“They don’t belong here,” I told myself, “not on this Chicago ‘L’ with candy wrappers strewn on the floor, torn seats, windows so dirty even a sunny day would look cloudy.”

I gazed across the aisle at the mother-daughter scene, both impeccably dressed in summer finery. The mother’s white, straw picture hat framed a face serene and lovely, marking her as a member of a Renoir’s art gallery, while the child was a dark-haired Shirley Temple in her white organza dress with a wide, soft-blue ribbon sash, white socks and slippers, ankles crossed demurely; white gloves, and pocket book with a gold chain resting in her lap.

Past miles of tenements we rode on a hot, July day, swaying back and forth around the turns. People’s lives hid behind brick walls, supporting three or four flights of stairs and porches, with laundry drying in the sunshine.

In my imagination, the mother and daughter were on their way downtown to the Drake Hotel, to be met at the station by a driver of a white limo, carrying a bouquet of sweet peas and baby breath.

Then, in an instant, the scene collapsed, sending shards of apprehension into my heart that remain there to this day, many decades later.

When the mother lifted her hand to brush a strand of hair from the child’s forehead, the little one reared back, a look of terror in her eyes, as if awaiting a blow, too often suffered in the past.

In her short life of possibly four years, I wondered how much physical and emotional abuse she had endured from her “Mother Dearest.” Although I never learned her name or address, she is often in my thoughts and prayers when I see a Renoir painting of children. Whatever happened to her? Where is she? Did she eventually find love and security? Trust?

About three weeks ago, a scene from Don Imus’s program reminded me of the fragility of childhood. His wife, Deirdre, joined him, though that is hardly the correct verb, for, from the beginning to the end, they were united only in acrimony. It was tantamount to having been invited for dinner, only to be subjected to non-stop verbal fencing on the part of the hosts, from the first glass of wine to the last taste of dessert.

When Deirdre tauntingly told Don that, “The kids don’t like you,” my heart stopped, just as it had on the “L” so many years ago. His kids don’t like him? For, they are his kids on that ranch. So many months of the year he has been with them, broadcasting from there. He is their father figure, seeing that their various cancers are cared for by the best money can buy, the best doctors, medicine, therapy.

What is missing? Or, more correctly, who is missing? Has Mr. Imus been unable to curb the bullying with which he treats his fellow workers when dealing with the sand-box set?

Often, he would tell us viewers that he doesn’t allow any coddling of the children at the Ranch. They perform just the way other kids their age perform. Of course, I took that with the proverbial grain of salt. Children on chemo expected to carry on as though they had no problems? Even the I-man wouldn’t demand that. But Deirdre’s declaration, “The kids don’t like you!” gave me pause.

Every parent, teacher, doctor, nurse, and therapist knows that each ill child must be treated on an individual basis. When a youngster, no matter the age, returns to school after a lengthy illness, most teachers will be alert to the student’s staying power, and, if needed, mandate a half-hour’s rest before taking on the afternoon session, either using a cot in the nurse’s office or a desk in the back of the classroom.

Coddling? Yes. Coddling is, at times, the best medicine, especially if it is given gently, with the assurance that the extra privileges are insurance toward good health and a happy life.

Coddling is one important ingredient for the children’s health. Another is a happy family life at the Ranch, meaning the children must see Imus and Deirdre’s loving one another as surrogate parents to their guests.

Such love in a child’s life comes far above horses to ride or a staff of doctors and nurses on call morning and night. Love matters to kids of every age, and for those kids who say it doesn’t matter, with a touch of bravado, it matters most of all.

You’re correct, Imus, to remind us of the great good you have done for children, our service men and women, the writers, politicians, and social workers, who have graced your program.

Now, far from the adoring crowd, you have the opportunity to get your personal life in order, beginning with the Ranch, showing the children a husband’s love and respect for his wife, a father’s love for the children you have invited into your life. The doctors may cure them of cancer, but it is your and Deirdre’s job to set their feet on the right path of love and kindness, even with some coddling now and then, that they in turn will become loving spouses and parents for tomorrow.

It’s never too late, Imus, to begin again. Our prayers and best wishes are with you.

God bless you and all in your care. Amen.

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