I have a confession. As a kid, I loved watching Mr. Rogers.
I know that’s not a popular thing to say… all the cool kids were into The Electric Company or Captain Kangaroo or even 3-2-1 Contact. But I really dug the way that this mild-mannered, sweater-changing, middle-aged neighbor of mine could simply think about “The Land of Make Believe” and suddenly find himself riding his magical trolley to a fictional wonderland where puppets reigned supreme. Mr. R taught me how to daydream, and I didn’t have to watch many episodes before I became the champion of all daydreamers. In fact, when I think about my childhood, I think of a boy who spent more time in a fictional world than the real one.
As a kid, it was just fun. But now that I’m all grown up, I realize the powerful life skill that was being taught to me at such a tender age: escapism. I hate to think of where I would be today, had I not had Mr. Rogers in my life, teaching me how to pretend that I was somebody else, living somewhere else, with better friends, talking owls and platypuses and magical trolleys. Yes sir, this seemingly useless little skill has rescued me from hours upon hours of boring classroom lectures, lengthy business meetings, toxic family arguments and cold, lifeless sermons.
However, awed as I may be at the abilities I acquired while watching the show, I will forever be perplexed over the oddity that is Lady Elaine Fairchilde. You remember – the creepy old hag puppet with a nose like a bratwurst, blood red cheeks, short-cropped, straw-like hair, an angled little chin, and eyes that could bore into the soul of the devil himself. As I child, I feared her. As an adult, I’ve questioned her sexuality. Overall, I just don’t get the point. Can you imagine the brainstorming session where the creative geniuses of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood decided to put an alcoholic he/she into the land of make-believe as a neighbor to the fetching Lady Aberlin, the vocabularily limited Henrietta Pussycat, or the ever wise Daniel Tiger who lived in a clock?
I always kinda figured that the point of fantasizing about an alternate reality was to find a happier place than the real reality. I don’t know about you, but my happy place doesn’t have crotchety old alcoholic biker chicks with creepy eyes and pointy chins. Besides, she’s a museum curator, for heaven’s sake. As a kid, my happy places were filled with dead soldiers (whom I had killed in the heat of battle), good friends, and beautiful girls… we didn’t even know what a museum curator was in my happy land, let alone have one. Plus, she called everyone “toots” except for King Friday, whom she irreverently called ‘Friday’. If I’m King in my own fantasy world, I’m not having anyone calling me anything other than ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Sire’. No one simply calls me by my last name. She even had the nerve to tell Prince Tuesday that his portrait of his father (Friday) was crap. In my fantasy world, that’s grounds for beheading. But apparently not so in Rogers’ twisted little make believe land.
Fred Rogers is dead, and that fact alone saddens me. He was a kind and gentle soul with the kind of mad creativity that only the genius possess. Gone are the sneakers with navy socks along with the indoor traffic lights. No more Mr. McFeely with his speedy deliveries. Mr. Rogers has taken that final glorious ride on the golden trolley in the sky. Yet because he is gone, the questions surrounding Lady Elaine Fairchilde will forever remain a mystery.
In conclusion, I fear that the very blog that I had hoped would be therapeutic for me as I seek freedom from my childhood tormentor, has forced me to face my demons once again. Or, I guess I should just say demon – the homely Lady Elaine – the very stench of evil. In so doing, I feel the urge to cope in the only way I know how… by escaping into an alternate reality where the likes of Lady Fairchilde are prohibited.
