Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with the soothing tunes inviting me to be friends with a kind man who changes into comfy sweater and shoes when he comes home washes the background of childhood memories with sweet, sleepy, smiles of a carefree PBS filled afternoons twirling the shag carpet between my pudgy fingers. Chimes rang and the screen went fuzzy as the little train pulled us into the Land of Make Believe where puppets kings and queens visited creatures living in trees and windmills. With my thumb tucked securely on the roof of my mouth I would get excited and tell all who would hear, “Make-a-bleeb! Make-a-bleeb!” This name for the magical land so real to my pre-school eyes filled me with rapture and wonder.
At four years old my youngest son looks at me, brown eyes of lands where imagination is real, and I see to the beyond. He clenches in his hands two little plastic toys and taps them around the house creating fanciful stories with voices and sound effects. My world settles down as I watch him play. Zooming around our rooms I am his stow-away peeking into the land where I once resided but now only come to as a visitor.