Ching ching ching ching
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: I See a Darkness, Johnny Cash
Topic: Nostalgia
Last week my grandmother died. So did Captain Kangaroo. I've been bothered ever since by the fact that I cried more for Captain Kangaroo than for my grandmother.

I loved my grandmother. She was an awesome lady. At 96, she had borne 13 children, all at home and most during Depression years, and seen all 13 of them grow to adulthood. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack in his 40s, leaving her with four children still in school, but she just forged onward. She was a hard worker, big hearted and a lover of God. When I was a kid, she used to make a pair of pajamas or a nightgown for every grandchild for Christmas, and never had a pattern. Eventually there got to be too many grandkids - 35 - for that to be practical.

I loved my grandmother. She knew the names of all kinds of plants, and what they were good for. I wish I'd paid more attention to that. But by the time she died, she'd been on her way away for a long time. Goodbyes were implicit, if not outright. Everybody knew there wasn't much time left. So by the time she died, much of the grieving had been done.

Captain Kangaroo was another thing entirely. His death was a surprise, and even now I tear up every time I think about it. Why does a mostly fictional character (because let's face it - I'm grieving Captain Kangaroo, not Bob Keeshan) upset me more than my own grandmother?

I think it's because Captain Kangaroo was something almost mythical to me, growing up. To an only child living in a tarpaper house in the middle of cotton fields, Captain Kangaroo was a daily dose of magic. We could only get two channels where I lived - CBS and NBC - so Captain Kangaroo on weekday mornings was my only link to magic.

And I loved it. In flickering black and white, I loved the Captain's gentle ways. I loved Mr. Green Jeans and Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Moose and Grandfather Clock. I loved the ping pong balls and Tom Terrific. But most of all - most most of all - I adored Magic Drawing Board and Story Time.

Captain Kangaroo introduced me to books. I suspect he probably taught me to read. I don't remember ever learning to read - I just could. So I think I must have learned it from all those mornings of watching the Captain read "Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel" or "Millions of Cats" or that book about the guy with all the caps piled on his head, and the monkeys. Can't remember the title.

Captain Kangaroo opened the door for me to a wider world, and for that I will always love him. I suspect that if I were to see a red coat with white pocket decorations and hear those keys rattling in rhythm right now, I'd burst into tears. There's no way I can ever repay what the Captain gave that little girl in the cotton field, but I hope somehow he can know how much I thank him.

I loved my grandmother. She helped give me roots. But I adored the Captain: He gave me my first wings.

Fare well, Captain. Fare well.