Just recently, Stephen Hillenburg died of ALS. He was the creator of SpongeBob Squarepants.

I loved SpongeBob for a couple of reasons. First, I watched SpongeBob videos with my grandchildren and we laughed together, inspired by SpongeBob’s relentless optimism. Second, I saw the Broadway show, “Spongebob Squarepants” and loved it–I saw it not once, but twice! The first time I wanted to see why it won 12 Tony nominations. The second time I took the grandchildren. It was the best musical I saw all season, the happiest, the most cheerful, the most inspirational, the most delightful, the wackiest. If the producers take it on tour, be sure to see it.

This is an article about the beginnings of SpongeBob Squarepants and Stephen Hillenburg’s creation of a fresh character, who is hopelessly optimistic and innocent.

I was touched by his death because in the last few years, two friends died of this dread disease: Vivian Connell, whose blog was posted here, about the progression of the disease and her determination not to let it define her. When NPE held its annual conference in Raleigh, N.C., a group of us–Bertis Downs, Phyllis Bush, Colleen Wood, and I– went to visit Vivian, an experience I will never forget. Bertis, a dear friend of Vivian, brought her a first edition of one of her favorite books, To Kill a Mockingbird.

And I also want to remember my friend Harold O. Levy, who was one of the best chancellors of the New York City public school system, who died only days ago of ALS. This is how I met Harold Levy. I wrote an op-ed criticizing some decision he made, and at 8 a.m. that morning, he called me at my home and invited me to his office. I dropped everything and went to meet him. We talked and became fast friends. How easy it is to bridge differences when you share a cup of coffee and a smile. That was Harold Levy.

As it happened, Valerie Strauss interviewed the writers of SpongeBob just a few years ago.

You will learn from her interview what advice SpongeBob offered on the subject of education.

In 1991, I received a phone call from Lamar Alexander inviting me to come to D.C. to talk about working in the U.S. Department of Education. I didn’t think I wanted to do it, but I was intrigued. So I flew to D.C., had lunch with Lamar and David Kearns, CEO of Xerox, and agreed to join them. Lamar had just been appointed Secretary of Education by President George H.W. Bush, and he invited David to be his Deputy Secretary. They invited me to become Assistant Secretary in charge of the Office of Research and Improvement and Counselor to the Secretary. I agreed.

Over the next 18 months, I had a wonderful job. Lamar and David were great to work with and for.

Skipping over lots of details, I had one extended visit with Barbara Bush. Her office invited me to fly with her to Houston and deliver a speech to a community group in her stead. We spent four hours together on Air Force 2, her private jet, with only one other person present, her PR woman.

I first met George H.W. Bush when Ronald Reagan was President and Bush was VP. About 25 educators were invited to a meeting in the Cabinet Room. I sat next to Vice President Bush, directly across from President Reagan. Reagan told funny stories and charmed the room. At one lull, I mentioned to VP Bush that my mother was worried about whether the Reagan administration would protect Israel. A week later, I got a photograph of those of us at the table. With it was a letter from President Reagan thanking me for my participation. There was a P.S.: “Please tell your mother I got her message,” That was the work of VP Bush. He paid attention.

When Bush was President, Lamar and David invited me to go with them one day to see the President. I jumped at the chance. He couldn’t have been nicer or more gracious. After the year that I had been in D.C., I had come to see that the best thing I could accomplish was to get some great photos (the Democratic Staff had already told me that nothing we proposed would be enacted). I sat across from the President with Lamar and David. I inched my chair closer, then closer. At some point, I was almost sitting at his side, behind his desk. He thought it was hilarious.

He was a decent man. He was honest. He was civil. He was conservative but not a crazy right winger. He was a good man.

Living at a time when the Republican Party has become completely subservient to a man who has no morals, no ethics, no scruples, I say this: I miss George H.W. Bush. I miss the kind of Republican he was. I pray that the scourge of Trumpism will soon disappear, and that what remains of the GOP rediscovers its spine, its soul, its ethics, and its brain.

I have relived the story many times and probably told it here too.

On 9/11/01 I was sitting at my dining table reading the morning paper and enjoying a cup of coffee when I heard/felt a mighty crash. I live(d) in Brooklyn Heights, two blocks from the waterfront, and my first thought was that it must have been a horrendous crash on the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway. My partner Mary called from work and told me to turn on the TV, something terrible had happened at the World Trade Center. Some thought a small plane had crashed into one of the towers. I turned on CNN, and I saw the smoldering tower. I rushed out the door, ran the two blocks to the nearest point to view the harbor, and as I looked up, I saw the second plane hit the second tower. I saw it. I still see it. The first tower was burning, now the second was burning. I stood there with about half a dozen people and we were speechless. I ran home to listen to CNN and hear what they were saying. They were saying “Terrorism.” I ran back to the harbor front, but now there was a dense cloud of smoke coming my way. Soon, I could see nothing at all.

Mary came home. We walked to the nearest hospital to offer blood, but they said they weren’t accepting any. We saw streams of people walking from Manhattan over the Brooklyn Bridge, looking dazed. They were covered in soot. Some carried briefcases, some were shoeless. We wanted to help. There was nothing we could do.

Soot from the fires began to drizzle down on the neighborhood after the wind shifted our way. The cars were covered in soot. There was an acrid smell in the air, the smell of burning plastic, burning…steel, bodies, something awful. The smell lingered for weeks. The memories, forever.

In the backyard of our brownstone, tiny pieces of paper fluttered to the ground. It was a blizzard, almost like snow. Tiny pieces of paper that once had been in someone’s files, on their desk. One of them was intact, except for burn holes. It came from someone’s desk. I covered it in plastic and saved it. I don’t know why.

Soon, there was silence, eerie silence, punctuated only by the sound of jets overhead and sirens, endless sirens. All traffic, all subways, all buses, all movement stopped. Just sirens.

In the silence, everyone whispered. We learned what was happening by watching television, even though it was happening within our sight (when the wind shifted).

People stood along the Promenade, the beautiful walkway in Brooklyn on the Harbor with a full view of the Manhattan skyline, to see what could be seen. People brought candles and flowers, and left them there. Someone hung a photograph of the Twin Towers, preserved in hard plastic, and hung it on the fence along the Promenade. It remained there, undisturbed, undamaged, for over a year. One day it was gone.

On my block, a young couple with a child had recently moved to New Jersey to be in the suburbs, the leafy suburbs. The mom died in the Towers.

Everyone knew someone.

Mary’s niece worked in the second Tower. She got out before it collapsed, thank God, but she and her co-workers–in shock–started walking north and didn’t stop until they reached Harlem, where one of them lived (miles away). Her parents didn’t know if she was alive or dead for hours.

The neighborhood fire company was one of the first to respond. Most of them died.

It was a day I will never forget.

It was a day New Yorkers will never forget.

The fire stations in New York City have tributes to and photographs of the men who died that day.

I saw a bumper sticker a few days ago that said, “There is one hell of a fire department in Heaven.”