sunday ritual on pbs: the joy of bob ross. midge, arthritic legs swung over the arm of her lazy-boy, i sat at her elbow. we lived for this: bob ross creating order in the world between newcasts, we watched his hands tap and brush, ten inch afro, greying. happy valley, happy pine. he was a hero, always. no sunset without golden rays, no lakefront without tongue lapping waves. with bob ross in charge the world sang the womb of eden, no false strokes, we were heaven bound.