Fred Rogers was from Pittsburgh, my hometown, and I’m a member of just one generation that grew up loving this man, who taught us to be kind above all and see ourselves as special and good, no matter what the world tried to tell us to the contrary.
When I got older, I learned firsthand that Fred Rogers was the real thing. That gentle soul? It was no act.
Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood ran until 2001, but I lost touch with it as I got older. That’s how it goes. But in college, one day, I rediscovered it, just when I needed it.
I was having a hard time then. The future seemed hopeless. I was struggling, lonely, dealing with a lot of broken pieces within myself, and not adjusting well. I was a student at the University of Pittsburgh but felt rudderless.
I wanted to be a writer but received nothing but discouragement from home. Nevertheless, I devoted everything I had to the school paper, The Pitt News, hoping that would propel me into some kind of worthwhile career and future. It seemed just as likely that I’d fall on my face and end up nowhere.
On top of that, I was grappling with a loss that I couldn’t talk about, partly because I had no one I could talk to. One span of time in winter of 1997 was especially bad. I was angry, alone, unhappy. But walking out of the dorm one morning, I heard familiar music in the hallway:
♫ Won’t you be my neighbor… ♫
The TV was playing in an empty common room, tuned to WQED (which was Mr. Rogers’ home station.) And there he was – the sweatered one, feeding his fish, checking in with that little trolley that rolled through the wall into the Neighborhood of Make Believe, and asking me what I do with the mad that I feel. (I had lots to spare. Still do.)
It feels silly to say — it felt silly then — but I stood mesmerized. His show felt like a cool hand on a hot head. I never sat down, but I watched the whole thing. Afterward, I left feeling … better.
Several days later, I got in the elevator at the paper to ride down to the lobby of the William Pitt Union. The doors opened, and who is standing there but Mr. Rogers. For real.
I thought I was hallucinating for a moment. But there he stood, a slim, old man in a big coat and scarf, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, a small case clasped between his hands in front of him.
I stepped aboard the elevator, staring, and he nodded at me. I nodded back. I think.
Chances are, he could sense a geek-out coming. But I kept it together.
Almost.
We rode down in silence, and when the doors opened, he let me go out first. I stepped out but quickly turned back around. “Mr. Rogers… I don’t mean to bother you. But I just wanted to say thanks.”
He smiled patiently. I imagine this sort of thing happened to him about every 10 feet. Then he said: “Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?” I felt like crying. Yeah. I did. I was his neighbor.
He opened his arms, lifting his satchel in the air, and beckoning me in. “It’s good to see you again neighbor.”
I got to hug Mr. Rogers, y’all!
I pulled it together. Then we were walking out and making small talk. I mentioned being a big fan of Johnny Costa, who was the piano player on the show. When you get older, you learn to appreciate things like the unparalleled jazz that this old children’s TV show featured.
Costa had died just about a year before, so we talked about him as we walked, and how Mr. Rogers marveled at the speed of his improvisations — and worked hard to get him to slow it down for little ears to appreciate.
Then he opened the student union door and said goodbye. That’s when I blurted in a kind of rambling gush that I’d stumbled on the show again recently, at a time when I truly needed it. He listened there in the doorway, the bitter Pittsburgh winter wind flowing around him into the warm lobby bustling with students.
When I ran out of words, I just said, “So … thanks for that. Again.”
Mr. Rogers nodded. He looked down, and let the door close again. He undid his scarf and motioned to the window, where he sat down on the ledge.
This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would’ve done this. No one.
He said, “Do you want to tell me what was upsetting you so?”
So I sat. And I told him the truth. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the few good things I had. I felt adrift. Brokenhearted. On top of everything else. This was just too much. I guess Pap had been my version of a “helper” in hard times, and I was still looking for him, even though I knew he was gone.
I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon Mr. Rogers was telling me about his grandfather — and a small boat the old man bought for him when he was a young man.
Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been several months, but the wound was still raw. His grandfather was obviously gone decades. Now that 21 years have passed, I know that pain of losing someone so special shifts to the background, but never really goes away.
Mr. Rogers also still missed his grandfather, still wished he was here when he needed him. He also wished he still had the boat. “You’ll never stop missing the people you love,” Mr. Rogers told me.
His grandfather had given Mr. Rogers the rowboat as a reward for something. I forget what. Grades, or graduation. Something important. Something he’d worked hard to accomplish.
He didn’t have either now, his grandfather or the boat, but he had that work ethic, that knowledge and perseverance the old man encouraged with his gift. “Those things never go away,” Mr. Rogers said. I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes.
At the end, I just said thank you again — for about the 13th time. And I apologized if I made him late for wherever he was headed. Mr. Rogers just smiled, and said in his slow, gentle voice: “Sometimes you’re right where you need to be.”
Mr. Rogers was there for me then. But really, he’s here for you now, for anyone who needs him.
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