Our Best Neighbor

Our Best Neighbor 

When our daughter was young, there were very few people outside of the family we trusted with her care. But there was one person I felt comfortable leaving her with for an hour every day; a person I knew would treat her as the very special person she was, who would introduce her to the wonder of the world, who would teach her to care, cooperate and share. He was so kind and gentle that I often joined her for one of his visits. We sat right down in our family room, turned on the TV, and welcomed Mr. Rogers into our home.  He was a good neighbor.

On February 27, 2003, Mr. Rogers left us behind as he went to a new neighborhood. But the things he taught us remain. 

While a youngster, his grandfather McFeely told him, “Freddy, you know you made this day a really special day just by being yourself.  There’s only one person in the world like you, and I like you just the way you are.” Fred never forgot that lesson. He grew up and attended Rollins College in Florida, studying music. Returning to Pittsburgh intending to enter seminary, he took notice of a new phenomenon -- television.  He was appalled by what he saw, pies in the face and put-down humor, and right then and there felt a new calling -- from a ministry in the church to a ministry to children in television.  

The programs he created will continue. His neighborhood is a safe haven for all children. From the minute Mr. Rogers steps singing through his front door, hangs up his coat and puts on his sweater (sweaters made by his mother, one of which is hanging in the Smithsonian Institute), and changes into his sneakers, a world of magic -- a kind and gentle magic -- is opened to every viewer.    

Children learn to wonder about the world, to want to find out about how things are made. They learn that fish need feeding and adults care about the things that cause children to fear or ask questions.  Children ride the trolley into the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, where a cast of puppets, each with its own distinct personality, work through some of the same problems they have. Prince Tuesday worried that his mother, Sarah Saturday, and his father, King Friday XIII would divorce. Henrietta Pussycat and Anna Platypus think about friendship and school.

 

Music fills Mr. Rogers's world.  It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, What Do You Do?, There Are Many Ways to Say I Love You,  Sometimes People Are Good and It’s Such a Good Feeling are just some of the many songs Fred uses to teach children about the world.  In Make-Believe the neighbors often put on operas. Everyone gets to choose who or what part to play, even if it doesn’t fit exactly into the opera story.  X the Owl always wants to play Benjamin Franklin -- and he always does.  

Fred Rogers received many awards. Each time, he asked the audience to “take along with me ten seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are, those who have cared about you and wanted the best for you in life.” He wanted us not only to remember those people but also to become those people. 

Fred’s favorite saying hangs in his home office. It comes from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exbury: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Two generations of children learned that lesson from Fred. Now it’s our turn to teach children the lessons he taught us: that we are all special, that it is more important to get along than to win, that it is all right to get mad or sad, that it is good to be filled with wonder, to be gentle, to sing, to be yourself

Mr. Rogers remained a special friend in our house even after the children were grown. Over the years, our daughter wrote to him sharing her concerns and asking for his advice. I wrote to him too, about the family and my students. He always answered, personally, inquiring after our family and offering encouragement to my students and me. Fred was our personal friend. I like to think that Fred was a personal friend to everyone.  

 

Our daughter never forgot the lessons Fred taught her. She is gentle, remembers to stop and wonder, loves to make music, looks for the best in people and knows that she, and every other person in the world, is special. With his encouragement, she joined the Peace Corps and served as a teacher in Africa. She taught her students what Fred taught her. She’s teaching her own children now. Every day, it’s a beautiful day in a new neighborhood because of Fred and those who loved him.

Attention-grabbers

Attention-grabbers

We’ve all been there — sitting in a meeting while a speaker drones on. The rumble of stomachs blocks brain function. Ears close, wrists flick up phones, and feet tap. Thoughts wander to the table, pull up a chair, and pick up a fork. Mouths water and noses twitch. The tick of the clock acts like Pavlov’s bell. Heaven help the speaker who goes over into the lunch hour. Out of the way! Lunch, here I come. 

Hunger grabs our attention. Many children come to school dragging attention-grabbers — hunger, fear, depression, trauma, insecurity, abuse, or neglect. Children who come to school hungry, fearful, or traumatized cannot focus on learning. How can math and reading penetrate little minds when stomachs growl or danger hovers?

Schools, expected to break through these barriers to learning, often lack adequate support. Taxpayers grumble when taxes are raised. Politicians decrease education funding. Administrators demand higher test scores. Teachers work harder. Children struggle to learn but attention-grabbers are hard to ignore.

Every adult who has felt hunger or been through a crisis knows how hard it is to take in information, make good decisions, or behave rationally when stressed. Yet we expect children to work past their needs. Many people oppose school meal programs. Many oppose food-security programs. Funding for school nurses and guidance counselors is cut. Teachers are expected to do more with less. Parents are expected to provide school supplies, and, when they cannot, children go without or teachers step in to supply them from their own resources.  

A society that wants productive citizens makes meeting the needs of children a top priority. Parents and schools need support so that they can support the needs of children. We have all heard that it takes a village to raise a child — it also takes adequate food, clothing, emotional and psychological support, and funding for schools, healthcare, and safe neighborhoods. 

When we are hungry it is hard to focus on the hunger of others. But when it is children who are hungry or frightened or depressed, we must care for them first. Find out how schools are using tax funds. Get involved. Find out what children need and help — by electing legislators who support schools, food programs, and neighborhood centers, by volunteering at schools and youth centers, and by supporting legislation for affordable health care. When children cannot learn because of attention-grabbers it is our job to clear the way. 

Many consider these solutions radical, but is it radical to want children to grow up strong, happy, and safe? John Adams wrote that  “The preservation of liberty depends upon the intellectual and moral character of the people.” Children, our nation’s future, will preserve our liberty and build moral character only when their needs are met. Let us focus our attention on fulfilling the needs of all children so that they can focus their attention on learning and growing.  

Your Brain's Psychiatry Booth

Your Brain’s Psychiatry Booth 

In the holiday classic "A Charlie Brown Christmas,” Charlie Brown seeks help at Lucy’s “Psychiatric Help 5¢” booth. Lucy asks him some questions: “Are you afraid of responsibility? If you are, then you have hypengyophobia. How about cats? If you're afraid of cats, you have ailurophasia.” Finally, Lucy asks: 

Lucy: Do you think you have pantophobia?

Charlie Brown: What's pantophobia?

Lucy: The fear of everything!

Charlie Brown: THAT’S IT!

Lucy: Five cents, please. 

We sympathize with poor Charlie Brown. Sometimes the world is just too frightening. Phobias can be debilitating but more insidious is bias. Bias is woven into our very being and often we are unaware of it.

Ben Yagoda, in his article “Your Lying Mind,” writes that Wikipedia lists 185 definitions for cognitive (related to thinking, reasoning or remembering) biases which Yagoda defines, as a “collection of faulty ways of thinking that is apparently hardwired into the human brain.” Bias is most often associated with racial, cultural, or political positions. Cognitive biases are less overt but can be just as damaging.

Cognitive biases are varied. Yagoda selects six most damaging biases: Confirmation bias, the tendency to favor people whose opinions match yours; Fundamental attribution error, the tendency to believe that people’s actions reflect who they are; the bias blind spot, believing that while others have biases, you are exempt; the anchoring effect, heavily relying on the first piece of information encountered; the representative heuristic, a shortcut used to make judgements based on personal examples; and projection bias, the belief that your tastes or preferences will remain the same over time.

In politics, these biases are evident. A politician favors news outlets that reflect her views (confirmation bias), labels people who disagree with her as corrupt (fundamental attribution error), favors information which supports her platform (anchoring effect), states that all other politicians are biased (bias blind spot), uses personal examples to support her position (the representative heuristic) and believes that current conditions are static and unchanging (projection bias). 

These biases affect our everyday lives. At school, we sit with friends who share our likes and prejudices, shun those who are different, and believe that our friends like the same things we do. At work, we judge co-workers by their looks,  gender, or academic degrees. We judge others based on first impressions not bothering to find out more. 

Each mind develops short-cuts for making judgments and predictions. Innate biases influence how we make decisions and view other people. Becoming aware of these hidden biases may change how we perceive and interact with the world. 

Before making a judgment, agreeing with an opinion, labeling another, or congratulating yourself, reflect on how your mind’s short-cuts affect what you believe. Do some research. Diagnose your own inner biases. Repair the errors of a biased brain. Save 5 cents. 

(Check out “Your Lying Brain: The Cognitive Biases Tricking Your Mind,” by Ben Yagoda in The Atlantic, Sept. 2018)

Ghosts of Halloween Past

Ghosts of Halloween Past

All children love Halloween. What could be better than dressing up and getting candy? When we were young, my brothers and I made our own costumes — usually from cast-off clothing from our parents. On Halloween night, we dressed in our costumes and grabbed pillowcases to gather our loot. We planned to fill those cases to overflowing. 

Everyone knew the best houses to hit — the ones that gave big Hershey bars, the ones that gave caramel apples, even the ones that gave quarters (which was a lot of money in those days). The mecca of our neighborhood was the house that gave out soft pretzels. These folks made their own and the supply was limited! Unfortunately, we never remembered just which house it was until it was too late. We had to settle for kettle corn.

Dragging our treat-laden pillowcases home, my brothers and I and removed our costumes, wiped off our make-up, and prepared for the climax of the night — trading our candy.

Each one of us used a sheet of newspaper to sort our haul. Piles of Hershey bars, Baby Ruths, pretzel sticks, Twizzlers and more grew before us.

As the oldest, with the most experience, I had the advantage in our trades. I regret to say that I was not the fairest of traders. I craved chocolate. Every year, I persuaded my brothers to part with their Hershey bars, M&Ms, and Three Musketeers. 

My brothers followed the “instant gratification” philosophy so they dived right in. I was more of a “delayed gratification” girl, so every year I put my ill-gotten chocolates into a paper bag, taped it shut, put the bag in a shoebox, taped that shut, covered the bag with brown paper, taped that shut and wrote, “This is Lisa’s candy. Do not eat!” all over it in black crayon. Then I hid the box way back in the freezer. For good measure, I locked the freezer door and put the key on top — too high for my brothers to reach.

A week later, with my mouth watering for chocolate, I’d reach into the freezer for my box. It was still taped shut but a little sloppily. The box felt a bit light. With steam pouring from my ears, I opened the box to find half — if not all — of my candy gone. Shouting my revenge, I looked for my brothers who were always suspiciously absent. My mother consoled me as I mourned the loss of my treats.

This happened every year. My threats never fazed them and I never caught them red-handed or chocolate-covered. The same charade played out at Easter and Christmas. I never learned.

Many Halloweens later, fate dealt me a blow. I became allergic to chocolate—justice for my avaricious ways. No more Hershey bars, M&Ms, or Three Musketeers for me. I miss the chocolate but I still have those brothers — a far better treat than any ever stuffed into a pillowcase. Delayed gratification of the best kind.

The Greatest Day in Baseball

The Greatest Day in Baseball

by Lisa Marie Crane

Many Years Ago

Play ball! Those words (often thought to be the last two words of our national anthem) conjure images of peanuts, hotdogs, lazy summer afternoons, home runs, and stolen bases. Fans roar or jeer as hometown heroes round the bases or drop a high fly ball.

Autumn brings the finale of the season — the World Series. Die-hard fans camp out in front of the TV or dig into their life savings to buy a ticket. Old-timers remember the greatest games, series, or players from their youth: the Miracle Mets, the ’55 Dodgers, Joe DiMaggio, Sandy Koufax, or the Phillies (do you remember) of 1980.

Yes, big-league baseball thrills many a fan but the game the goes down in my Hall of Fame was played on an old grass field in a Little League park by a bunch of kids in scruffy uniforms fielding with their fathers’ gloves. And the greatest player of all time is my brother Joe.

Joe ate, drank, and slept baseball. He could quote statistics back to the first-ever league game. Baseball greats decorated the walls of his room and his card collection was his pride and joy. Greatest games? He’d give you the play-by-play. Greatest players? Joe knew everything from their earned-run averages to their mothers’ maiden names. 

Joe carried an old red transistor radio everywhere with him. I’ll never forget sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the Great South Bay fishing — my father and I reading our books, and Joe with his ear glued to the radio hoping to pick up the faint static of the Phillies playing the Mets.

To put it simply, Joe loved baseball.

Now Joe played baseball too. From the Minors to the Majors to the Seniors in Little League, he never missed a game. Standing out on that crabgrass field talking it up, Joe was in heaven.

There was only one problem: Joe lacked the natural talent necessary for immortality. In other words, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. That never stopped Joe. He gave his all playing right field for six years, stepping up to challenge the pitcher and swinging at those impossible pitches. His teammates dubbed him “Joltin’Joe.” Once in awhile, he’d get a walk, but mostly he went down swinging. 

I was the designated fan in my family that year. Dad was managing my brother Paul’s team in the Majors and Mom was home with the little kids. I sat in the stands at either brothers’ game, looking up from my book when Paul pitched or when Joe got up to bat.

It was a typical game. Joe played right field and kept the statistics from the bench. My friend Barbara and I chatted in the stands checking out the local talent (we were fourteen). The seventh inning came and Joe was on deck. Barbara and I and the rest of the six or seven fans glanced up to see who was up and went back to our conversations. It was only Joe. He’d either walk or strike out — nothing to get excited about.

Joe took a couple of practice swings then stepped into the box. The pitcher tossed a good one right over the plate. He wasn’t worried. It was only Joe. Joe sized it up and swung, and, for the first time, connected with the ball. It sailed high over his head and into foul territory.

“Strike one,” called the umpire.

Barbara and I looked up at the crack of the bat. Could it be that Joe had finally hit one?

“Way to go, Joe!” we cheered. 

This was an event. Joe had hit the ball. The pitcher wound up and lobbed another. CRACK! Joe smacked it again! Barbara and I jumped to our feet. The rest of the crowd looked up. The ball veered to the left and drifted into foul territory. Barbara and I hooted and clapped wildly.

The pitcher leaned back and put his arm into the next one. Joe’s team lined up against the fence in the dugout. The ball sailed over the plate where Joe stood ready. POW! The ball doubled back into foul territory again and the crowd went wild.

“Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe!” the crowd chanted.

Three fouls but Joltin’ Joe was still in the game. Joe bent into his stance. The pitcher glanced at his manager, nodded to his catcher, and hurled the ball. We held our breath. The ball whistled through the air. The Senators hung on the fence. Joe’s gaze held steady. He swung. 

WHAM! Joe smashed the ball with all his might. The ball rocketed over his head, the catcher reached up — and caught it. Joltin’ Joe had fouled out.

It didn’t matter. The crowd roared. Joe’s teammates ran out and slapped him on the back. Barbara and I bounced up and down and hugged each other. After six years of living and breathing for the game, Joe had finally hit the ball.

World Series come and go. Every year brings new heroes and miracle plays. But when it comes time to vote for the most valuable player, my vote still goes to Joe — and any other kid who loves the game and gives it all they’ve got. 

So go out and root for the home team, but don’t forget the Little Leaguers living in your house, the kids who give all they’ve got in baseball, ballet, piano lessons, or math. They’re the real Hall of Famers in my book —right up there with Joe. 

All the Lonely People

All the Lonely People

Have you heard about the loneliness pill? According to researchers at the University of Chicago’s Brain Dynamics Laboratory, loneliness can be cured with medication. Scientists have determined that loneliness weakens immune systems leading to illness. People going through transitions, leaving for college, changing jobs, moving to a new community, or losing friends and family when aging, become socially isolated. Chronic loneliness can affect the brain and body. 

Today, more people live alone, fewer are getting married, and fewer married couples are having children than ever before. In former days, people were surrounded by family as they aged. In our mobile society, family members scatter. Getting together happens less often. Family safety nets disappear. Growing older when alone is twice as daunting as when surrounded by family and friends. Loss of mobility, hearing, sight, or even purpose, isolates seniors which can lead to depression.

Loneliness can strike anywhere. Adults can feel lonely in a crowd or at a party.  Children can feel alone at school. Teens can feel alone online. Feeling unwanted, unneeded, or useless, even temporarily, causes stress and sadness. 

Loneliness is daunting. In the classic Beatles’ song, “Eleanor Rigby,” Eleanor is socially isolated, sweeping up rice at the church after a wedding she didn’t attend, waiting at the window for someone who will never come. Father McKenzie “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear,” darns his socks alone. Both lonely people, working at the same church, neither offering the other company. The chorus lays it all out, “Ah, look at all the lonely people. Where do they all belong?”

 

Belonging is the key. All people need to feel necessary and wanted. How can we make this happen? We must connect. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if Father McKenzie had asked Eleanor’s opinion of his sermon? What if they had shared a quiet supper after the wedding? At the end of the song, Father McKenzie walks away from the grave of Eleanor. No one came to her funeral. He wipes Eleanor from his hands just as he does the dirt from her burial. If he had used those same hands to reach out in friendship to Eleanor, he might have cured both his loneliness and hers. 

Before we turn to medication, we should turn to one another to make connections that support those who are lonely. Do we make time to visit elderly friends? Do we call our scattered family members? Do we invite our new neighbors to join us for supper? Do we open the doors of our clubs, churches, and community centers to everyone? Do we walk outside the doors and welcome people in? Are we looking for the lonely people? 

During times of high risk for loneliness, times of transition, we must reach out to those around us. Loneliness is cured by connection. If you are lonely, reach out. If you know someone who is lonely, reach out. Making connections lifts the spirit and supports physical health. Look for the lonely people and help them belong. No pill necessary.

Historic Memories

Historic Memories

We were enjoying a day in Historic Philadelphia with our fifteen-year-old grandson, Phillip. We had visited The Declaration House where Thomas Jefferson penned his masterpiece. We watched a movie about the Birth of Freedom at the Constitution Center. We took photos in front of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. While waiting to tour the rooms where Independence was declared, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her teenage daughter.

“This is so boring. Why did you make me come here,” groaned daughter.

“I thought you might learn something, “ replied Mom.

“I won’t learn anything because I won’t remember any of this,” said the teen.

As I listened, I thought about our day with Phillip. He had listened patiently to the guides and his grandparents as we related American historical facts. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember any of it. But while touring, we had also related our memories of our times in these places.

We each recalled visiting Philadelphia with our school classes when the Liberty Bell was still housed in Independence Hall. We had stuck our fingers in the crack. We toured the Federal Mint and watched real money being made. We threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck.

I recalled a trip with my California cousins. We bought soft pretzels and toured Betsy Ross’s house. We visited the site of Ben Franklin’s house and printing shop.

All thirteen of us stood at the base the statue of John Barry with the famous clocktower of Independence Hall looming over us. We were hot and tired but happy.

Many years later, my fiancé and I traveled into the city to buy our engagement ring. We wandered into Independence Square and asked someone to take a photo of us with the clocktower behind us to mark this historic day. We toured holding hands and grinning shyly at one another. We return every year to recreate our happy day.

We made many memories at Independence Hall. Once, I ranted about the lack of a plaque for John Adams, the Atlas of Independence, on the site as my son and husband drifted slowly away pretending they didn’t know me. My daughter fainted during the tour when she was eight. Three-year-old Phillip had a bout of illness when we visited again with those same California cousins. We crowded around the same statue to recreate memories of our childhood days.

This trip, Phillip listened attentively to the tour guides who spoke of American history and to his grandparents who shared family history. He might not recall all the stories of history but we hope he will remember the stories of our lives. The teen who complained to her mother might remember something too — the mother who loved her enough to share a meaningful day with her.  

Before we left, we threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck — the good luck of sharing family memories and love.