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".

MC

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.

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.

MC

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.

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...

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".

MC

Mother Nature Trumps

New York
For the past few months, I have been pounding the pavement in Manhattan. I want to find meaningful work in healthcare reform--something this diverse, urban center that arguably has the talent, the money and the problems that need solving--should be anxious to have help accomplishing.
My career has been a mix of healthcare and communications for the past 35+ years. I suppose some might say that I have taken the path less wise instead of the path less taken. But I made a decision long ago that I would only get degrees that I thought would support the body of knowledge that I needed to be effective.

So, no PhD in nursing or in Bioethics although I have masters degrees in both fields. And I crisscrossed the professions--teaching nursing at three universities; then director in an NFP national healthcare organization; then managing projects for medical advertising clients like Wyeth; then founding my own healthcare communications company. Finally, I taught bioethics to med students, nursing students, care managers of geriatric patients while at the same time developing an independent geriatric care management practice in suburban Philadelphia.

My final piece of the crazy quilt was to apply and receive acceptance by Maryknoll International to work with Buddhist monks in Bangkok for three months in the winter of 2009.

Today I met with another amazing professional at the NY Academy of Medicine, and organization that has been around for 150 years. The organization has many interesting projects, but recently was responsible for researching and then preparing a seminal report in 2008 outlining evidence regarding the quality of life for elders in New York's five boroughs. Ideas like NORCs ( naturally occurring retirement communities ), providing education and support to caregivers, models for transition from hospital to home, are all part of the report. I was in the right place to talk to someone who knows what New York needs. But money is tight. The mayor is cutting like crazy according to the New York Times in order to balance the budget. And, as a friend of mine who is on a hospital board of directors commented to me recently: " Every time we get a proposal for funding, we hesitate not because it isn't a worthy idea to be tested out with patients, but because we don't know how healthcare reform is going to effect our bottom line."

Nevertheless, I have promising prospects of consults, of being a part of a platform--which in this case, with the massive needs that I have seen in the last few years of my small GCM practice- seems to me the only way to penetrate the fragmentation that currently exists. And we are running out of time. Right now 1.3 million New Yorkers are 65 or older. By 2030, that number will nearly double to something above 25%. That is not just a New York phenomenon either.

As I walked back to my apartment through Central Park after the meeting, I thought about how glad I am that I am here, in New York, now in a time of such exciting change.m
I took some pictures of the conservatory in full spring blook at the north end of the park, and one of the stunning stone bridges in the North Woods section of the park. It made me less impatient with finding my niche. One of these days I will actually understand deep in my bones that I am not really in charge of outcomes, just the process that I choose to follow to meet my goals and dreams.

In the meantime, I will keep taking pictures of beauty. Of things that are bigger than me, and totally outside my control. Mother Nature, for instance.
MC

The Long Goodbye

New York


In the past few weeks, dear reader, I have been beginning the long goodbye to my beloved house in the country. It has become too much to keep as beautiful as I insist it be. And my other loves are calling--New York with all of its lure--the arts, friends, my children and grandchildren, the arts... Writing. Travel.

In the midst of shredding and organizing 30 years of things from Little League fielder's gloves and fishing tackle to mountains of tax returns from the 1990s, I found the poem below.

Don't Expect Applause

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome

at the end of each ordinary day?

The audience could be small,

the theater modest. Folding chairs

in a church basement would do.

Just a short earnest burst of applause

that you got up that morning

and, one way or another,

made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming

shower, drank your Starbucks

in the car, and let the guy with the

Windex wipe your windshield

during he long red light at Broad Street.

Or maybe you were that guy

not daring to light up

while you stood there because

everyone's so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife

as she hurried out the door, even though

you were pretty sure she was

meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,

even though you wanted to grab her

by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son's in jail.

Your daughter's stopped eating.

And your husband's still dead

this morning, just like he was

yesterday and he day before that.

And yet you put on your shoes

ad take a walk, and when a neighbor

says Good morning, you say

Good morning back.

Would a round of applause e amiss?

Even if you weren't good.

If you yelled at your kid,

poisoned the ants, drank too much

and said that really stupid thing

you promised yourself you wouldn't say.

even if you don't deserve it.

Tibetan Buddhist maxim

M.C.

Homecomings

New York

Since I can remember, the week before my birthday somehow finds me in the still water of reverie. When I was growing up in Iowa, my birthday was invariably greeted with a blizzard. Even without a blizzard, the solitude that weather suggests is a perfect metaphor.

My dear friend, Yvonne, brought me a book of blessings the last time she visited from Dublin by the beloved Irish poet, John O'Donohue. This morning when I picked the book up, it fell open to the blessing below.

To Come Home To Yourself

May all that is unforgiven in you,
Be released.

May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.

May all that is unlived in you,
Blossom into a future,
Graced with love.

John O Donohue

M.C.

Dinner With Friends

New York

This reverie began with a taxi coming within 24 inches of my right thigh before coming to a screeching halt on Fifth Avenue last Saturday morning at 9 a.m. I completely lost my composure with the driver who sat in his cab a captive ( since I was raving while I stood at the car's hood screaming " What were you thinking?" He wasn't thinking, just driving too fast through the 79h Street transverse between the west side and the east side of Manhattan.

Here I am, four days later, and still thinking about it. About my brush with death. February is tough without near death experiences. But I'm beginning to get punchy. Bring 'em on, part of me says. I can take the predicted "snow hurricane" that is supposed to visit the northeast in two days bearing down with multiple inches of snow, gridlock and inconvenience. But the other part of me wants to find a beach. Last year at this time I was just about to find a beach in the middle of paradise in southern Thailand. ( For those of you who are new to this blog, check the archives for all the vivid details. )

The past months have been spent running down rabbit holes in search of the work I want to do for this next decade. And there have been more dead ends than underground mansions in my quest to " make a difference" during what is arguably the last full tilt of my career. Even so, I have gotten a tour of New York's healthcare, not for profit and humanitarian sectors. What an immense playing field. What amazing talent. What enormous challenges/problems/barriers.

And I continue to have one foot on the dock with another on the bow of the boat, trying not to do the splits. I continue to want a presence in Pennsylvania where I have had roots for almost 30 years--and still mine the richness that New York offers in so many things that I value--the arts, possibilities doing work that might make a difference with the healthcare of the marginalized, a chance to live in one the most interesting places in the world right now ( recession or no recession ). And, then, of course, there is my family here, my beloved grandchildren, my nephews and their children--and a new grandchild soon to be born.

I look out my windows toward the darkening western skyline dotted with the lights of thousands of others' homes,where others dream, nurse their disappointments, navigate their worklife. We are all having our dinner hour in some way or another. Some out of a can, some served by a domestic, some drinking it. Some skipping it.

But for some reason, tonight it feels to me as if we are all in this same soup bowl together trying to find our way. Measure success by the small steps, I say to myself. Focus on "other" as the Dalai Lama teaches.

******************

I went to Sarah Lawrence last night for my first creative writing class of this semester. "Write about an ordinary day" our teacher had assigned in an email earlier in the week. One of my classmates who was diagnosed with ALS two years ago at the age of 56 did just that.

It is his written words that stay with me tonight.

"Ten inches. That is my view of the outside world, the ten inch space between the bottom of the window shade and the sill, the slight vista I can make out as I lie propped up in bed. I wake periodically and monitor the progress of the night. Before I was sick, my wakefulness tortured me as I tossed and turned. But now I am content to stare out through my narrow portal while I listen to the shallow breathing of my wife and the dg lying across the foot of our bed, their rhythmic ins and outs synchronized like a pas de deux. I have learned just to be. "

Beginnings

New York

Christmas is a distant memory. It has been over a month since I have recorded my thoughts, learnings to this blog. But I have been drilling down for oil, focused on keeping on task.

January has a frigid stranglehold on New York. And yet, I cannot remember a January that I have found so interesting. Since November, I have been poking down a lot of rabbit holes as I discern what work I want to do with this decade of my life. My skill sets have always deepened in two broad areas: communications and, I suppose, social justice ( although I think that might be a little lofty for just trying to do the right thing with folks who are marginalized!). So, whether I was teaching nursing, conceiving and executing program materials with my communications company--those were the areas that make up the map of my work life.

In the process of running down possibilities to use these skills, I've had a chance to see just some of the people and projects that are helping people in New York City--from the YMCA of Greater New York with its 14+ branches to the incredible Hartford Foundation at NYU that offers practicing nurses accessible tools in their busy lives to deal with our aging population. There are lots of people making organizational change.

And new beginnings seem to be everywhere on a more micro level. Last Monday, I stood at the end of the 25 meter pool, getting ready to begin my 50 laps when a 30 something woman with a black two piece suit stretched to accomodate a very big belly. I smiled at her and said: "You look so beautiful!"
"Do you really think so?" she asked, smiling back.
"When is the baby due?"
"Two days ago."
We talked for little bit about this, her first baby, her excitement and the unknown.
"I guess this is the beginning of worrying about this child for the rest of my life," she said, her brow wrinkling as she spoke.

Talking to her, I felt that invisible bond that mothers seems to have. We talked a little about my babies and my vivid memories of those last days before their births back in the distant 60s and 70s. The first time I felt each of them move, their first gasp, their first day home.

Wednesday, I read my son, Ben's blog ( BenjaminWagner.com ) and read his account of the 20 week ultrasound for the new baby that he and Abbi are expecting in June. He wrote about the thrill, the awe of seeing this new life forming before his eyes. He wrote about the mix of angst and absolute joy. It moved me to tears.

Thursday, I visited a senior center on the Upper West Side that is open 6 days a week from 8 until 5pm. The director grew up in the neighborhood 40+ years ago and attended Booker T Washington middle school that is now behind the center. Mickey multitasked between talking to me, answering her phone, and waving center members into her office for a chat in rapid Spanish. But the best part was the feel of the place. This neighborhood houses naturally aging, generally poor population of many Latinos who, without this place to create community, might be isolated in their apartment-- without knowing what services are available to them--health screenings, legal help, transportation.

In many ways, this winter seems to be offering me a mini course in miracles.

M.C

This I Believe

New York

This week marked my last creative writing class at Sarah Lawrence. For the second semester, I have made the weekly commute from New York's west side beginning with the M86 crosstown bus to Lex, then the #6 train to 125th Street, and finally the MetroNorth Harlem line to Bronxville. Once in this quintessential college town with its brick streets and cozy main street, I would either walk the mile to campus or, sometimes, one of my classmates would gratiously give me a lift. All tolled, it is about a two hour proposition from my door on the UWS to the Wrexham Road classroom.
There have been times this semester when the sun has set before I got on the first bus, times that I have questioned what I was doing making this trek since there are at least three major universities within 15 minutes of my apartment.
But last night I knew once again why I make this pilgrimage. It's the calibre of the writers. I have been in writing workshops off and on for the past decade or two, and I have never worked with such good writers--or such good faculty. This semester, Steve Lewis, our intrepid leader ( whose work is featured in publications such as the New York Times), prodded, quipped, and cheered as I wrote and wrote about Iowa in the 1950s and 60s. It became a running joke that my mostly Eastern-born and bred colleagues were learning more about threshing and Herefords than they had ever expected. I knew I had them when, in one class not so long ago, after I read a segment of The Red Bicycle, they were guessing where I had landed by plane to begin the trek along Interstate 80 toward Waterloo, Iowa, my childhood home to visit my frail mother.
" Well, she landed in Chicago, of course," declared Mel. "No, I think Des Moines is closest," said Lauren. Finally, Steve ( a Long Island boy who went to the University of Wisconsin at the height of the 60s student movement ) announced: "Iowa City, she landed in Iowa City." Close enough.
As our last assignment, Steve asked us to write an essay on the model of the "This I Believe" contest on public radio--and send it to him a couple of days before class.
We met at Lisa's house in Dobbs Ferry for a party and a little literature on Tuesday night. Steve had made a chapbook entitled Writings from the Edge of all of our essays about our belief systems. I was the first to read.

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Hopscotch

A couple of years ago, I was sitting on the beach with my best friend and her daughter Elizabeth. My friend and I were talking about what we were looking forward to in the next six months. Somehow, the conversation drifted toward our goals for the next decade—our dreams, really. Elizabeth was lying on her back, her lanky, bronzed, 25 year old body shiny with Coppertone deep tanning oil. She turned onto her side to face us, opened her eyes, and declared earnestly: “ I didn’t think people your age still had all of those expectations of the future.”

When I was 25, I probably believed that, too. But I think the amazing thing about growing older is that I don’t feel that old. Surely it must be true that I’m not the same in my sixth decade as my mother was in hers. It’s true that I look in the mirror more fleetingly now than I did at 25—or even 40. But I see the foundation of the same woman I saw in the mirror then. And aside from the paraphernalia of age—reading glasses, a must-take pill or two a day, and the fact that I lean in to hear some conversations---I am 25 in the land of my dreams.

My life and my career have been a working draft. Divorced at 35, (something I never ever dreamt would happen to me) with two pre-adolescent boys, I constructed a life for us from scratch. We moved to a new part of the country, and I set about getting my career back on track by accepting a position on a Ivy League faculty as an instructor (even less rank than a TA). I rented a little white cape near a good school, put a regulation basketball hoop at the top of the driveway, and stocked the refrigerator. It was a second chance.

Ten years later, I was an empty nester-- a term I hate (it always evokes a forlorn and feather-bare blue jay cawing in an oversized, untidy nest in the crook of a lifeless tree). By that time, I had left academia for business, found out what it is like to be fired (my gut said don’t-do-it the minute I walked into that ad agency to interview for the job), and started over once again. Because of career choices that I made during those decades, I have a resume today that is a mix of science and humanities. It looks unfocused to the unwashed who aren’t right brained, I suppose. And has cost me an easy fit into either the world of academia or business.

But recently, I realized that the hopscotch of my career is, in some ways, true to my ambivalence about what I really want to do.

So what do I want to do? My working answer is I want to do something in this coming decade that makes a difference. Maybe it is in healthcare reform. Maybe it is helping promote the little psychiatric center on 34^th Street and 9^th Avenue that counsels homeless clients, shepherding them through their recovery keeping them out of the hospital, out of the cold, and on their medication. Maybe it’s writing one truthful story that resonates with a yet to be found editor who publishes it.

I don’t know if any of those things will happen. But I believe in the timelessness of possibilities. I am just not done yet.

Can Winter Solstice Be Far Away?

New York

It's still dark outside my window at 6am. This time of year as the smack of cold air hits my face, the winter solstice always seems too far away, too hard to hope for. How did people stand it in the days of caves and clubs, wondering if the sun would ever warm their soil and souls again?

Slowly, from my window, I see the sun begin to paint the distant buidlings' windows a shiny orange, basking in its reflected glory.

Below, I've posted a favorite poem of mine. A little morning gift for all of you.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.