The Goodness Thread
- Thread starter Dingleberry
- Start date
HSanders
Well-known member
In 1955, when CBS offered Bob Keeshan his own children’s show, he didn’t ask for a bigger paycheck or more airtime—just one radical condition: no commercials aimed at children.
Executives stared in disbelief. Kids’ TV was advertising. It sold toys, sugar, and Saturday mornings. But Keeshan simply said, “If I sell to them, I lose them.” With that quiet defiance, he didn’t just create Captain Kangaroo—he created a sanctuary in a noisy world.
Before the red coat, the jingling keys, and the gentle smile millions grew up with, Keeshan had seen the darker edges of humanity. At eighteen, he joined the Marine reserves during World War II. He never saw combat, but the discipline and the shadows of war stayed with him. “I learned what fear does to people,” he later said. “And I promised myself I’d never be the reason a child felt small.”
When television was still new, he found work as Clarabell the Clown on The Howdy Doody Show. For forty dollars a week, he honked a horn and never spoke a word. Kids loved him—but he didn’t love what he saw. The noise, the slapstick, the relentless advertising. “It was chaos disguised as entertainment,” he recalled. So when CBS handed him the keys to his own show, he unlocked something rare: gentleness.
Captain Kangaroo began not with shouting, but with silence—then the slow swing of a door and the Captain’s warm voice: “Good morning, children.” No tricks. No hype. Just kindness. He filled the show with warmth—Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Grandfather Clock—and lessons that never scolded but always cared.
Producers begged him for cereal sponsors and action-figure tie-ins. He refused them all. “Children need calm more than candy,” he told CBS executives, his tone as firm as it was tender. Over the next thirty years, that conviction made Captain Kangaroo the longest-running children’s program in network history—more than six thousand episodes of laughter, empathy, and unhurried wonder.
Offscreen, Keeshan became a tireless advocate for early education. He lobbied Congress against marketing to children, warning that “we’re not raising consumers—we’re raising people.” He earned six Emmys, three Peabody Awards, and the undying affection of a generation who trusted him completely.
When asked late in life why he never raised his voice on camera, he smiled.
“The world already teaches them to shout,” he said softly. “I wanted to teach them to listen.”
Bob Keeshan didn’t just entertain children—he protected them.
He proved that true strength doesn’t roar. It whispers, patiently, with love.
View: https://x.com/nettermike/status/2005512292167791001?s=20
Executives stared in disbelief. Kids’ TV was advertising. It sold toys, sugar, and Saturday mornings. But Keeshan simply said, “If I sell to them, I lose them.” With that quiet defiance, he didn’t just create Captain Kangaroo—he created a sanctuary in a noisy world.
Before the red coat, the jingling keys, and the gentle smile millions grew up with, Keeshan had seen the darker edges of humanity. At eighteen, he joined the Marine reserves during World War II. He never saw combat, but the discipline and the shadows of war stayed with him. “I learned what fear does to people,” he later said. “And I promised myself I’d never be the reason a child felt small.”
When television was still new, he found work as Clarabell the Clown on The Howdy Doody Show. For forty dollars a week, he honked a horn and never spoke a word. Kids loved him—but he didn’t love what he saw. The noise, the slapstick, the relentless advertising. “It was chaos disguised as entertainment,” he recalled. So when CBS handed him the keys to his own show, he unlocked something rare: gentleness.
Captain Kangaroo began not with shouting, but with silence—then the slow swing of a door and the Captain’s warm voice: “Good morning, children.” No tricks. No hype. Just kindness. He filled the show with warmth—Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Grandfather Clock—and lessons that never scolded but always cared.
Producers begged him for cereal sponsors and action-figure tie-ins. He refused them all. “Children need calm more than candy,” he told CBS executives, his tone as firm as it was tender. Over the next thirty years, that conviction made Captain Kangaroo the longest-running children’s program in network history—more than six thousand episodes of laughter, empathy, and unhurried wonder.
Offscreen, Keeshan became a tireless advocate for early education. He lobbied Congress against marketing to children, warning that “we’re not raising consumers—we’re raising people.” He earned six Emmys, three Peabody Awards, and the undying affection of a generation who trusted him completely.
When asked late in life why he never raised his voice on camera, he smiled.
“The world already teaches them to shout,” he said softly. “I wanted to teach them to listen.”
Bob Keeshan didn’t just entertain children—he protected them.
He proved that true strength doesn’t roar. It whispers, patiently, with love.
View: https://x.com/nettermike/status/2005512292167791001?s=20
HSanders
Well-known member
In a small Indiana city, parking fines were transformed into an act of kindness.
Muncie police partnered with the local animal shelter to give residents a choice: settle outstanding parking tickets not with money, but with donations of cat food, kitten formula, and litter. The shelter was struggling to keep up with the needs of more than 350 cats, and supplies were running low.
The response went far beyond expectations. Drivers showed up with bags of food stacked in their arms, boxes of litter in their trunks, and hearts fully on board. Some people didn’t even have tickets to clear — they came anyway, simply because animals needed help.
What could have been a routine enforcement program turned into a powerful moment of community care. One creative decision turned frustration into generosity, and punishment into relief for hundreds of shelter cats.
Sometimes, the best solutions aren’t about collecting money — they’re about giving people a chance to do good.
Muncie police partnered with the local animal shelter to give residents a choice: settle outstanding parking tickets not with money, but with donations of cat food, kitten formula, and litter. The shelter was struggling to keep up with the needs of more than 350 cats, and supplies were running low.
The response went far beyond expectations. Drivers showed up with bags of food stacked in their arms, boxes of litter in their trunks, and hearts fully on board. Some people didn’t even have tickets to clear — they came anyway, simply because animals needed help.
What could have been a routine enforcement program turned into a powerful moment of community care. One creative decision turned frustration into generosity, and punishment into relief for hundreds of shelter cats.
Sometimes, the best solutions aren’t about collecting money — they’re about giving people a chance to do good.
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