We get lots of weird e-mail at work, most of it spam and a majority of it relating to either farm-centric porn, ill-advised long-distance Central African banking or risky mortgages that only require $1 down and $1 a month repayment.
Occasionally you get a pearl that you can share with the world.
This unsolicited column came today from a woman who obviously was moved by the death of Fred Rogers.
I, however, was unmoved enough by the column to consider it for publication.
As a co-worker wrote to me: "OK, which is more inexplicable: The fact that this woman got into the Washington Post (letters to the editor, perhaps?) or the "telescope" line from the Mr. Rogers song at the bottom?""
And she writes:
Dear editor,
Please consider the following timely essay for publication. My credits include the Washington Post, Reader's Digest, Family Fun Magazine, and many more.
Best Regards,
XXXXXX XXXXX
Farewell, Mr. Rogers: You Can Never Go Down The Drain
By: XXXXXX XXXXX
In this age of modern media, we've all heard about famous people who've died. Princess Diana, Kurt Kobain, Jacqueline Kennedy, and the list goes on and on. But, face it, there's something about hearing that Mr. Rogers has died that just seems, well, wrong.
Maybe it's because we never expect our childhood icons to ever die. Or perhaps it's that we feel that a part of our childhood is gone. Or maybe, just maybe it's that there are few things in this world that you can truly count on, but you could always ALWAYS count on the fact that everyday Mr. Rogers would enter his television house, change into a sweater and tennis shoes, and feed the goldfish. And, even though his cardigan collection wasn't all that great, somehow that simple act itself was comforting.
Let me explain.
Fred Rogers and I go back. Waaaaay back. I found him purely by accident on public television one Saturday morning while trying to fill my free time between Sesame Street episodes. Frankly, I was a bit skeptical at first. I mean, every kid under five knows that any show worth watching needs a cast of adults dressed in animal suits and some catchy nursery rhymes. Frankly, compared to that, this gentle, soft-spoken man with his hand puppets and trolley was well, boring.
But for some strange reason I kept watching. And watching.
Then one day it happened. He looked up from tying his shoelaces and said, in a way only a four-year-old could understand: You-can-never-go-down-the-drain.
Clearly, this was a man who spoke to my very soul.
And that's not all. Over the years Mr. Rogers went on to give me all sorts of comforting information I couldn't get anywhere else. He told me that people will like me for who I am. He told me that I was special. And, on top of that, he showed me how to tie my shoes over and over again, without once getting mad. I was putty in his hands.
The funny thing is, today when I told my eight and 10-year-old children that Mr. Rogers had died, they looked at me and said, "Who?"
"You know," I said, "the man with all of the same sweaters."
They instantly knew.
Let me just say, we haven't just lost someone who had a popular television show for thirty years, we've lost one of the few people who could still, in this violent and complicated world, look us in the eyes and tell us that we can never, ever go down the drain.
And we'd believe him.
Good-bye, Mr. Rogers. And thank you.
You Can Never Go Down the Drain
© 1969 Fred M. Rogers
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You're bigger than the water.
You're bigger than the soap.
You're much bigger than all the bubbles.
And bigger than your telescope
So you see...
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
The rain may go down
But you can't go down.
You're bigger than any bathroom drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
You can never go down the drain.
Uh, ma'am? You can't go down the drain, but your prose certainly can.
Buh-bye.