Let’s talk about one of my personal heroes, Fred Rogers, aka Mr. Rogers. Perhaps you watched “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” as a child. I did not. Whatever his demographic was, when my mother exhorted me to “watch this show,” no doubt in an effort to get me out of her hair, I was eight and too old, too worldly, and too sophisticated (all self-diagnosed) to find value in a guy with puppets and a fish tank and a trolley that traveled between reality and fantasy.
That first episode I watched at age eight turned out to be the last until some 30 years later when I rediscovered Mr. Rogers with my daughter, Lily. I can’t remember how it started, but it quickly became established: I would pick up Lily from preschool at 12:30, return home where she would wash her hands as I set out cookies and milk on a tray, and we would retreat to the basement viewing lounge where Mr. Rogers came on at 1:00. Wait – first, I would take the phone off the hook: Nobody was going to interrupt our ritual and intrude on Mr. Rogers, Lily and me.
Lily liked it immediately, and I liked watching her enjoy the show. Then I began to like it! For starters, it wasn’t a cartoon. By this point in the parenthood process (Daisy was then seven), I’d had enough “Dragon Tales” and “Clifford the Big Red Dog” to last a lifetime. (That said, I will always remember “Arthur” with fondness and respect.)
What I first noticed and appreciated about Mr. Rogers was that he talked to children as though they were adults, and he spoke to adults as though they were children. His superpower was making people feel older or younger, as needed, and everyone feel valued. Whatever one’s age, Mr. Rogers was all about learning about the world — how crayons, or ribbons, or Cheerios are made, or what goes on in a recycling center — and learning about one’s self.
The first half, like school, was devoted to instruction. Mr. Rogers always had a topic for the day — maybe friendship, maybe sadness, maybe anger. He didn’t steer clear of deep issues, and each often had a song specific to the theme, written by Mr. Rogers himself. Fred Rogers was a trained musician, with a degree in music composition. He was also an ordained Presbyterian minister, and “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was his ministry. He consistently hosted A-listers — Yo-Yo Ma, Tony Bennett, Rita Moreno, Eric Carle, Julia Child, Bill Nye, the Science Guy, Koko, the gorilla, and more — to perform and discuss their craft (even Koko, in sign language!) Each time, Mr. Rogers would ask, “Did you always want to sing/dance/act/draw/cook/you name it as a child?,” reminding all children everywhere that their childhood dreams were important and precious and could come true.
Sometimes Mr. McFeely, the Speedy Delivery man, would drop off a video for all of us to watch. McFeely was Mr. Rogers’ mother’s maiden name (and Fred’s middle name); she knitted all those famous cardigans. Some days we would all go on a field trip, say, to Chef Brockett’s bakery, to learn about pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) and, what do you know? There would just happen to be a Mariachi band in the adjoining room, and we’d be treated to a performance.
Then we’d return to Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood home, maybe feed the fish, and enter the Land of MakeBelieve. And what a land it was. Populated mostly by puppets, many voiced by Mr. Rogers, anything could happen: Rocking chairs could fly, one day it snowed cereal, and Lady Elaine Fairchilde, curator of the Museum-Go-Round, could produce dinosaurs, antique telephones, take us to Planet Purple, and, when ticked off, turn everything upside-down. Lady Elaine was my favorite — crusty, sassy, outspoken, with a marshmallow heart that beat to its own peculiar drum. My favorite episode had Lady Elaine leading a marching band only to discover a competing band marching straight towards hers. They collided, but somehow everyone kept going. It was mayhem at its best and had Lily and me shrieking with laughter.
Our time with Mr. Rogers was sacred — pure delight, learning, and growth. At the time, I was working on a book, one that took nearly three years to write and that Mr. Rogers influenced greatly. When I was finished, I included him in the acknowledgements. How could I not?
I think back to that eight-year-old Dorothy who thought she was too old and too cool for Mr. Rogers. I see now that I was too young and too unwise to appreciate the creative and loving genius behind the cardigan sweater.
— Dorothy
