Basic Premises
By Charles E. Kraus
Are you an enabler? Do you hide from the facts, ignore reality, deflect, obfuscate, refuse the path mapped out by our nation's basic premises, in an effort to give cover to our President?
Lately an outbreak of fake sincerity has spread across the land. We might call the malady "hysterical disregard for reason." Some people have received a vaccination protecting them from this illness. Others, the disingenuous crowd, refuses to be vaccinated. They claim that logic is fake reasoning. They know better than reality. A lot of their pronouncements are given with a straight face and a crooked backbone. Their "facts" are dubious. By some coincidence, most of these fabulists happen to support the current administration.
I find it impossible to have serious conversions with Republicans. They do not seem to believe in the American Way. That our country’s foundation rests on basic assumptions such as equality under the law. Free Press. A three branch check and balance system to restrain abuses of power. What could be more bedrock?
We inhabit a world of complexity, filled with pressing political, social, environmental, moral and practical challenges. More than ever, we are dependent upon reason and reasonableness to keep us on course. Missteps can lead to catastrophic outcomes. We have enough to deal with without factoring in the kind of delusional pronouncements so frequently introduced by know-nothings.
Weather patterns are changing, and not to our advantage. Children are being separated from their parents. Self-dealing has become normalized. Does anyone truly doubt these statements? Evidently, the answer is yes. Or at least certain people are willing to tell you they do. Are they winking at one another when Nancy leaves the room?
Approximately a third of the Republicans say they'll support the President, even if he completes his term from a jail cell. Some people think he lies constantly and that disqualifies him from the job. Other's think he lies constantly and it's okay because the lies seem to be moving the country in a direction they happen to like.
Thank you Justin Amash for being the exception to the rule. For being the lone Republican standing against deception and corruption at the highest levels. But where are your fellow party members? Many talk a good game, but their standards are so low even a tyrant like Trump can pass muster. Their standards are so low, even they can pass them.
I have a feeling that if Mr. Trump personally shut the cage door, locking up immigrant children, then carted them off to work in the Mar a Lago kitchen, his supporters would overlook the broken laws, reject empathy, dismiss common decency, and with quasi-sincere enthusiasm, cheer on the proceedings. They'd use words such as 'decisive' and 'unorthodox' to describe their leader.
It is always interesting to discuss politics with people whose opinions different from my own. Unless, of course, the conversation is a sham, and the opposition's plan is to deceive rather than enlighten.
Monday, June 3, 2019
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Would you fly in a Boeing 737 Max 8?
Opinion: Would you fly in a Boeing 737 Max 8?
Published by the Oregonian and Oregonlive 3/12/19 (and other publications)
Would You Fly In A Boeing
Charles E. Kraus
On Monday, the day after the Boeing 737 Max 8 crash – the model’s second crash in less than five months -- I’m onboard a Southwest 737 that just took off from Seattle.
Depending upon which newscast you catch, Southwest owns between 20 and 30 potentially dangerous craft. Fortunately, though, my trip is not on a Max 8. But it might have been. You book a flight, make plans, arrive at the airport and board your flight.
I had about an hour to wait before reporting to my gate, and used it to peruse the Southwest clientele seated, standing or in the case of the kids, running around the company’s half a dozen gates. I heard no discussion about the recent accident. Not one word. It is possible that many of those gathered were unaware of Monday’s tragedy? The rest chose not to talk about it -- why stir up anxiety? That’s my theory.
I looked around. Who would be willing to board a Max 8, a plane with a recent reputation for falling out of the sky? Obviously, every breath, every decision, every destination, contains odds that are either in your favor or potentially work against you. I took a very long plane ride once to the Vietnam War, wondering about odds. Of course, at that time, I didn’t have the option of delaying my trip. These folks, with the children, clusters of generations, friends or associates, do not choose to revise their plans. They had enough trust in the skies -- or enough investments in events awaiting them at the other end -- to roll this particular set of dice.
Earlier on Monday, I heard a corporate announcement that the airline has faith in its planes. That’s good. But what does it mean? Southwest has a large investment and a need to be both safe and solvent. Sometimes that’s a difficult combination. I’m wondering what it is like to be a pilot or a crew member at a time like this. Do you step into your Boeing 737 Max 8 cockpit with a profound sense of uncertainty?
I like Southwest. Fly it often. It has the best baggage policy: Two under, one on board at no charge. Beat that. It also has very efficient crews. Many crew members add a touch of humor to the flights. Years ago, when all the airlines were in financial trouble, I recall the concluding message after we’d landed. Passengers were welcomed to Los Angeles, and then told, “we know you have a choice of many bankrupt airlines, and we want to thank you for choosing Southwest."
There is no sense of doom on my flight, though the woman sitting next to me is comforted by a stuffy. Whatever works. I don’t hear the theme from the “High and the Mighty” sound-tracking our progress through the skies. We aren’t on United, but I hope these skies remain friendly.
Still, I was left wondering: What kind of planes does Alaska Airlines fly? I have a return trip, you know. And though I have faith in Southwest, I also have faith in reality. I don’t go to Vegas, but if I did, I’d count my cards.
Charles E. Kraus
On Monday, the day after the Boeing 737 Max 8 crash – the model’s second crash in less than five months -- I’m onboard a Southwest 737 that just took off from Seattle.
Depending upon which newscast you catch, Southwest owns between 20 and 30 potentially dangerous craft. Fortunately, though, my trip is not on a Max 8. But it might have been. You book a flight, make plans, arrive at the airport and board your flight.
I had about an hour to wait before reporting to my gate, and used it to peruse the Southwest clientele seated, standing or in the case of the kids, running around the company’s half a dozen gates. I heard no discussion about the recent accident. Not one word. It is possible that many of those gathered were unaware of Monday’s tragedy? The rest chose not to talk about it -- why stir up anxiety? That’s my theory.
I looked around. Who would be willing to board a Max 8, a plane with a recent reputation for falling out of the sky? Obviously, every breath, every decision, every destination, contains odds that are either in your favor or potentially work against you. I took a very long plane ride once to the Vietnam War, wondering about odds. Of course, at that time, I didn’t have the option of delaying my trip. These folks, with the children, clusters of generations, friends or associates, do not choose to revise their plans. They had enough trust in the skies -- or enough investments in events awaiting them at the other end -- to roll this particular set of dice.
Earlier on Monday, I heard a corporate announcement that the airline has faith in its planes. That’s good. But what does it mean? Southwest has a large investment and a need to be both safe and solvent. Sometimes that’s a difficult combination. I’m wondering what it is like to be a pilot or a crew member at a time like this. Do you step into your Boeing 737 Max 8 cockpit with a profound sense of uncertainty?
I like Southwest. Fly it often. It has the best baggage policy: Two under, one on board at no charge. Beat that. It also has very efficient crews. Many crew members add a touch of humor to the flights. Years ago, when all the airlines were in financial trouble, I recall the concluding message after we’d landed. Passengers were welcomed to Los Angeles, and then told, “we know you have a choice of many bankrupt airlines, and we want to thank you for choosing Southwest."
There is no sense of doom on my flight, though the woman sitting next to me is comforted by a stuffy. Whatever works. I don’t hear the theme from the “High and the Mighty” sound-tracking our progress through the skies. We aren’t on United, but I hope these skies remain friendly.
Still, I was left wondering: What kind of planes does Alaska Airlines fly? I have a return trip, you know. And though I have faith in Southwest, I also have faith in reality. I don’t go to Vegas, but if I did, I’d count my cards.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
A reflection on veterans
OPINION // OPEN FORUM San Francisco Chronicle & The Oregonian
A reflection on veterans
By Charles E. Kraus
Every once in a Veterans Day, I write a piece about the years I spent in the military and how they’ve affected my life beyond the time I was required to salute anything that moved. Not many of my high school and college friends found their way into uniform. I’ve always been happy that I did.
I’m not saying I am “proud” or “honored” to have served or that I was particularly civic minded. Mine was the Vietnam War era. I was restless. Conflicted. Also curious. The official record describes my four-year hitch in the U.S. Navy as “sea duty,” but that was only because being attached to a construction battalion in a war zone, wearing fatigues and toting an M-16 rifle counted as sea duty even though it took place on solid ground.
Hopefully, I did some good for our country. But to be quite honest, the America I thought I was defending didn’t look like the one we are living in today. Though there were huge demonstrations throughout the Vietnam era, everyone assumed they took place within a context, within a system of laws and procedures. The system can no longer be taken for granted.
Back then (and right now), America was experiencing civic turmoil. In the 1960s, the kids were messed up. Today, I’d give that distinction to the adults. Is this the place I risked my life to defend?
There are common threads to serving: You have to leave home and move into the military world. It’s kind of fraternal. A bunch of strangers required to train together, people from an assortment of backgrounds, ethnicities, sections of the country, with a variety of regional accents and preferences, suddenly turned into a unit that performs in a singular fashion. Inductees leave their comfort zones, stow prejudices and act with equanimity, informing every thought with a context that asks if what they are about to do is good for the cohort. Initially, it’s a game. Reluctant acquiescence, then a going through the motions.
Eventually, an authentic bonding occurs within ranks. Though I’m sure familiarity can breed contempt, it can also breed respect and acceptance.
When you eat, sleep and work together, encountering an assortment of unique individuals, you discover that the winners and losers cannot be determined by stereotype. As it turns out, the people you learn to depend upon come from ghettos, from upscale white parts of town, from a variety of religious and secular backgrounds. They have all kinds of accents, ridiculous (by your own standards) assumptions and belief systems, strange codes of honor, even different ways to broach a subject or walk down the street.
You march together. You work in a proscribed manner. You wear the same outfits, and though a smidgen of attitude can be expressed in the tilt of a hat, by and large, you and those with whom you serve begin to mirror one another.
While serving, you become a veteran of more than potential danger, more than the often rude awakening brought on by separation from home, from challenges to your assumed wisdom and preconceptions. You become a veteran of an expanded, more inclusive, perspective.
Vets are many things. Perhaps a little more macho than the rest of the population. Perhaps more inclined to see the world through a government-issued point of view. Beyond that, most are apt to judge people by the individual talents, skills and deportment they bring to the scene.
Charles E. Kraus received a Bronze Star for his service in Vietnam and will remember all veterans on Sunday, Veterans Day. He lives and writes in Seattle.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Even the Frail Survive
Even the Frail Survive
By Charles E. Kraus
Mitch McConnell is 76. Elizabeth Warren is 69. Chuck Grassley is 85. Bernie is 77. Nancy is 78. Ruth is 85. The President and I are technically the same age, at least chronologically. I am 72 and can therefore write about old age from more than a theoretical perspective.
Many of us have weathered the years quite well. But without exception, endurance, memory degradation, health concerns, and general cognitive decline, are increasingly part of our balancing acts. Like cars, refrigerators, and ten-year-old computers, age takes a toll on function. All of us are dealing with built-in obsolescence.
“Where did I put my glasses?” may be the most uttered phrase of the post-fifty cohort.
We of the senior generation try to hold on to our skills and abilities. Eventually, we begin supplementing physical deficits with stronger trifocals, hearing aids, canes, walkers, pacemakers and other assorted medical devices. Who among us does not own a blood pressure monitor?
It is more difficult to compensate for failing cognitive agility.
When I watch our wise elders on television, I find myself impressed with the physical appearance of many. But I have certain suspicions about what I’m witnessing. These doubts come from personal experience. As a young man, I tried to look older, more mature. As a senior, I attempt to look and act as youthful as credulity permits. As they say, I don’t let the old man in. I do reasonably well with this deception, however, deep down I must acknowledge my charade. I’m putting my best foot forward, but that’s the foot with the gout.
I’m wondering if aging politicians are doing what I am doing — portraying a nimble mind. It is true that this duplicitous exercise can have a positive effect. My thinking, which is not as facile as it once was, improves during my impersonation of peak performance. This magic works for about twenty minutes. Thirty if I’m trying extra hard to impress those who may have reason to believe I’m no longer capable of driving, living independently, monitoring my own health, or making wise life decisions.
I’m not an ageist. As far as I’m concerned, Tony Bennett can keep performing until he’s a hundred and ten. But it is one thing to stick to your repertoire and routines, to function where the patterns and places are ingrained — in our minds, in our muscle memory, in our souls. Comfortably ensconced, we base our reactions on the storehouse of knowledge that we’ve developed over time.
It is quite another to deal with wide ranging, ever developing prospects, facts, crises, details, issues, pressures and then some, that are hurled non-stop at those who direct high-end government.
If Tony misses a note, his fans will forgive him. If government leadership fails to appreciate cyber security issues, the future may not be so forgiving.
Mandatory retirement age? Probably not. But, solid, well educated, mature, openminded, selfless, humble, worldly, caring, responsible young adults, please apply here. Before long, you’ll be taking the field.
By Charles E. Kraus
Mitch McConnell is 76. Elizabeth Warren is 69. Chuck Grassley is 85. Bernie is 77. Nancy is 78. Ruth is 85. The President and I are technically the same age, at least chronologically. I am 72 and can therefore write about old age from more than a theoretical perspective.
Many of us have weathered the years quite well. But without exception, endurance, memory degradation, health concerns, and general cognitive decline, are increasingly part of our balancing acts. Like cars, refrigerators, and ten-year-old computers, age takes a toll on function. All of us are dealing with built-in obsolescence.
“Where did I put my glasses?” may be the most uttered phrase of the post-fifty cohort.
We of the senior generation try to hold on to our skills and abilities. Eventually, we begin supplementing physical deficits with stronger trifocals, hearing aids, canes, walkers, pacemakers and other assorted medical devices. Who among us does not own a blood pressure monitor?
It is more difficult to compensate for failing cognitive agility.
When I watch our wise elders on television, I find myself impressed with the physical appearance of many. But I have certain suspicions about what I’m witnessing. These doubts come from personal experience. As a young man, I tried to look older, more mature. As a senior, I attempt to look and act as youthful as credulity permits. As they say, I don’t let the old man in. I do reasonably well with this deception, however, deep down I must acknowledge my charade. I’m putting my best foot forward, but that’s the foot with the gout.
I’m wondering if aging politicians are doing what I am doing — portraying a nimble mind. It is true that this duplicitous exercise can have a positive effect. My thinking, which is not as facile as it once was, improves during my impersonation of peak performance. This magic works for about twenty minutes. Thirty if I’m trying extra hard to impress those who may have reason to believe I’m no longer capable of driving, living independently, monitoring my own health, or making wise life decisions.
I’m not an ageist. As far as I’m concerned, Tony Bennett can keep performing until he’s a hundred and ten. But it is one thing to stick to your repertoire and routines, to function where the patterns and places are ingrained — in our minds, in our muscle memory, in our souls. Comfortably ensconced, we base our reactions on the storehouse of knowledge that we’ve developed over time.
It is quite another to deal with wide ranging, ever developing prospects, facts, crises, details, issues, pressures and then some, that are hurled non-stop at those who direct high-end government.
If Tony misses a note, his fans will forgive him. If government leadership fails to appreciate cyber security issues, the future may not be so forgiving.
Mandatory retirement age? Probably not. But, solid, well educated, mature, openminded, selfless, humble, worldly, caring, responsible young adults, please apply here. Before long, you’ll be taking the field.
Monday, September 3, 2018
Trump's supporters still faithful. Until they're not.
Trump's supporters still faithful. Until they're not.
Published in The Oregonian and in Oreglinonline
President Donald Trump sits at his desk Monday, Aug. 27, 2018. (Evan Vucci/Associated Press)
By Charles E. Kraus
To date, President Trump's people could still passively observe him pull out a gun and shoot someone strolling down New York's 5th Avenue. And, Trump's detractors could still passively observe him pull out a gun and shoot himself on 5th Avenue. In neither case would the partisans contact the authorities.
Word on the street is that Don has shaken the tree, and that those admirers who remain on the branches are with him until the blight. Call me Ishmael, or call me late for dinner. Either way, I'm not inclined to agree with the prevailing sentiment.
I'm thinking the following:
They loved Nixon. Until they didn't.
They were devoted to Dr. Cosby. Until they weren't.
They were impressed by Charlie Rose. Until they weren't.
McCarthy was allowed to foment distrust and suspicion. He peddled fake revelations that were believed by millions. Until they weren't.
During the Vietnam era, most people were either passively or actively in favor of America's massive, deadly, expensive, ever-expanding, ever-failing efforts to involve the country in a quagmire of a war that had illusive goals, and that was based on home-grown propaganda and a military industrial for profit complex.
Those opposed were called radicals. They were ignorant kids. They were well-meaning, or duped softies. Intellectuals who didn't know about the real world. They were Commie sympathizers, and stooges programed by lefty facility and religious extremists. My command suggested that when we returned from our tour, we refrain from wearing our uniforms while on leave so as to avoid getting spit upon.
And then, late in the game, after death and destruction, agent orange, the My Lai Massacre, after Kent State, and Robert McNamara's endlessly duplicitous sightings of light at the end of the tunnel, the tide of public opinion changed. The war became unpopular. How unpopular? Unpopular enough for people to vote for Nixon, the guy who had the secret plan to end it. His secret plan turned out to be to lose it, but at least -- and at last -- we were out.
Strangely, over time, I met fewer and fewer individuals who had ever, in any way shape or form, been in favor of the war. And equally amazing, it turned out that no one, not a soul, admitted to having voted for Nixon.
People are in favor of things. They sign on to, invest their status in, pledge and advocate opinions and theories, and what passes for facts. Sometimes what is being supported is just a fad. A brand. The latest dance, diet, destination.
Sometimes it is a popular leader who appears to be a god, until he is given a second look, and turns out to be a fanatic. The trick is to conduct the reevaluation before the damage is irreversible.
Trump on 5th Avenue. That, in and of itself, may turn out to be a crime.
Charles E. Kraus lives and writes in Seattle.
Monday, August 20, 2018
I Ain't Marching Any More or Less — Trumps' Parade
I Ain't Marching Any More or Less — Trumps' Parade 9/18/18
By Charles E. Kraus
Been shining my jungle boots and ironing my old uniform all summer in preparation for President Trump's Veterans Day parade. I haven't actually worn therm for forty-eight years. But they seem as pristine as the day I left the service.
Evidently, I can put them back in the closet. It appears the event is canceled. Upon reflection, I think this may be a wise decision.
I'm reasonable certain most members of of our active military would also prefer to sit this one out. The President may have helmed a parade or two, positioned in an open convertible, waving at the masses. The people who preceded him up and down the route, in the heat, in the cold, had a different focus. You think it's fun to spend hours marching down the street? Marching requires concentration, awareness, stamina and the ability to postpone a bathroom call that would make such a difference in your life.
The only genuine parade-like marching I've ever done was when graduating from bootcamp. That took place at the Great Lake Naval Training Center, in a gigantic drill hall. Hundreds of us newly minted sailors, theoretically in lockstep, strode the field at a fast clip. We pivoted left again and again as we reached each corner until we'd used up the four sides of the arena.
The bleachers were filled with families and friends who had come to our 'graduation.' For many, it would be the only gradation in their lives. It was a big deal -- pomp and circumstance at the enlisted person's level. Bands played, people cheered, the place seemed to be bursting with pride.
Each of the numerous Companies assembled on the field was comprised of 75 men. We were volunteers, ordinary average regular folks who'd been subjected to eleven weeks of intense harassment, intimidation, training and some drill instruction. Finally, we were being released into the "real" Navy.
When it came to marching, we could approximate reasonable formations, advance row by row without bumping into the people in front of us, reverse course on a dime and more or less appear to be marching. But a tentative aspect hug over such promenading. Even after hours and hours of drilling, a novice's uncertainty lingered in our hearts.
As each company approached the bleachers, its Recruit Petty Officer In Charge (RPOC) prepared to order a pivot. At his command, all 75 men, hopefully in unison -- were to swing left on the balls of their feet, creating a united right angle adjustment to the direction in which they had been were heading. The choreography required your right foot to be extended as you went into this turn.
The proceedings were synchronized. No one, no row, no section, no company, could stop, or even hesitate, without effecting those behind. In back of your unit was the next, and the next, all moving forward. It felt as if we were being pursued and needed to keep stepping ahead or be run over. There was no pause button.
The fear of not making the turn in a timely fashion, of creating what could be a thousand man pileup, became more and more intense. We were reaching the last possible opportunity to avoid the bleachers.. The pivot only happened when the RPOC gave the command. "To the left, hut!" Was he going to time it correctly? Would the “hut” come a fraction of a second too late to keep us from trampling the spectators?
I experienced the gut sensation you get a split second before an imminent car crash. Of being out of control. The wall was getting closer and closer. There was nothing we could do to avoid a smash up. But then, "To the left, hut!" was sounded inches from catastrophe.
We pivoted and marched on. If you think we were frightened, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the guests seated directly in front of us.
By Charles E. Kraus
Been shining my jungle boots and ironing my old uniform all summer in preparation for President Trump's Veterans Day parade. I haven't actually worn therm for forty-eight years. But they seem as pristine as the day I left the service.
Evidently, I can put them back in the closet. It appears the event is canceled. Upon reflection, I think this may be a wise decision.
I'm reasonable certain most members of of our active military would also prefer to sit this one out. The President may have helmed a parade or two, positioned in an open convertible, waving at the masses. The people who preceded him up and down the route, in the heat, in the cold, had a different focus. You think it's fun to spend hours marching down the street? Marching requires concentration, awareness, stamina and the ability to postpone a bathroom call that would make such a difference in your life.
The only genuine parade-like marching I've ever done was when graduating from bootcamp. That took place at the Great Lake Naval Training Center, in a gigantic drill hall. Hundreds of us newly minted sailors, theoretically in lockstep, strode the field at a fast clip. We pivoted left again and again as we reached each corner until we'd used up the four sides of the arena.
The bleachers were filled with families and friends who had come to our 'graduation.' For many, it would be the only gradation in their lives. It was a big deal -- pomp and circumstance at the enlisted person's level. Bands played, people cheered, the place seemed to be bursting with pride.
Each of the numerous Companies assembled on the field was comprised of 75 men. We were volunteers, ordinary average regular folks who'd been subjected to eleven weeks of intense harassment, intimidation, training and some drill instruction. Finally, we were being released into the "real" Navy.
When it came to marching, we could approximate reasonable formations, advance row by row without bumping into the people in front of us, reverse course on a dime and more or less appear to be marching. But a tentative aspect hug over such promenading. Even after hours and hours of drilling, a novice's uncertainty lingered in our hearts.
As each company approached the bleachers, its Recruit Petty Officer In Charge (RPOC) prepared to order a pivot. At his command, all 75 men, hopefully in unison -- were to swing left on the balls of their feet, creating a united right angle adjustment to the direction in which they had been were heading. The choreography required your right foot to be extended as you went into this turn.
The proceedings were synchronized. No one, no row, no section, no company, could stop, or even hesitate, without effecting those behind. In back of your unit was the next, and the next, all moving forward. It felt as if we were being pursued and needed to keep stepping ahead or be run over. There was no pause button.
The fear of not making the turn in a timely fashion, of creating what could be a thousand man pileup, became more and more intense. We were reaching the last possible opportunity to avoid the bleachers.. The pivot only happened when the RPOC gave the command. "To the left, hut!" Was he going to time it correctly? Would the “hut” come a fraction of a second too late to keep us from trampling the spectators?
I experienced the gut sensation you get a split second before an imminent car crash. Of being out of control. The wall was getting closer and closer. There was nothing we could do to avoid a smash up. But then, "To the left, hut!" was sounded inches from catastrophe.
We pivoted and marched on. If you think we were frightened, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the guests seated directly in front of us.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
The Inquirer
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in the 7/9/18 edition(s) of the Philadelphia Inquirer and it's related papers
My wife and I were a bit surprised when we received a thank-you note from Mister Rogers. I’d attempted to get him a copy of the book we’d written about children’s parties. It had been passed from one children’s entertainer to another until it reached a musical event where Fred Rogers was giving a keynote.
Six months went by and I’d assumed Mr. McFeely’s speedy delivery service had mistaken our book for junk mail and tossed it. Rogers apologized for the delay, explaining that he was a little behind in his correspondence. Our book was being added to his permanent collection. I was elated! His thank-you was going into the permanent keepsake file in our office.
In truth, I’ve kept more than his kind note. As a life-long children’s performer, I hold his methods of communicating with children in my heart. His approach to interacting with young people went beyond “entertaining” them. He mirrored curiosity, kindness, thoughtfulness and wonder, respecting, accepting and celebrating the vulnerabilities and limitations felt by all children. He helped them to develop attitudes that would allow neighborhood visitors to flourish as the years passed.
In the 1960s, television programming aimed at the younger set consisted of live shows hosted by ex-vaudevillians, comedians and radio broadcasters who had ventured into TV and meandered to the kid show niche. Most were just passing through this career phase on their way to more sophisticated adult programming. A few found the genre attractive and decided to specialize in the children’s entertainment field.
Captain Kangaroo, Shari Lewis, Miss Frances, and Buffalo Bob Smith reigned among the most successful. The Captain, Bob Keeshan, had begun his TV career as an NBC page, graduating to a stint as Clarabell the Clown, then transitioning into a Captain’s costume. He was congenial, warm, and ever so befuddled by the other characters on his show.
Shari was a charming, aggressive, talented ventriloquist who communicated especially well with her adorable puppets. Miss Frances, the agreeable hostess of Ding Dong School, projected a friendly, if bland, nursery-school teacher persona. Technically innovative, her program kept cameras unusually low, giving home viewers a sense of watching from a child’s perspective. Buffalo Bob, a veteran broadcaster, starred on The Howdy Doody Show. He was highly involved with marionettes, props, and juvenile situations, part of a cast of outlandish characters who chased one another around the set and got squirted from a seltzer bottle.
Mister Rogers brought something else to the screen. He didn’t do gags, pratfalls or anything that smacked of show business. He was an explainer, not a costumed character, just a man, being himself. A person who enjoyed sharing his enthusiasms. These were contagious because they were genuine. That’s the message that I got from him, that I’ve made the center of my programs for kids. Respect yourself and your audience. Be caring and be authentic.
What a wonderful way to approach life.
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in the 7/9/18 edition(s) of the Philadelphia Inquirer and it's related papers
My wife and I were a bit surprised when we received a thank-you note from Mister Rogers. I’d attempted to get him a copy of the book we’d written about children’s parties. It had been passed from one children’s entertainer to another until it reached a musical event where Fred Rogers was giving a keynote.Six months went by and I’d assumed Mr. McFeely’s speedy delivery service had mistaken our book for junk mail and tossed it. Rogers apologized for the delay, explaining that he was a little behind in his correspondence. Our book was being added to his permanent collection. I was elated! His thank-you was going into the permanent keepsake file in our office.
In truth, I’ve kept more than his kind note. As a life-long children’s performer, I hold his methods of communicating with children in my heart. His approach to interacting with young people went beyond “entertaining” them. He mirrored curiosity, kindness, thoughtfulness and wonder, respecting, accepting and celebrating the vulnerabilities and limitations felt by all children. He helped them to develop attitudes that would allow neighborhood visitors to flourish as the years passed.
In the 1960s, television programming aimed at the younger set consisted of live shows hosted by ex-vaudevillians, comedians and radio broadcasters who had ventured into TV and meandered to the kid show niche. Most were just passing through this career phase on their way to more sophisticated adult programming. A few found the genre attractive and decided to specialize in the children’s entertainment field.
Captain Kangaroo, Shari Lewis, Miss Frances, and Buffalo Bob Smith reigned among the most successful. The Captain, Bob Keeshan, had begun his TV career as an NBC page, graduating to a stint as Clarabell the Clown, then transitioning into a Captain’s costume. He was congenial, warm, and ever so befuddled by the other characters on his show.
Shari was a charming, aggressive, talented ventriloquist who communicated especially well with her adorable puppets. Miss Frances, the agreeable hostess of Ding Dong School, projected a friendly, if bland, nursery-school teacher persona. Technically innovative, her program kept cameras unusually low, giving home viewers a sense of watching from a child’s perspective. Buffalo Bob, a veteran broadcaster, starred on The Howdy Doody Show. He was highly involved with marionettes, props, and juvenile situations, part of a cast of outlandish characters who chased one another around the set and got squirted from a seltzer bottle.
Mister Rogers brought something else to the screen. He didn’t do gags, pratfalls or anything that smacked of show business. He was an explainer, not a costumed character, just a man, being himself. A person who enjoyed sharing his enthusiasms. These were contagious because they were genuine. That’s the message that I got from him, that I’ve made the center of my programs for kids. Respect yourself and your audience. Be caring and be authentic.
What a wonderful way to approach life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)