I have a lot of creepy connections to the TV show Mister Rogers’Neighborhood. Before I ever moved to the Pittsburgh area, I watched this show all the time as a child. I think I enjoyed King Friday XIII but I don’t remember for sure. King Friday’s favorite color is purple. That seems irrelevant right now but it isn’t. Trust me.
Years later, when we moved to Pittsburgh, I realized that we were there in his hometown! Thrilling! The Pittsburgh Children’s Museum holds the actual Neighborhood of Make-Believe from the show and I saw it in 2001 when my cousin Michael came to visit (he was really little). I thought it was kind of cool, but being 14 didn’t admit it.
On my sixteenth birthday I came downstairs for breakfast and turned on the news (I frequently watched the news in hopes that a giant snow storm would cancel school for the day. And if that didn’t happen, I at least knew the weather and could dress appropriately… though at my school the temperature changed depending on what part of the building you were in). Mere seconds before I turned on the television, I thought to myself "I wonder if anything cool is happening in the news today, since it's my birthday..."
In a moment which was very Charlie Brown-esque, a solemn reporter announced "And today is a sad day for the city of Pittsburgh and many children across North America. Mister Roger's passed away last night due to..." Oh the irony.
Four and a half years later I gained summer employment working at a nursing home. This was the worst job I have ever ever had in my entire life and I have taken a vow never to do it again. Though many interesting, hilarious, and awful professional experiences happened there, one of many particularly interesting blips on my job radar that summer was Mrs. Aber. I don't remember her first name, only that she was a hypochondriac and a member of the PC unit (standing for "Politely Confused"... the "Garden Level" floor AKA the basement where they threw one staff member, fourteen severe Alzheimer's/dementia patients, and five exit doors). Her son, however, was incredibly nice and charming. He even brought the entire unit flags for the Fourth of July.
I later found out from a supervisor that he was Neighbor Abor. Yes! That's Right! As Associate Mayor of Westwood he assists Mayor Maggie and is a kind neighbor to everyone in Make-Believe. As a good friend in the real Neighborhood, he shares his many interests with Mister Rogers and his television friends. He is also the voice for H.J. Elephant III. Again Mister Roger's crosses my path and (this time) thankfully disappears for the time being.
Hold on very tight now, folks.
For the life of me I can't remember this part of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood story but the intrawebs confirms it's existence. This isn't made up. In fact, some people asked on their blogs what special mixture of crack Fred Rogers' was on when he introduced this concept to the show.
On Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Planet Purple is a planet on which everything is purple, and everyone and everything is the same. Every girl on Planet Purple is named "Pauline," every boy, "Paul." Purple Panda (played by David L. Nohling), a resident of Planet Purple, can return there "the purple way" (just by thinking). Moreover, all of the planet's inhabitants speak in monotone English.
In his book If We Were All the Same, Fred Rogers details attempts by the residents of Planet Purple, tired of all being the same, to become more colorful.
Planet Purple was discovered by Lady Elaine Fairchilde. Who is she? She’s the outspoken, cranky schemer who took over the Museum-Go-Round after the Froggs moved; often known to say "Okay, toots."
I love that she says "okay, toots."
She is generally the antagonist when a storyline calls for one, but her neighbors are quick to forgive her because they understand her so well. It is discerned during the series that she has low self-esteem and is extremely self-conscious, and because of this, her neighbors are extremely patient with her until she finally learns her lesson. Despite her own faults, she consistently shows King Friday when he is wrong about something and frequently goes to extremes (such as physically moving her museum or modifying a comet) to do so.
Who cares?
I certainly didn't until about twenty four hours ago. For the second year in a row, I'm a summer intern at the Pittsburgh International Children's theatre for the second year, and this time I get to help out with the Children's Festival (which, is going to be great. It's next week and you should come... I'm VERY excited about it). One of the shows is a live and interactive presentation of Mister Roger's Neighborhood. Mr. McFeely and his speed deliveries are the star now that Fred has passed away. Apparently on a professional level, while he's very nice, Mr. Mr. McFeely is also very unorganized.
While making final arrangements with my supervisor, I could hear her on the phone saying,
"The Purple Panda? Oh! Yes, yes, I will. I will. Yes. The Purple Panda. Got it."
She hung up the phone and let out a stream of air she was holding in, perhaps to avoid exclaiming a 'bad' word. One of my co-workers laughingly asked:
"What are you talking about over there, pandas and purple and what?"
My supervisor came out from her cubical... When this happens, it means someone is in trouble, someone is getting more work to do, or someone is about to hear a story. This was a story.
"Do any of you remember the Purple Panda?"
No and what the hell are you talking about!? I couldn't say that so I joined my fellow interns in staring at her, dumbfounded.
"Well it's this character from Mr. Rogers and the guy who originally was the Purple Panda lives in Seattle so I told Mr. Mr. McFeely that there was no way that were were flying him out for two shows. Mr. McFeely agreed that wouldn't be necessary. I thought that we had agreed he would find someone local to play the Purple Panda but apparently that has become my responsibility four days before the festival starts."
Walking back to her office she asked in sarcastic hope which one of us wanted to dress up like the Purple Panda. "Don't all jump at once!"
You all know where this is headed, friends.
As I went to throw out the ticket sales information for the day, I practically ran her over. "This could be your big break," she said with a smile, "the last four years of your life worked to this moment." The whole office was making fun of it, yes. It's ridiculous... yes. And this lady wrote me countless letters of recommendations for graduate school. Yes. I said yes. "I'll do it."
"You will? Are you serious?" She laughed as much in relief as in jest of my new title. Purple Panda the Festival Intern. I should have business cards printed.
As she called to tell Mr. McFeely she had found him a Purple Panda she said "As much as we're knocking it, this really is a good chance for you. When you get him to focus, Mr. McFeely knows a lot of people."
Mister Rogers ended every program telling children... "You've made this day a special day by just your being you. There's no person in the whole world like you. And I like you just the way you are."
Who's playing Mister Roger's Purple Panda for a week? This kid. Right here. Mister Roger's is haunting my life.
In Dancing at Lughnasa, five unmarried sisters labor to hold their family together in 1936 Ireland. Their struggles are complicated by the arrival of their older brother, a retired priest from Uganda, and blessed by the presence of a small child. The play made its New York debut in 1991.Wednesday
8:54 a.m. Six minutes until I’m expected at work, and I haven’t left my dorm room to make the frozen trek across campus. I want to look somewhat decent for the first meeting of the campus choir, because I’m the president. That sounds like bragging. I'm not, it isn’t that big of a deal really. I sing, do paperwork when the school needs it, and make sure we get our required service project in for the semester. Ironing my shirt took longer than I thought, and I had to do something with my hair that ends with burning the nerves off of my finger tips as I juggle hot rollers. It’s grown too long to let it air-dry curly. When I do that it looks stringy. I spin around and use my bare feet to dig through the piles of clothing on the floor. Trying to find my other shoe is like trying to find a miniskirt in Vatican City. Sure, it’s probably there someplace but you’re going to have to work really hard to find it.
8:56 a.m. I let the apartment door shut behind me as I tuck my hair behind my ear. For goodness sake, I forgot to put on earrings. Because I’m wearing purple, I can sport my birthstone jewelry (amethyst) that I’ve been receiving since I was five. I have two pairs of purple earrings. The first set is just the stones set rather plainly. The second set, though, they’re my favorite. They have a tiny (like, pinprick tiny) diamond set above a little teardrop cut of amethyst. I have a matching necklace and bracelet, too. Probably the nicest thing I own (since my laptop is slowly but surely dying and I don’t have a car).
Jamming my key into the lock, I tell myself that I try too hard to make a good impression. It just pushes people away. Then I think, “Well, I might as well look nice while I do it,” and throw open the door.
I only wear that set when I want to feel extra pretty, so I reach for my earring container and pluck out the favorite set. Placing the container on my desk, next to the pile of papers I have to sort through and the text book I didn’t read, I drop one of the earrings. You know, Murphy’s Law has yet to fail me.
8:57 a.m. Scrambling on the floor has not helped me find this earring. It isn’t under my laundry bag, didn’t fall into a desk drawer that was half open, and certainly isn’t under that DVD I have meant to return to Blockbuster two weeks ago.
A reflex my mother instilled in me when I was five years old kicks in as I say aloud in a sing-song voice, “Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, Please look around. Something’s been lost and must be found.” As a child, I watched my mother say that and not two minutes after, she would find a missing piece of paper she needed, the dog who slipped into the laundry room when she wasn’t looking, my brother’s clip on tie, etc. From somewhere in the house I would hear a triumphant cry of “I found it! Thanks Saint Anthony!”
I’m late, forget it. I’ll keep looking later today. Thanks a lot, Antonio. Now I’m really late. I throw in the not as favorable yet still acceptable earrings and half run across the ice.
9:05 a.m. The phone rings at work. It’s my boss.
“Arts Center.”
“Late again, today?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I…”
“Early is on time. On time is late. Get your ass to work on time!”
“Yes…”
*click*
“…sir.”
Friggin earrings.
9:34 p.m. I still can’t find the missing one. I vow to clean this weekend, not mention to my poor grandparents I lost their favorite gift to me, and swear it has to turn up eventually. I mean, it’s an earring, it can’t go far. Right? Right. I hope.
Thursday
9:52 a.m. Crap! I forgot to look for the earring this morning. Well, there’s always tonight.
2:34 p.m. I grab the yellow ‘sign-in’ sheet and write my name as a tutor for writing. Basically, I get paid to sit and do homework, since it’s a rarity that someone comes into the Academic SUPPORT (they are calling it ‘Success’ this year, and after three years of hearing ‘support’, I think ‘success’ sounds like a cheesy way to make struggling students feel better about themselves) Center to ask for help on their papers. The other tutors and I discuss the lovely -26 wind chill factor and how it’s supposed to go up to a balmy 0 later tomorrow.
3:47 p.m. Another half of an hour and I can go home. I’m sick of reading Dante’s Inferno, I can’t concentrate. More idle chatter ensues until one of the work study students who sits at the front desk approaches our table.
“Did anyone lose an earring in here yesterday?”
Everyone shakes their heads. “I don’t think so,” says Megan in that slow way one talks when trying to think back on the events that happened the day before.
“Are you sure? We think one of the tutors lost it. It’s purple…”
“YOU were wearing a purple earring, Mich!”
Yes. Yes I was. But I had both of those when I came home. It’s the pretty one that I was missing, and I lost that four hours before I came in to tutor. "I’ll take a look, but I don’t think it’s mine."
Front Desk Girl opens a drawer and pulls out an earring with a tiny (like, pinprick tiny) diamond set above a little teardrop cut of amethyst. Thanks Saint Anthony.
