The question was simple enough. Steve Harvey had asked it countless times before. Name something you’d do every day if you could. But when 82-year-old Walter Coleman stepped to the microphone, adjusting his worn brown fedora with trembling fingers, something in his posture told everyone in the Family Feud studio that this wouldn’t be just another routine answer.

 The silence that followed Walter’s response would become the most profound moment in Family Feud history. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it and the story that tumbled out afterward. A story that would stop Steve Harvey mid-sentence, bring an entire studio audience to tears, and remind millions of viewers that love never really ends. It just changes form.

 It started as an ordinary Thursday afternoon taping at the Family Feud Studios in Atlanta. The energy was electric, as it always was when the show recorded. Two families stood at their podiums. The Coleman family from smalltown Georgia and the Martinez family from bustling Miami. Standard setup, standard enthusiasm, standard expectations for an entertaining hour of television.

 Steve Harvey was in his element. That perfectly tailored charcoal suit, that milliondoll smile. Working the crowd with his signature blend of humor and warmth. The Coleman family had charmed everyone from the moment they walked onto the stage. Led by patriarch Walter, they were the kind of multigenerational southern family that made great television.

 Genuine, funny, and filled with the kind of love that translates beautifully on camera. But what the studio audience didn’t know was that Walter Coleman was playing this game for someone who couldn’t be there. Someone who had been his partner in everything for 63 years until Alzheimer’s disease slowly, cruy took her away just 8 months ago.

 Walter stood at the end of his family’s podium, his weathered hands gripping a small faded photograph that he kept tucked in his shirt pocket. It was a picture of him and his wife Margaret on their wedding day in 1960. She in a simple white dress with a radiant smile. He and his military dress uniform.

 Both of them impossibly young and filled with dreams they couldn’t yet imagine. The game progressed normally for the first four rounds. The Coleman family was holding their own against the quick-witted Martinez clan. trading answers and gentle trash talk with the easy confidence of people who genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Walter had been a steady contributor, delivering solid answers with the kind of quiet wisdom that comes from eight decades of living.

 During family introductions, Walter had briefly mentioned that he was playing for my bride Margaret, but the comment had passed by without much attention. Game show contestants often dedicated their appearances to loved ones. Steve had smiled, nodded, and moved on to the next family member. But during the fifth round, when the category shifted to things you do everyday, something changed in the studio’s atmosphere.

 The question seemed innocuous enough, the kind of everyday survey that typically generated answers like, “Brush your teeth or check your phone.” Then came the moment that would change everything. The category, things you do every day. Steve, energized by the competitive spirit between the families, turned to Walter with that trademark grin.

 All right, Walter, you need a good answer here. Name something you do every day if you could. The studio lights seemed to focus on Walter as he stepped at the microphone. His hand went instinctively to his shirt pocket, touching the photograph through the fabric. For the first time since the game began, the confident southern gentleman seemed to falter.

 The audience waited expectantly, their energy buzzing with typical game show anticipation, but Walter didn’t answer immediately. Something profound was happening behind his gentle blue eyes. A kind of reckoning with memory, loss, and love that transcended game show protocol. Steve’s entertainer instincts kicked in first.

 He was ready with an encouraging smile, a gentle joke to help the elderly contestant through what appeared to be a simple case of stage nerves. But when Walter looked up, Steve saw something in his eyes that stopped him cold. It wasn’t nervousness. It wasn’t confusion. It was pain so deep and so pure that it seemed to reach across the studio and touch everyone who witnessed it.

 Well, Steve, Walter began, his voice carrying the slight tremor that comes with age and overwhelming emotion. If I could do anything every day, he paused, and in that pause, the weight of 8 months of grief seemed to settle on his shoulders like a visible burden. The studio fell silent as Walter gathered himself, his weathered hand still clutching the pocket that held Margaret’s photograph.

When he spoke again, his words would forever change everyone who heard them. If I could do anything every day, I’d wake up next to my Margaret one more time. The words hung in the air like a prayer, like a confession, like a love letter read aloud to strangers. The studio audience, which had been buzzing with typical game show energy, fell completely silent.

 The usual background chatter of crew members ceased. Even the camera operators seemed to sense that something unprecedented was happening. Steve Harvey, who had hosted thousands of hours of television and faced every possible situation, a game show could throw at him, found himself in completely uncharted territory. The routine question had unlocked something that went far beyond entertainment.

Steve Harvey, who had hosted thousands of hours of television, found himself in uncharted territory. He set down his cards and stepped closer to the podium. “Walter,” Steve said gently. “Tell me about Margaret,” Walter, Steve said gently. Setting down his cards and stepping closer to the podium, the competitive atmosphere had evaporated entirely, replaced by something sacred and raw. “Tell me about Margaret.

” And that’s when the floodgates opened. Walter pulled the photograph from his pocket with hands that shook slightly from emotion rather than age. The camera zoomed in on the faded image. A young soldier in dress blues standing beside a radiant bride in a simple white dress. Both beaming with the kind of joy that only comes from believing in forever.

“This is my bride,” he said, holding up the faded wedding picture for everyone to see. Margaret Rose Coleman, the most beautiful woman who ever walked God’s green earth. His voice grew stronger as he spoke about her. As if talking about Margaret gave him energy rather than depleting it, we met at a church social in 1957.

I was home on leave from the army and she was the church organist. Had the most beautiful voice you ever heard. Could make angels weep with her singing. Walter’s eyes grew distant, lost in memory. I’ll never forget that day. I walked into that little white church in Mon, Georgia, and heard this voice floating from the balcony like it was coming straight from heaven itself.

There she was, this beautiful girl with auburn hair that caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. She was playing How Great Thou Art on that old Hammond organ, and I knew right then and there I was looking at my future. The studio had grown completely quiet. production assistants who should have been preparing for the next round stood transfixed.

Cameramen forgot to adjust their shots. Everyone was being pulled into Walter’s love story. After the service, I worked up the courage to introduce myself, Walter continued, a gentle smile breaking across his weathered face. She looked me up and down in my uniform and said, “Bold as brass.” “Well, Private Firstclass Walter Coleman, I’m Margaret Rose Patterson, and if you’re planning on asking me to the church picnic, you’d better speak up because I’ve got other fellas waiting in line.

” A gentle chuckle rippled through the audience. The first sound they’d made since Walter began speaking. “That was my Margaret, never one to beat around the bush,” Walter said with obvious pride. At that church picnic, we talked for hours about everything and nothing. She told me about her dreams of teaching children music, and I told her about my plans after the army.

 When the sun started setting over those Georgia pines, I knew I was in the kind of trouble a man wants to be in for the rest of his life. The studio had become something more than a television set. It was witnessing something sacred. A man’s love letter to the woman who had been his everything for more than six decades.

 We courted for three years, Walter continued. His voice taking on the rhythm of a man recounting a life well-lived. Three years of letters when I was stationed overseas. Of phone calls that lasted until her daddy made her hang up. of walks around town where everyone knew we were meant for each other before we figured it out ourselves.

 Steve found himself completely absorbed, no longer thinking about television or entertainment value. When did you know she was the one? Christmas Eve 1959, Walter said without hesitation. We were at midnight service at her church. She was playing piano for the choir and they were singing Silent Night. I was sitting in the back pew watching her fingers move across those keys watching her face lit up by candle light and suddenly I couldn’t imagine a single day of my life without her in it.

 The studio had become something more than a television set. It was witnessing something sacred. We married in 1960, Walter continued, his voice filled with the warmth of cherished memories. and I promised her daddy I’d love her everyday for the rest of our lives. 63 years, four children, 12 grandchildren, and seven great grandchildren later, I kept that promise.

 Steve was completely absorbed in the story unfolding before him. The professional entertainer in him had been replaced by simply a man listening to another man’s testament to love. And you kept that promise. every single day, Walter said with absolute conviction that filled the studio. Even when times got hard, and believe me, they got plenty hard.

 Lost my job at the railroad in 73 when they started laying off workers. Margaret had to go back to work teaching piano lessons to put food on our table. We had four youngans and a mortgage we could barely manage, but that woman never complained, not once. Walter’s eyes took on a distant quality as he remembered those challenging years.

 She’d get up before dawn to make breakfast for the children, then spend her days teaching piano to neighborhood kids for $2 a lesson. In the evenings, she’d help with homework, mend clothes, and somehow still find energy to make every meal feel like a celebration. His voice grew tender with the memory. I remember one particularly tough winter.

Our youngest Sarah was only 6 years old. Margaret would make hot chocolate every night after supper and gather all four children around the kitchen table. She’d tell them stories about pioneers who survived much worse conditions with much less than what we had. She’d make those hard times feel like an adventure instead of a burden.

 The details painted a picture of a woman who had mastered the art of making love practical, of turning struggle into strength. That Christmas of 73, our furnace broke down and we didn’t have money to fix it. The temperature dropped to below freezing for 3 weeks straight. We all slept in the living room around the fireplace. Margaret, me and all four kids with every blanket we owned piled on top of us.

 Walter paused, his voice catching slightly. I felt like such a failure as a husband and father. Here I was supposed to provide for my family and I couldn’t even keep them warm in their own home. But Margaret, she took my face in her hands one night after the children had fallen asleep, looked me square in the eye and said something I’ll never forget.

 The studio was so quiet that the hum of the air conditioning seemed loud. Walter Coleman, she said, we have each other. We have our health. We have four beautiful children who know they’re loved. And we have love enough to heat this house twice over. That makes us the richest people in all of Georgia. A collective intake of breath swept through the audience.

 Even the crew members found themselves wiping their eyes. She was like that, Walter continued, his face glowing with the memory. Margaret had this gift for finding abundance and scarcity, for seeing blessings where others saw problems. When our oldest boy, Michael, broke his arm, and we couldn’t afford the doctor bill.

 She organized a church supper and raised the money without ever making it feel like charity. When our daughter Jenny needed a dress for her high school graduation, and we were flat broke, Margaret spent three nights making the most beautiful gown from fabric she’d been saving for a year. Steve Harvey, the man who had built a career on quick wit and perfect timing, stood speechless.

 The professional in him knew he should guide the conversation back to the game, but the human being in him understood that this moment transcended television. “Sounds like she was an amazing woman,” Steve managed to say. His voice gentler than anyone in the studio had ever heard it. “She was everything,” Walter replied. His voice filled with a lifetime of love and admiration.

 But then came the diagnosis that would change everything we thought we knew about our future. Walter, Steve said, leaning forward with genuine concern. What happened to Margaret? Alzheimer’s disease, Walter said. And those two words fell into the studio silence like stones into still water, creating ripples of sadness that seemed to touch everyone present.

Started about 5 years ago with what we thought were just normal signs of aging. Walter’s hands gripped the podium as he prepared to share the most difficult chapter of his life. Little things at first, forgetting where she put her reading glasses, calling our grandson Tyler by our son Michael’s name, asking me the same question twice in the span of 10 minutes.

 We laughed about it, called them senior moments. Even our family doctor said it was normal aging when I mentioned it at her yearly checkup. The studio audience leaned forward unconsciously, drawn into Walter’s story despite the pain they knew was coming. But then the little things started becoming bigger things.

 Walter continued, his voice steady, but heavy with memory. She’d get lost driving to the grocery store she’d been shopping at for 30 years. She’d start cooking dinner and forget she’d already made lunch an hour earlier. She’d introduce me to neighbors we’d known for decades like she couldn’t remember my name. Steve’s eyes were already moist.

 When did you know it was something serious? The day she got lost coming home from church, Walter said, his voice barely above a whisper. Margaret had been playing organ at First Baptist for 43 years. She could drive there in her sleep. But that Sunday morning in September 2019, she called me from a gas station 15 miles in the wrong direction, crying and confused, saying she couldn’t remember how to get home.

The raw emotion in Walter’s voice was affecting everyone in the studio. Several audience members were openly weeping. I drove out to get her, and when I found her, she was sitting in her car in that gas station parking lot, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Tears streaming down her face. She looked at me and said, “Walter, I’m scared. Something’s wrong with my mind.

” That was the day we both knew our lives had changed forever. Walter paused, gathering strength to continue with the hardest parts of his story. We went to see a specialist the following week. Dr. Patricia Williams at Emory University Hospital. After hours of tests, memory tests, brain scans, blood work, she sat us down in her office and gave us the news that shattered our world.

 The studio was so quiet that the hum of the air conditioning seemed deafening. “Mrs. Coleman,” she said, “you have early stage Alzheimer’s disease.” “Just like that. Five words that changed everything.” Margaret reached for my hand and squeezed it tight. She looked at Dr. Williams and asked, “How long do we have?” Not, “How long do I have? But how long do we have?” Even facing the worst news of our lives, she was thinking about us as a team.

 Walter’s voice cracked slightly. Dr. Williams explained that everyone’s journey with Alzheimer’s is different. But we were looking at several stages of progression over the coming years. She used clinical terms like mild cognitive impairment and moderate to severe dementia. But those words couldn’t capture what it really meant, that I was going to lose my wife piece by piece, memory by memory, until only her body remained.

 The cameras continued rolling, capturing every nuance of Walter’s pain and love. The first time she didn’t recognize me was on a Tuesday morning in March, 3 years ago, Walter said, his voice growing smaller. I brought her coffee in bed like I had every single morning for 60 years. Black coffee for me, cream and two sugars for her, served in the blue china cups her mother had given us for our wedding.

 He paused, lost in the memory. She opened her eyes, saw me standing there with the steaming mug, and her face filled with confusion and fear. She looked at me with these scared, lost eyes and said, “Excuse me, sir, but what are you doing in my bedroom? Who are you? Where’s my husband?” The silence in the studio was complete and profound.

 My heart just about stopped beating right there,” Walter continued. The woman who had shared my bed for six decades, who knew my every gesture and habit, who could finish my sentences before I started them, was looking at me like I was a dangerous stranger who’d broken into her home. Walter’s hands trembled as he gripped Margaret’s photograph.

I set the coffee down with shaking hands and said as gently as I could, “Margaret, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Walter. I’m your husband.” but she just shook her head and pulled the covers up to her chin like she was protecting herself from a threat. That was the day I truly understood the cruelty of this disease.

 Steve wiped his eyes openly now, no longer concerned about maintaining his television persona. “How did you keep going through all of that?” “I made a promise to her when she was first diagnosed,” Walter said, his voice gaining strength from the memory of his commitment. Williams had explained that as the disease progressed, Margaret might not remember our life together, might not remember me, might even forget how to speak or care for herself.

 That night, after we got home from the doctor’s office, we sat on our front porch swing, the same swing where I’d proposed to her 43 years earlier. Walter’s eyes grew distant with the memory. Margaret looked at me with tears in her eyes, and said, “Walter, I need you to promise me something.” When I don’t remember who you are anymore, I need you to remember for both of us.

 I need you to keep loving me even when I can’t love you back. I took her hands in mine and promised her that every morning, whether she knew me or not, I’d sit by her bed and tell her about our life together. The audience was completely absorbed in Walter’s story. I kept that promise for 2 years, 3 months, and 16 days.

 Walter said with the precision of someone who had counted every moment. Every single morning I’d wake up at 5:30. Same time I’d been getting up since my railroad days. I’d make coffee, two cups. Even though toward the end she couldn’t drink much black coffee for me, cream and two sugars for her in those blue china cups that had become sacred to me.

 Walter’s voice took on the rhythm of ritual, of love, practiced daily, even when it seemed hopeless. I’d carry both cups to her room and sit in the old rocking chair her daddy had made us for our first anniversary. The chair was positioned so I could see her face when she woke up, so I’d be the first thing she saw each morning.

 The details painted a picture of devotion that transcended normal understanding of love. She’d usually wake up around 6:00, Walter continued. Sometimes she’d be confused, sometimes afraid. Sometimes she’d cry for her mother, who’d been dead for 20 years. But I’d always start the same way. Good morning, beautiful. My name is Walter, and I’m here because I love you.

 Some mornings, she’d smile like she remembered something warm, even if she couldn’t remember what. Other mornings, she’d ask me to leave. His voice broke slightly. On the mornings when she asked me to leave, and there were many of them, I’d quietly move to the hallway where she couldn’t see me, but where I could hear if she needed anything.

 I’d sit on the floor outside her room, drinking my coffee and reading the newspaper just so she’d know someone was there if she got scared. Steve had tears streaming down his face. “Now “How long did you do this?” “Every day until the morning she died,” Walter said simply. Our daughter Sarah used to tell me I was torturing myself, that maybe it was time to consider a care facility where professionals could help Margaret better than I could.

 But what Sarah didn’t understand was that it wasn’t torture. It was love. Love in its purest form. Love that expected nothing in return. Love that existed simply because Margaret was my bride and I was her husband. Walter straightened his shoulders, drawing strength from his conviction. Toward the very end, the last few months, Margaret stopped speaking altogether.

 The doctors said she probably couldn’t hear us anymore. Couldn’t understand what we were saying, but I kept talking anyway. I’d tell her about the grandchildren’s school plays, about the garden she used to tend with such care, about the songs she used to play on Sunday mornings that could make the whole congregation cry with their beauty.

 The studio had become a sacred space, a church where Walter was delivering a sermon on the true meaning of wedding vows. I’d read her psalms. Her favorite was the 23rd. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. I must have read that psalm a thousand times over those final months. Sometimes I’d read her letters from our children. Or I’d describe the sunset outside her bedroom window.

 Or I’d just sit quietly and hold her hand while telling her about my day. Walter looked directly at Steve, his eyes clear and strong. The night before she died, I was sitting in that rocking chair, reading her the 23rd Psalm one more time. When I got to the part about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, something miraculous happened.

 Margaret opened her eyes and looked right at me. Really looked at me for the first time in weeks. His voice broke slightly. She’d usually wake up around 6:00. Sometimes confused, sometimes afraid. But I’d always start the same way. Good morning, beautiful. My name is Walter, and I’m here because I love you. Some mornings she’d smile like she remembered something warm.

 Other mornings, she’d ask me to leave. Steve was openly crying. Now, how long did this go on? 2 years, 3 months, and 16 days, Walter said with the precision of someone who had counted every moment. The night before she died, I was reading her Psalms. Her favorite was the But that night, when I got to walking through the valley of the shadow of death, she opened her eyes and looked right at me.

The studio was so quiet you could hear hearts breaking. She hadn’t made eye contact in weeks. I said, “Margaret, honey, it’s me. It’s Walter.” And for just a moment, I saw recognition in her eyes. She couldn’t speak, but she moved her hand toward mine. We sat like that for hours. Walter’s face transformed with the memory.

 The next morning, I woke up in that chair. I looked over at Margaret and she was awake, looking at me with the clearest eyes I’d seen in months. And that’s when she said it, “Good morning, handsome. I love you, too.” For 30 seconds, I had my Margaret back completely. Then she closed her eyes, took three peaceful breaths, and went home to Jesus.

 The silence that followed was profound and sacred. “People ask me if I’m angry about the Alzheimer’s,” Walter continued. “But that disease took her memory, not our love. Every day I spent caring for her was love in its purest form. Love without expectation, love without reward. Love simply because she was my Margaret and I was her Walter.

” Steve Harvey found himself learning about something far more powerful than humor. The studio had become a church and Walter was delivering a sermon on love that would change everyone who heard it. Behind the scenes, Steve made a decision that would define his entire understanding of what television could be. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Steve announced, his voice carrying an authority that silenced the studio.

 “We’re going to do something that’s never been done in the history of Family Feud.” He walked to center stage. Walter Coleman has reminded us that love isn’t a game. It’s something you practice every single day, whether the cameras are rolling or not. Steve turned to the Martinez family. Would you mind if we stop this competition right here and honor the love story we just heard? Carlos Martinez didn’t hesitate.

Steve, whatever Walter needs, whatever honors Margaret’s memory, what happened next was unprecedented in television history. Steve asked both families to come to center stage. When they gathered around Walter, he called for a moment of silence. I want you to take a moment to think about the people you love, Steve said.

 Remember Walter’s promise to love them more today than yesterday, but not as much as you will tomorrow. The minute of silence that followed wasn’t television silence. It was sacred silence. When Steve spoke again, his voice carried new weight. Walter, today you didn’t just answer a survey question. You taught everyone what real love looks like.

 Steve reached into his jacket and pulled out his personal business card. But instead of handing it to Walter, he addressed the viewing audience directly. If you’re watching at home and you have someone you love, I want you to stop. whatever you’re doing after this show and tell them tell them what Walter told Margaret every day. Then, in a gesture that surprised everyone, including himself, Steve began removing his suit jacket, the same lucky jacket he’d worn for hundreds of Family Feud tapings.

 Walter Steve said, “This jacket has been with me for every show I’ve hosted. Today, I wanted to be with someone who understands what winning really means.” He draped the jacket over Walter’s shoulders. This wasn’t about game show prizes. This was about recognizing something precious that deserved to be honored. Walter, wearing Steve’s jacket and clutching Margaret’s photograph, looked out at the audience of strangers who had become witnesses to his love story.

 Margaret used to say that love isn’t something you fall into. It’s something you grow into. Walter said, “Every day you choose to love a little deeper, forgive a little quicker, appreciate a little more.” The episode aired 6 weeks later, completely unedited, with a special introduction from Steve explaining why this show was different.

 The response was unprecedented. Letters poured in from couples inspired to renew their wedding vows, from children who called their aging parents, from people who realized they’d been taking love for granted. Marriage counselors reported couples seeking help not because they were in crisis, but because Walter’s story reminded them that love requires daily commitment.

 Alzheimer’s care facilities across the country found comfort in Walter’s example, his demonstration that love could survive even when memory didn’t. Three months later, Walter received a letter from Helen Patterson, a 78-year-old widow from North Carolina, who had seen the episode, and recognized something familiar in his story.

 She had lost her husband, Robert, to Alzheimer’s the year before. Their correspondence led to a friendship, then to love, not replacement love, but additional love. They married 18 months later in the same church where Walter and Margaret had wed, proving that the heart’s capacity for love is infinite.

 Walter’s story became the foundation for Steve Harvey’s Enduring Love program, providing support for elderly individuals navigating grief. Walter served as volunteer coordinator, teaching others that love stories don’t end when spouses die. They just enter new chapters. The program served thousands, creating living memorials where grieving spouses honored their late partners through community service.

 Margaret’s memorial became a community garden where love literally continued to grow. Walter and Helen’s marriage became a testament that honoring the past doesn’t require sacrificing the present. They kept photos of Margaret and Robert displayed prominently, visited both graves regularly, and celebrated all their anniversaries.

 People ask if we feel guilty, Helen would say at their speaking engagements. The answer is no. Robert and Margaret didn’t teach us how to love so we could spend our final years alone. They taught us how to love so we could keep loving. The jacket Steve gave Walter became a symbol worn to speaking engagements where Walter shared Margaret’s story and his journey through grief toward renewed purpose.

 He wore it to family celebrations, to Margaret’s grave on their anniversary, and to countless moments where love needed to be honored. 6 months after his second wedding, Walter appeared on Steve’s talk show with Helen, explaining, “Margaret didn’t leave me empty. She left me full, full of love, full of memories, full of capacity to care for others.

 Helen doesn’t replace Margaret. She’s evidence that Margaret’s love keeps growing. The program’s motto, taken from Walter’s words that day in the studio, became a movement. Love doesn’t end, it just changes form. 5 years later, the Enduring Love program had served over 8,000 individuals and created a replicable model for community-based senior support implemented across North America.

Walter’s role evolved as he aged, but he continued as the program’s spiritual adviser. Every new volunteer completed Walter’s workshop, learning not just grief counseling techniques, but the philosophy that made the program unique. You’re not here to help people get over their loss, Walter would tell volunteers.

You’re here to help them discover that love grows stronger when given away. Every person you serve, that’s love work. And love work changes the person doing it just as much as the person receiving it. The program changed the national conversation about aging and grief. Positioning seniors not as people winding down toward endings, but as people with accumulated love that could be channeled into new beginnings.

 Walter Coleman came to Family Feud, hoping to win money for his family. What he won instead was the opportunity to share a love story that would inspire thousands to examine their own relationships and commitments. Steve Harvey learned that his greatest gift wasn’t making people laugh.

 It was creating space for people to be genuinely human. The jacket he gave Walter symbolized the moment when entertainment became enlightenment. Walter learned that Margaret had been right about love multiplying when shared. By telling their story, he created something that would outlast both their lives. a testament to the transformative power of daily consistent unconditional love.

 The question was simple. Name something you’d do every day if you could. Walter’s answer revealed that the most important things we do every day aren’t actions, their choices. The choice to love, to commit, to show up regardless of circumstances. Walter Coleman taught a television studio full of strangers that the greatest victory isn’t winning a game.

It’s loving someone so completely that their absence becomes presence, their memory becomes blessing, and their influence becomes eternal. That’s not entertainment. That’s education in its highest form. Sometimes television becomes the classroom where we learn the most important lessons of