I was one of the millions of children who considered this man a neighbor. Everyday I would listen for the tinkling tune of piano keys so I could watch the camera slowly pan over the fascinating model buildings and cars of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I adored the show, King Friday and Henrietta Pussycat, the chiming language of the trolley, the working stoplight that adorned the wall, the fish and the videos of things being made (brooms and crayons were my favorites), but mostly I just loved Mr. Rogers. I liked his sweaters, his strange and comforting accent, the way he seemed to speak directly to me.
However, I didn’t recognize the simple brilliance of the show until I had kids of my own.