I was four and a half years old during Thanksgiving weekend of 1983. At the time, much of my world revolved around Sesame Street. My Bert and Ernie dolls were my constant companions, and I watched the program voraciously. It was an integral part of my life. The passage of time was measured in episodes.
“Mom, when is dad going to get home.”
“Two and a half hours.”
“How long is that?”
“Two Sesame Streets and a Mr. Rogers.”
“Oh.” [That's a huge stretch of time...]
So, it was that I happened to be in the heart of that preschool target Sesame Street demographic in the Fall of 1983. Mr. Hooper had died in late 1982, and the producers of Sesame Street had a decision to make. How do you continue the show after the death of one of the major (human) characters? Instead of ignoring Mr. Hooper's absence or pretending that he moved away, they decided to tackle the difficult issue directly. The episode itself is daring television, unlike anything that had been produced for children before and, really, since. Much has been written about this episode (including little bits that I have published elsewhere), and I don't mean for this post to turn into an analysis of the episode. You can view the segment here. If you haven't seen it (or if you haven't seen it in a while), it is well worth the time.
I think it suffices to say that I, like many children of my generation, learned about death along with Big Bird. Yes, my own grandfather had died in 1981. I only have the most faintly glimmering memories of him. In many ways, my first skills for coping with the loss of a loved one were learned as I struggled to understand along with Big Bird. It was a hard lesson, and, to this day, I'm not sure there is a better explanation for why people have to die than Gordon's: “Because... just because.”
The past couple of weeks have been very difficult. Caroll Spinney died. I use that word very deliberately. If you watch the video of Big Bird learning about death, it's important to note that the writers were very careful not to say that he “passed away” or “was lost.” This was no Bambi “Your-Mother-Can't-Be-With-You-Anymore” moment. Mr. Hooper was dead, and now Caroll Spinney is dead, too.
It's hard to write this. I had allowed my blog to go defunct, one of my last posts being on the death of Maurice Sendak, a very, very different figure in the world of children's culture than Caroll Spinney. I am hazarding to bring back the blog with this entry, hoping that it doesn't just become some macabre momento mori on the death of artists who worked for children. However, for the moment, I am using this little piece of webspace to work through my feelings.
Part of the weight I have carried this week has been on behalf of my younger daughter. Just as Sesame Street has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, so, too, has it been for her. This is my tenth year in the Atlanta area, and she just turned twelve. She has literally grown up at the Center for Puppetry Arts. It is where her budding artistic aspirations (especially as it relates to puppetry) have been fostered, deeply steeped in the creations of Jim Henson.
One of my favorite photos from her childhood is this picture of us standing in the entry of the Center next to Big Bird. For years, this was my go-to choice for profile pictures. Initially, it was my little piece of online protest immediately after the Obama-Romney debate in which Romney declared that he “loves Big Bird” but would cut funding to PBS (but I don't want to get too political right now) .
So, it is through this artistic home that my daughter has grown to see herself as part of a community of puppeteers, attending puppet camps and high art puppet performances, watching and re-watching the Muppet movies and workshopping her own puppets. Caroll Spinney meant a lot to me, but I have seen the ways in which his work has become a part of who she is, as well. One of her most prized possessions is a poster of Oscar the Grouch, signed by Spinney, telling her to “SCRAM!” in his own whimsical, yet meticulous, handwriting.
That autograph she obtained back in 2015 when we had the pleasure to meet Spinney at a convention. Usually, it is difficult to get a sense of what kind of person someone is in that sort of environment. Fans are jostling each other, and handlers are trying to get people through lines as quickly as possible. With Caroll Spinney, though, there was a patience and grace with which he handled himself. Yes, he had a lifetime of experience catering to young Big Bird and Oscar fans and clearly knew how to treat children with a dignity, respect, and uncommon gentleness. It was more than that. There was this spark in the man, and you could see even from a few brief minutes together how Henson knew that this was the man with just the blend of special characteristics to bring his vision of Sesame Street to life.
Floating in the puppeteering world, we had a sense that Spinney did not have much longer with us. He had stopped making public appearances and had retired to spend time with his family. Obviously, there was still a sting to the news. Seeing Sesame Street lauded at the Kennedy Center Honors this week helped a lot. They spoke of the show in grandiose terms, especially about the way it improved the academic achievements of American preschoolers (including and especially those skills in communities of color who had never seen themselves represented on children's television). I loved, though, that the comments also focused on how the program promoted important social skills. I'm paraphrasing here, but the show inspired children to understand those things that all people share, while valuing those things that make us different. In short, Caroll Spinney taught us our letters and numbers, certainly, but, much more importantly, he taught us to be good people.
For my family, the Kennedy Center program gave us the chance to see fleeting television shots of the puppeteers backstage—people my daughter knows (with varying degrees of familiarity) and loves. She got to see Leslie Carrara-Rudolph performing Abby Cadabby and Peter Linz with Ernie.
We got to see the people who knew Caroll best, smiling, playing, and living... while remembering what he meant to them. It's odd how choked up you can get seeing little yellow feathers pinned to puppets' lapels.
I know it must have been difficult, so soon after his death, but they steeled themselves, went out there, and honored their friend as best they could. Of course, they had a good model:
I might only have gotten to spend a few fleeting minutes with Caroll in person, but I spent an hour of my childhood every day with him. So, I, too, am approaching Spinney's death the way he taught me... on my own time, in my own way, treasuring what he was to me, and remembering the kind of person he wanted me to be in this world.
Atlanta might not have a Sesame Street, but it does have a Spring Street. Last week, when I discovered that the Center for Puppetry Arts had a makeshift memorial to Spinney out in front of the building for mourners to bring flowers (and yellow feathers) to pay their respects, I knew I needed to go. My daughter and I headed to 1404 Spring Street, said our final goodbyes to Mr. Spinney, and tried to sweep the clouds away.
As we walked away, I whispered between tears a quiet thank you to the man. My daughter slipped her hand into mine.
“I'm glad I got the chance to meet him.”
“Me, too.”
“I mean, I'm glad I got to meet him when I was old enough to know how important it would be to me to have met him.”
Yeah, I think I understand...
