme.blogspot.com )

Who could know all of those years ago that my path would lead me to the house next to Fred's in Madaket? Would urge me to say hello to Fred that day on the bay? Who could know that Fred would accept my invitation to come to Ben's birthday? Who could have known that Ben would be so moved, so passionate to follow this uncertain path?

Usually, things don't turn out quite so neatly, so...well...whole.

And it all began with "hello".

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Bolster Legacy: The Procession Is Long

New York

"Life is short. But the procession

is long."

Tom Stoppard

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon recently in Central Park, my son Ben, tending to his very ambulatory 15 month old, Maggie, asked: "What do you find so compelling about all this [genealogy] stuff?"

I found it hard to answer him in a few sentences, knowing that I would only have time for sound bites because Maggie's tipsy motion that required constant vigilance. Exigencies would not allow a deep, philosophical discussion. (Always my preference. )

What precipitated this query?

On September 14, I drove to central New York state for a Daughters of the American Revolution ceremony to honor my ancestor, Lot Bolster, who had just recently been sanctioned as a bonafied patriot of the American Revolution. Twenty years ago, when I began this quest to find out about all of those who had come before me, I could not have imagined standing in an old cemetery outside of North Pitcher, New York, with weather-stained white markers from as early as the 1700s on both sides of me.

A little genealogy.

Lot Bolster ( 1752 ) was the younger brother of my ancestor, John Bolster ( 1749 ). They were born near Boston, the sons of Richard Bolster and Anne Tucker. Their grandfather, Isaac Bolster ( 16_), along with several hundred Englishmen under the aegis of the Duke of Monmouth, tried to kill James II. The band of resistors were Protestant, concerned that James was a Catholic sympathizer. All of the Duke's men were tried for treason in 1685 in southern England ( Devon, Dorset, Somerset counties ) before Judge Jeffries ( notorious for his stiff penalties ) in what would become known as the "Bloody Assizes".

Most men were drawn and quartered; then hanged. But Isaac Bolster was spared, probably because of his age ( a 1600s teenager ). Instead, he was sent to Jamaica as pretty much an indentured servant. Eventually, he was pardoned, and wended his way to Boston.

I steep myself in the paths of these amazing, real people ( Bolsters, Lawrences, Whalen, Holloway, Dwyer, Dull, Smith ), and can begin to imagine someone whose DNA still exists in my cells, who was a part of history.

Now, Ben, do you see why I love researching those who came before us?

In just this one case, I find inspiration.

Lot Bolster ( and, I am aim to prove, my direct ancestor, John )-- were patriots during much of the battle to create this nation from 1776 until 1781-- leaving farmland and family to create freedom. How can you beat that?

In the search for my Bolster ancestors, I've "met" many people on the internet who were Bolsters ( it's not like Smith, for heaven's sake--hard to come by a Bolster in many phonebooks!) One of them, Lot Bolster's descendant, Sally Bolster Holcombe, has been helping me with my research, since 1990, well before Ancestry.com decided to start hawking information ( some of it bogus in my view ) for a fee. Another, Barbara Bolster, still lives in New York state, not far from what was Fort Albany when New York was barely older than an Indian territory.

So, there was something just plain right about standing on that grassy spot where Lot is buried nearly 200 years after his death. Something right about Sally and Barbara next to me. Something right about the five American veterans , long in the tooth, who made up the color guard and provided the 21 gun salute, marching from the stipled light of the hardwood trees into the September afternoon sunlight toward Lot's new gravestone.

200 years later we are finding our way in a time of terrible, albeit exciting change as a country. 200 years later, I am searching for meaning from those who came before to illuminate my own journey.

It's at once a public search for meaning. And a private one.

M.C.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Reverie

New York

My mother would be 101 years old today. I've thought alot about her, partly because I am combing through all of the photos from my childhood. And my children's growing up years. Mother was very present in my boys lives. For one thing, my father had died three years before Chris, my eldest was born. I think his birth softened some of her sorrow at my father's sudden death of a coronary. He was 60; she was 55.

For another, I lived in the same Iowa town where I was raised for the first two years of Chris' life. My mother, who always said she was not going to be a "babysitting grandmother" changed her mind when Chris came along. I remember calling her soon after I came home from the hospital because I thought I was going to pass out. She was there in minutes. I don't know whether it was hormonal or just the cold realization that this baby was forever, but I do remember that she comforted me just by showing up.

By the time my second son, Ben, was born, we lived in Iowa City-still close enough to visit often. Then, a move to Washington, DC. Mother flew out every 3 or 4 months and she continued to do that through three more moves: Indianapolis, Chicago, and finally Philadelphia. And my children loved her dearly. She showed up for graduations, birthdays, Christmas, and would always send packages to the kids on holidays--a giant chocolate Easter egg, candy corn for Halloween, sparklers on July 4th.

So what has this got to do with the pictures in this entry? I looked at these pictures and remembered that this is how memories are sustained. Like the yellowed pictures in the photo albums that I've culled, then re-arranged, discarding what I thought I could live without, I wondered if my children--and my grandchildren would do the same some day.

Maggie, Ben's first child will be one year old in June. Ethan, the eldest of Chris' children, will be 8. Edward, 5 in July; Ella, 3 in December. They are all in the pictures above.

I was struck by the looks on the faces of the boys when they presented me with the homemade birthday cake ( the curly headed on is my great nephew, Liam ). And my sentry stance with Ella at the castle playground in Central Park ( it was very high ). Or the love I see when I look at the print of Maggie and me last Easter.

I just called my son to remind him that it was Mother's birthday. I can't help but wonder if someday he or his brother will pull out a CD or whatever storage device is in vogue for keeping photos--and look again at pictures like the ones above. It's what we do. Record the little moments randomly, really. And then find out later that they sustain us just when we might be adrift.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Simon and Garfunkel: Intersections.

New York

For almost two months, I have resisted posting not because there was nothing to say. But because there was so much to say. I guess I was waiting for the end of the story, the theme that might play out in real life.

Today I got it.

Let me explain. I met a very good friend who was in town from Philadelphia for a law conference at a hotel on Central Park South. The dining room, overlooking the park offers a stunning view, and has always been my favorite room in New York for special events. Today was a bonus. Ann and I have been friends for years, have shared Christmases, Thanksgivings, vacations with her children and mine. But it is less frequent now that I am in New York more that we get a chance to really chat.

The maitre'd seated us in the empty dining room. We sat by the window with wait staff hovering. Midway through our meal, a 70ish-looking tall man, wearing wire rim aviator glasses, arrived and took the table next to us. He looked oddly familiar. Several minutes later, another man arrived. They embraced, the tall, light haired man crouching down to hug the other man, easily a head shorter with sparse black hair ( like a tonsure ).

My friend and I finished our lunch. I told her I thought the men looked familiar. She suggested I ask as we left the restaurant.

I was right. Yup. It was "Hello darkness my old friend..." The singer/songwriters of the songs that I danced to, wept to, made love to. The songs I sang my children. Hymns, some of them, for me.

And strangely, I never saw them in concert. They were almost too much to share with the masses at Giant stadium or any of the huge venues that packed in thousands for their concerts.

There they were--two baby boomers having lunch together, dressed casually. They could have been from Goldman's ( well, not quite. They weren't wearing red power ties; no ties at all, actually ).

"Why don't you go over and say something," Ann nudged. Flushed, I'm sure, I screwed up the courage to non-challantly return to my table, feigning having lost something. Then, slipping over to the next table. Their table.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I began, my hands clasped in front of me. Art Garfunkel looked up, smiled faintly. Paul Simon looked a bit non-plussed.

"I know it's rude, but I just couldn't leave without saying how much your work meant to me." I stood up a bit taller, hoping my hair didn't fall into my eyes ( why had I put off getting it cut, anyway?). "You have made my day, week, month." By this time, Paul Simon is looking up at me, his face a bit more jowled than I remembered, but his eyes were the sad, dark eyes I remember from TV.

Art Garfunkel ( somehow it seems a bit too familiar to just call him Art ) smiled again.

"It's no problem. It's always nice to receive a compliment."

What was it that made that one of the memories that I will carry to my grave? I don't think I'm a groupie. I see celebrities of one sort or another from time to time in New York . Alec Baldwin in my gym; Bob Costas at the next table this winter; Joe of Morning Joe in Central Park in July.

But this was different. I never dreamt that I would ever be so close to these two greats. Just didn't think it would happen. It's not that I follow their careers. I didn't even know that Art Garfunkel had vocal paresis ( vocal cord dysfunction ) and had cancelled tours with Simon indefinitely last June. I don't even read People magazine.

But they were woven into the fabric of my past--newly married in Iowa City, Iowa; lonely in a new place in Oxon Hill, Maryland. They're connected to films that shaped me like The Graduate. They're connected to the Vietnam war both at that time and in the films that depict that time.

So, today, September 30, 2010. That's a day I'll remember. I'll tell my grandchildren, if they'll listen about the day their Grammie met someone(s) worth celebrity kudos for their body of work. For their legacy, and the evocative lyrics and rhythms of their craft.

Last week, I wrote with four other writers for five straight days. We wrote morning and afternoon. Ate together, Played together in the waves of Cape Hatteras. After dinner we listened to one another's work and critiqued it--walking that fine line of offering encouragement for a line, a phrase, a page that rang universal and the important tough job of making the comments about needed change, lack of clarity, or voice. I left that retreat full of courage to continue writing, continue trusting my voice. It was a privilege that I wasn't sure I would have the chance to realize ( it was by invitation ). These are good writers. Better than me, I suppose.

And then this magical meeting.

Two moments in time; one after the other. I deeply believe that these intersections have the power to change the molecules in every cell of the body.

M.C.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Raised in Captivity by Nicky Silver... and More--Summer 2010

Philadelphia

Generally, I look forward to the summer for all the reasons many of us do: no cumbersome clothing, no inclement ( read cold ) weather, fewer obligations, vacation. But this summer has been different than any I can remember in the past three decades.

I think the geopolitical, financial crisis creates an underbelly of uncertainty that I have not felt since the 60s with the Vietnam War, Civil Rights, and the Women's Movement all riping at the fabric of what we as a culture had known.

Then, I was in the vanguard--
an avid advocate for civil rights, women's rights, and, yes, a part of the antiwar movement. At the time, I lived in Washington, D.C. and would march from the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument with thousands of others, my two year old son on my shoulders.

The current crises in our country, though, seem more cynical, even sinister in some ways. The Gulf oil spill, some Wall Streeters' penchant to find loopholes that cripple the vulnerable, --and even crazy weather recently with record heat.

It is all a backdrop to my world, I suppose--and all of ours. This summer, I have made the decision to leave Pennsylvania and reside in New York. So, I have the house on the market not because I am deluded into thinking it will sell as the Dow dips and spikes leaving the first half of 2010 with pretty much a flat return. But since I'm not interested in a fire sale, it is a start, a chance to get the word out that this little piece of heaven is for sale. It has forced me to begin shedding, peeling away 30 years of belongings, memories, family heirlooms ( too much for a New York apartment for sure ). So, I shred documents, read old letters from my sons, from lovers, from friends who have since died--and decide whether to keep them, put them in storage or pitch them.

This summer, I am ( to my surprise ) beginning a geriatric practice in New York advocating for those who cannot speak on their own behalf because of dementia or just the fragility that comes with advanced age to many. It is challenging and fun--the practice is well established by a veteran professional, and I am learning about the patient population she serves and their needs.

And, finally, this summer I am appearing in a play, Raised in Captivity, at the Producer's Club in New York on 44th and 9th. I am Miranda, the mother of adults children--twins--who have just returned from burying me. I raised the children solo ( as I did pretty much with my own sons ). In keeping with Miranda's persona, a real force of nature, she appears to the son, Sebastian, and sets about the task of straightening him out about the family secrets that she never revealed while still alive.

I love the play, love the part. Learning all those lines. Well, that's a challenge. But, the best part is that the director, Laurence Gerwitz, asked me to play the role. How could I possibly refuse when I was recruited by the director? The play, written by Nicky Silver (often compared to David Mamet ) premiered at the Vineyard theater in New York in 1996 and is all about redemption, forgiveness. Oh--and it is very, very funny!

So instead of a couple of weeks in Nantucket and a summer filled with long days of writing, this summer is filled with the busy-ness comes from the schlepping back and forth between Pennsylvania and New York to tend to the house, a new consulting practice, and Off Off Broadway.

But yesterday, I took a left turn from responsibility and order--and decisions about what to keep and what to save.

It was brutally hot. So at 6pm, I suggested to my longtime friend that we put on our Tivas to escape to the creek . We walked out my back door and went down to the stream the entire bottle of savignon blanc that I plunged into the gritty bottom to stay cool. I sat on a big, old rock while Terry waded to the deep hole that is the fishing spot for the blue heron that arrives every day. And for an hour, we commiserated about our tomboy childhoods and country beginnings in very different parts of this country.

No fussing. No kvetching. Just two friends laughing as the sun sends stippled light through the hardwoods, the minnows flit about between the mossy rocks, and the electric blue dragonflies land on overhanging foliage.

It is the kind of moment that keeps me hopeful in the "in between" time that is so much of life.

It was Zen. Pure Zen.

M.C.

P.S. Come see the show if you're in New York--August 12 through 14, NYC. Producer's Club, 44th and 9th. 8pm. Tickets at the door ( $20 or so ) More later...

Monday, May 10, 2010