Dispatches from the front

So much to talk about.

First, I'm considering a pullback in the length of my posts here. I have to get cracking on my long-form stuff. While I'm not one to believe in signs or portents, I got blindsided by something I read on a Web site that just forced me get to writing, now.

When you write speculative fiction, you are always playing chicken with time. You never know when your grand ideas will be co-opted by reality, turning your fantastic vision into "Been There, Done That."

So, I dodged another bullet, but I'm thinking that my ideas are bound to see daylight in another form very, very soon. Huh, there's an idea for a reality show: An author is trapped in a room writing a novel, possessing only a window on which he can look out onto the world. Meanwhile, people gather at the window, armed with giant sketch pads supplied by the show's host. At random, members of the mob write down ideas, dialogue or some plot point and press it up on the glass for the author to see. If the author has it, s/he has to start from stratch. It's race to see who wins: The hungry crowd with non sequiters of paper or the author determined to craft an original thought before time runs out.

Legacy

In case you didn't know, television icon and friend to children everywhere Fred Rogers has died from cancer. I just imagine him up in Heaven now (I mean, if he can't get in, we're all doomed), hanging out with Jim Henson and Dr. Seuss, working in a kid-friendly improv group trying to find the ideal way to entertain tykes of all ages.

If you'll indulge me, I'd like to add to the pile-on of memorials given for the deceased figure who taught children how important it was to believe in themselves. He was a kind, gentle man, a sentiment you'll probably hear many times. He possessed a warm voice, an armada of soft sweaters, an imagination that outstripped modern kids programming, and a genuine gift for talking to children as if they were important, as if they could be trusted to understand the big things (friendship, honesty, creativity) and the tough things (divorce, death). He never condescended. He always, always made it feel as if he was talking to you. He loved kids, and not in the sullied way we associate these days with the Catholic Church and Michael Jackson, but it was as if children were endlessly fascinating to him for all their curiousity and unbridled cleverness.

Sure, he may have been corny and square as we got older, but we forgot that he was just waiting for a new batch of youngsters to come into his peaceful neighborhood. He spent his time with us, just as he did with children from an earlier age. There he was, day in and day out for three decades. For his years of service on children's television, he was granted immortality: One of his trademark sweaters hangs in the Smithsonian, along with the other cultural icons. He became a piece of history for being a nice guy talking to children in a calm, honest voice. Looking back on it, Mr. Rogers possessed a cadence that drew you in and made you tranquil, even happy to be in his presence, akin to any prolonged exposure to, say, Desmond Tutu or the Dalai Lama. You felt better for being in his world, if even just for a little while.

Mr. Rogers was there when my dad walked out on us and my mom took on the heroic task of being a single mom in the 70s, trying to get out into the workforce while struggling to make sure I was on the straight and narrow. I love her, and she did her best, but there was something about Mr. Rogers, telling me I was good when I didn't understand why my parents hated each other, why they yelled all the time, why I couldn't talk about one of them in front of the other during the appointed visits that were handed down by the all-powerful new, third parent: Mr. Judge.

Mr. Rogers loved me unconditionally, telling me in no uncertain words that I was special.

He told me I was good when I was confused and hurt. He let me know that imagining was a special thing, and that I should do it more often. Through the cathode-ray tube, he gave me a secure place to visit, a home where I'd always be welcome even when my mom's house and my dad's new digs were tension-filled places. He gave me a puppet kingdom, explanations on how things worked, stories and life lessons (long before I got exposed to everything I was supposed to learn in kindergarten).

He told me I was special.

As a kid going through the opening stages of a long, painful car crash of a divorce, I really needed that.

I would offer thanks, but it's just not enough.

Today's Word: Blast

From One Word

The fuse took far too long. No, bad opening. It's a loaded word, these days. A bomb. Destruction. Everything I felt yesterday when the truck jumped the curb in front of my building. I thought, for a second, it was a bomb being delivered and boom.